A Long Chain of Simple Ideas: Improv in the Long Form

I believe it was John Locke who wrote that complex ideas are but long chains of simple ones. By extension, one might think that long form improvisation derives from a long chain of short-form improvisations. To some degree that has been true.

Often times improvisers, particularly in short-form games, are so goal-oriented that they do not take the time to explore anything too deeply. Such are the pressures of performance, particularly when performance intends to evoke a very specific, already known response from the crowd. But in a show of extraordinary length with an extraordinary amount of energy to expend, after a certain time improvisers have used up all their cliches. Here they hit a wall. Once a performer has done everything she knows how, then what happens?

I found myself witnessing various performers hitting this wall during Unexpected Productions' 50-Hour Improvathon, not only out of fatigue but also lack of inspiration. Every tool in the box had already been used. But rather than abandon things when they were clearly not working, performers goaded each other to continue past the point when every idea seemed exhausted. It is very much like practicing on one's instrument for six hours straight. All the cliches are gone by then - so what does one do? In this peculiar, suspenseful state of mind amazing things will occasionally happen.

And so it did. Predictable short-form games such as 99 ("99 librarians walk into a bar...") went far beyond their usual triteness and turned into surreal explorations of language, then tied in with other unrelated games to become a longer form still. Some particularly brilliant things came up during "Student Hour," where the new improvisers took center stage.

I am guessing that it is impossible to laugh for fifty hours straight without serious internal damage. At some point the audience grew tired of simply laughing, and they went along for the ride with no expectations. In an odd way, removing that expectation - make me laugh, damn you, laugh!- freed up the improvisers to do things they would probably normally not have tried. At such moments, the pure joy of improvising and performing becomes the only thing that matters, and a good thing, too.

Improvisers will say that long-form gives them the best chance to show off all they've learned. Charna Halpern certainly holds this opinion.

Long form is a "meta-game" where everything we've ever leaned about improv is used. It's a half-hour performance filled with games and monologues that weave together to tell a story. It's about the group working as one mind.

Carskee and The SheSpot recently offered two divergent ways of approaching that "meta-game" in their performance at Wing-It Productions' Last Call. The SheSpot duo were clearly feeling competitive with each other and more than a little silly, each improviser taking turns at breaking the rules of the situation the other had set up. At times this led into Edward Albee-style absurdism. It was quite refreshing.

Carskee, on the other hand, were very linear, very disciplined. They were also very inspired. Their pantomime skills were particularly brilliant on the evening - often a weakness in improv groups. Erin Plischke and Jennifer Cargill clearly have a fine chemistry and are excellent at coming to each other's rescue whenever something is dangerously close to the brink. Their approach is much earthier than most Seattle groups. It is realistic with a touch of the grotesque and pretty remarkable.

One of the difficulties of long-form in terms of how it relates to audience participation is that while short-form is game-based and announces plainly the terms of the game, long-form is also game-based but makes little effort to announce the rules to the spectators. For a novice to recognize the structure of a French Harold, Advanced Montage or a something as intricate as Planet Ant Improv Colony's Ant Jam would be quite difficult.

In their show at Theater Schmeater, Improvolution took it on themselves to solve this problem by announcing exactly what the game was to the audience and how it worked. It's one solution to the problem, I suppose. I do wonder, though, if it is actually a problem.

Many audience members at improv shows are unfamiliar with game structure, and even less familiar with long-form models. While some improvisers use this as an excuse to justify the lack of popularity of long-form improvisation, I do not think it is necessarily that important. Is it necessary to know that Charlie Parker's solo in "Ko-Ko" is based upon the root notes of chords from "Cherokee"? Or that the song is an atypical 64-bar song form? Hardly. These things increase understanding, certainly, but they are far from a hindrance to enjoyment. But, as with jazz improvisation, theatrical improvisers are also up against it when they face audience preconceptions. "Where's the melody?" used to be the rallying cry of moldy old figs who could not understand jazz improvisation. The theater improviser often faces a similar cry, "Where's the game?"

The answer should be obvious: the improvisation is the game. That this requires the audience to do something other than have a visceral reaction does not invalidate the process. There are numerous fans of Indian music who cannot distinguish between chautal and jhaptal. That does not keep them from enjoying the music on some level. If they wish at some point to delve deeper into the music, then such distinctions are informative and increase appreciation of the music in myriad ways. But they are not strictly necessary.

While it is occasionally rewarding to move artists to think a little more deeply about their craft from another perspective, much more important is to prod the laity to think about the arts at all; if one can gently compel them to think with more probity than is currently fashionable in our all-too-hip society, so much the better. Audiences, too, have to be willing to throw aside their ideas of "what improv looks like" every time they see a show. If all the parties are willing to explore, the results can be magical and at worst at least interesting.