I’ve never done improvisation as a performance except occasionally as a mime a long time ago. The closest I’ve come to the kind of improv that Will Hines writes about in How to be the Greatest Improviser on Earth, “the art of making up comedy scenes as you go, on a stage,” I’ve only done in acting classes or rehearsals as an exercise. So I’m not really qualified to judge Hines’s advice from the perspective of a professional or wannabe improviser, the kind of performer who would take one of Hines’s classes and work with companies like the Compass Players, Second City, Chicago City Limits, The Committee, ImprovOlympic (iO), the Groundlings, and the Upright Citizens Brigade. Early in the book, in fact, Hines affirms that he assumes the reader has “studied the fundamentals” of improv. (Later in the book, the author recommends using Matt Besser, Ian Roberts, and Matt Walsh’s The Upright Citizens Brigade Comedy Improvisation Manual [Comedy Council of Nicea, LLC, 2013] as a reference for explanations of basic terms and improv forms.)
It looks,
however, like a lot—though not all—of Hines’s improv guidance is valid for
"straight" acting as well—except for different terminology. At the top of a section entitled “Be
Authentic,” Hines quotes UCB co-founders Roberts and Amy Poehler emphasizing,
“Improv rules are life rules”; the fundamental rationale for the acting system of
Konstantin Stanislavsky (1863-1938), based on the psychological theories of Théodule-Armand
Ribot (1839-1916), is that the rules of acting are the rules of life. So my approach to discussing Greatest Improviser will be the relation
of Hines’s advice for improvising to basic acting technique—about which I do
know a thing or two, having been an acting student for a good number of years
and an acting teacher for several as well.
I’ll consider how parallel improv is to dramatic acting and how different.
How to be
the Greatest Improviser on Earth (Pretty Great Publishing Co., 2016)
is a how-to book by Hines, long-time member of UCB (he’s from the troupe’s
second generation of performers, following the founders Roberts, Poehler, Besser, and Walsh) who eventually
became “one of [UCB’s] most sought-after teachers.” Greatest
Improviser, aimed at performers who are already working on stage, provides
a copious helping of advice on performing improvised comedy based on Hines’s
own experience and lessons passed down from his own teachers and coaches. The lessons are illustrated by scenes from
actual performances and the author provides a number of exercises for
practicing each category of advice he discusses.
In
addition, Hines asserts in the official description of the book that Greatest Improviser is “also an
examination of how doing improv transforms you. The book gets into the mental habits you
automatically acquire, and how to encourage that change.” The author explains that the lessons in the
book teach “the skills that the real world burns out of you. You’re socialized to think ahead, stay rigid,
be careful, and often be false. Many are
never taught to be funny or healthy.” Greatest Improviser includes, among
others, chapters entitled “Be Present,” “Be Changeable,” “Be Brave,” “Be
Authentic,” “Be Funny,” and “Be Healthy.”
(With the exception of “Be Funny,” except under specific circumstances,
these are all lessons a dramatic actor must learn as well.)
The
book was edited by Malin von Euler-Hogan, whom Hines identifies on his blog, Improv Nonsense, as an editor who’s also
on a UCB improv team in New York, with a cover by Maëlle Doliveux, a freelance
illustrator, animator, and UCB-trained improviser. Hines self-published Greatest Improviser because, as he explains, “I tried to court it
to publishers and had some nice meetings. But basically, I have better direct access to
potential customers than any company, so besides the prestige of a publishing
company, doing it myself made more sense.”
Improv, colloquial for improvisational
theater, is a type of performance in which all or most of what’s presented is
created on the spot as it happens. In
Hines’s work, the characters, story, action, and dialogue are all created
without a pre-written script as a collaboration among the improvisers as the scene
unfolds in real time. As Hines describes
the phenomenon, “A group of people get on a stage, ask for a single suggestion,
and then create one or more comedic scenes based on the suggestion.” He lays out the creative process, which he
asserts “[g]enerally . . . looks like a comedic play,” this way:
- Do something inspired by a suggestion.
- Understand each other.
- Move the scene forward.
- Find/do something funny.
- Do more of the funny thing.
Though there are improvised (or
partly improvised) dramas, especially among avant-garde companies—Joe Chaikin’s
Open Theater and Richard Schechner’s Performance Group were both celebrated for
developing their dramatic pieces through improvisation and then using
improvisation in performance before an audience—and even improvised films, the
kind of improv about which Hines is writing, arguably the most common, is
comic.
Furthermore, he states in Greatest Improviser (as well as on his
blog, Improv Nonsense) that his focus
is the long-form comedy, the category in which the improvisers create complete shows
in which short scenes are connected by their stories, characters, or subjects. (The other improv category is the short form,
which is comprised of unrelated brief scenes.)
In both long-form and short-form improv, the scenes often proceed from a
suggestion from the audience; Hines’s type of improv follows this pattern. The long-form improv was championed by Del
Close (1934-99), a Chicago improv performer, director, teacher, and coach (with
Compass Players, Second City, The Committee, among others) in its early
days. An example of a long-form show is
called the Harold, the common standard devised by Close for long-form improv. The signature performance structure of the iO
Theater and UCB, it’s composed of the following segments:
· a suggestion
from a spectator
· the opening,
like an overture in which bits of the ideas developed from the suggestion are
depicted
· three scenes
(“first beats”)
· a group scene
(unrelated to the interconnected “beats”)
· three
“second beats,” scenes which revisit characters or situations from earlier
scenes
· a group
scene
· three “third
beats”
Most
long-form shows are variations of the Harold.
(The name, by the way, is arbitrary and bears no relation to improv or
performance.)
Modern improv comedy got its major
start in Chicago with Paul Sills’s Second City (1959) and that city became a
hub of improvisational theater in the ’60s and ’70s. (Sills, 1927-2008, was the son of Viola
Spolin, 1906-94, author of Improvisation for the Theater [Northwestern University Press, 1963], the
description of Spolin’s acting exercises and theater games often called “the bible
of improvisational theater.” His
mother’s teaching, directing, and coaching methods were the initial inspiration
for Sills’s improv troupe.) Several
prominent troupes started in Chicago, such as the Compass Players (1955) and ImprovOlympic
(1980). Toronto, Canada, became a secondary center and the impulse spread
around the U.S. and Canada to the United Kingdom and Australia. The original cast of NBC’s Saturday Night Live (débuted in 1975) was
culled largely from Second City in both Chicago and Toronto (and the Canadian
branch launched its own popular NBC show, SCTV,
in 1976-1981); talk-show host Stephen Colbert and film actor Steve Carell both
started in improvisational comedy (with Second City in Chicago). The current Broadway duo of John Mulaney and Nick
Kroll, creators and performers of Oh,
Hello (closing 22 January), are both UCB alumni. Sketch comedy shows like Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In (1968-73) and Monty Python’s Flying Circus (1969-74), precursors in a way to SNL, and The Kids in the Hall (1989-95), were largely developed in rehearsal
through improvisation—though performances were (loosely) scripted.
Will Hines was born in 1970 in Dayton, Ohio, and grew up in Ohio
and Connecticut. He graduated from the
University of Connecticut with a degree in journalism and wrote for papers in
New England and then worked as a computer programmer. He started improvising on his own after
moving to New York City in 1996, going to open-mic nights at local clubs. “I just wanted to meet funny people,” Hines
says, “because as I got older I was being surrounded by more and more boring,
resigned people, and I had been friends with a lot of funny people in college
and high school.” Then he took a class
with the Upright Citizens Brigade in 1999.
Dissatisfied with living the “square’s life,” the world of “a normal day
job and . . . a family,” the “adult world” that “was looking more and more
stilted,” Hines found the improv classes “felt like tests to see if I could
shake off the dull world and connect to this new exciting one” where there
“were cool and interesting people.” He
performed with UCB in New York and ultimately became a member of the troupe. By his own account, he developed into “a
respected performer” with UCB. The company
invited Hines to become a trainer of the next generation of improvisers and, in
2009, he was chosen to run the New York school. In 2010, Hines launched the blog Improv Nonsense (http://improvnonesense.tumblr.com), whose posts became the basis of Greatest Improviser. (The posts of the blog have been compiled and
published as Improv Nonsense: All The
Posts [Pretty Great Publishing Co., 2016].)
In
2013, Hines moved to Los Angeles—his successor at UCB-NY is his brother, Kevin—where
he performed and taught at UCB-LA (and where he became a coach, occasional
instructor, and fellow performer of Heather Woodward, ROT contributor Kirk Woodward’s daughter who’d joined the West
Coast troupe in 2010). By May 2016, Hines
estimates he’d appeared in “more than 7,854” scenes and, “as a teacher/coach,”
watched “about 46,660 more.” He
published How to be the Greatest
Improviser on Earth in June 2016. In addition to teaching, coaching, and
performing improv, Hines now writes comedy sketches, performs sketch comedy,
directs and appears in comedy and improv videos, and does occasional roles on
television.
The
Upright Citizens Brigade was founded in Chicago in 1990 by “the UCB
Four”: Matt Besser, Amy Poehler, Ian Roberts, and Matt Walsh. The four had been trained at Chicago’s ImprovOlympic
by Del Close before coming to New York City in 1996, where they performed in
various venues until opening their own space in Chelsea on Manhattan’s West
Side in 1999. This was the first
permanent stage in New York devoted to improvisational comedy. UCB started the Upright Citizens Brigade
Improvisational and Sketch Comedy Training Center, the only accredited improv
and sketch comedy school in the country, a year before they moved into
their Chelsea theater. (The school’s
Latin motto, Si Haec Insolita Res Vera
Est, Quid Exinde Verum Est?, translates as “If this unusual thing is true,
then what else is true?,” a variation of one of the Del Close/UCB impov principles.) The troupe opened its Los Angeles branch in
2005 and a second New York location, in the East Village, in 2011. Three of the company’s founders compiled The Upright Citizens Brigade Comedy Improvisation
Manual, published in 2013.
The
main distinction between acting in a scripted play (or film) and performing
improv, of course, is . . . that the latter is improvised! Obvious, I
suppose, but nearly all of conventional actor training, from Stanislavsky (and
even his predecessor, François Delsarte) to Stella Adler, Lee Strasberg, and
Uta Hagen and all their heirs and successors, is aimed at one thing: to make
rehearsed behavior seem intuitive and spontaneous rather than planned,
practiced, and repeated. In improv, the
behavior on stage is all spontaneous. (This makes theater improv different on
another level as well. Both forms are evanescent,
but in theater, the performance is gone as soon as the lights come back up—though
the play remains. In improv, even the material is gone after the show.
I’m not sure this is relevant to the performers, however;
theoretically, they shouldn’t be thinking about “posterity.”)
This
distinction raises another important difference: making up the words and the
actions. Unlike a dramatic actor, an
improviser has to become something of an instant playwright. As Hines advises in the book, “You are a
co-writer of every scene you’re in.”
Except in stage mishaps (I recount a few of these in “Short Takes: Theater
War Stories,” 6 December 2010), most dramatic actors never have to be this
quick on their feet—though in Realistic and Naturalistic plays, they have to seem to be. Speech on stage is behavior just as any
movement or action is—and has to appear just as natural and impromptu. But dramatic actors don’t have to write the
dialogue and create the plot (at least, not on the spot)—that’s usually someone
else’s job.
Another
difference in improvising, particularly the kind in which Hines is involved,
and most acting work has to do with props, both set pieces and hand props. Put simply, improvisers don’t use them. They mime all the objects that appear in a
scene, a task most dramatic actors aren’t called to perform unless they’re
doing Our Town or some other
exceptional script that calls for mime or pantomime. In every acting class I ever took (or
taught), the students were admonished not
to mime props called for in a scene; even if we had to substitute an
easily-obtained item for the one described in the script, we had to have
something because handling objects is a fundamental part of acting.
Costumes,
too, were part of my acting training regimen—again, even if we had to
approximate the dress of the character for the scene. “Clothing so influences my character, is so
crucial to me,” says the late actress and acting teacher Uta Hagen (1919-2004),
“that I would find it impossible to come to a rehearsal for Blanche in Streetcar Named Desire dressed in slacks
and sneakers as it would be for me to work on Saint Joan in a frilly chiffon dress and high-heeled shoes.” Playing a businessman in jeans and a T-shirt
was out of the question in my acting classes (unless, perhaps, you were doing
Steve Jobs, I suppose); even if the student didn’t have a business suit, he was
expected to come to the studio in some kind of tie and jacket and slacks. (Aaron Frankel, who taught a classical scene
study class at HB Studio, kept a locker of period costumes for his students to
use so they wouldn’t be tempted to do Oedipus in khakis or Chimène in a mini
and boots.) I once did a scene from
Albee’s Tiny Alice in which I played a cardinal, so I had to come
up with some kind of robe, cap, and staff to sub for the cardinal’s regalia. Later, when I played an officer in a
Revolutionary War play, I wore a rehearsal costume of an 18th-century-style
cutaway coat, breeches, English riding boots, and a saber to get used to the
restrictions and problems caused by the uniform I’d wear in the production. Improvisers aren’t obligated to follow this
procedure because, not knowing what characters and situations will be thrown at
them, they can’t dress for every possibility.
Hines,
however, acknowledges the cross-over between improv and straight acting to some
degree. Most of the people whom Hines
quotes in Greatest Improviser are
respected improvisers, including many of his own teachers; however, he cites a
few figures from straight theater as well, notably Broadway casting director
Michael Shurtleff (1920-2007) and famed acting teacher Sanford Meisner
(1905-97). Of Meisner, Hines notes that
the director of the Neighborhood Playhouse School of Theatre’s book Sanford Meisner on Acting (Meisner and Dennis
Longwell; Vintage Books, 1987) contains “many passages that make for great
advice for the improviser” as well as the actor. (He also mentions Shurtleff’s Audition
[Walker and Co., 1978].) Hines says in his
own professional life, in fact, he recognizes the significance of dramatic
acting as an asset. Having had no
performing or acting background before beginning improv, he took an acting
class (a monologue workshop) in 2001. But
if Hines (and, I would presume, other improvisers) find some actor training
useful in the practice of their art form, dramatic actors will conversely find
some of the facilities of improvisation that Hines inculcates beneficial in
their work in scripted plays.
Among
the skills Hines posits a performer will learn from doing improv or taking an
improv class, he lists those below, to which I’ve added my own remarks about
the applicability to scripted acting:
· “Listening. Deeper,
fuller, more actively. Time will slow
down during conversations and you will be able to hear them more accurately. This absolutely will happen to everyone who
takes improv classes for any decent length of time.” There’s almost nothing more important to an
actor than to listen to what her scene partners are saying—even if she’s
memorized their lines—no matter how many times she’s heard them. It’s an important way to assure being
connected to the scene. In his
instructions to his acting students, Aaron Frankel (b. 1921), one of my
teachers, stressed that at rehearsals, actors should look at and listen to the others
in their scenes. (References to
Frankel’s teaching are more fully discussed in “An Actor’s Homework,” posted on
ROT on 19, 22, 25, and 28 April 2010.)
· “Brevity. Improv rewards
succinct, direct talk. You’ll learn to
do it because the audience laughs and listens to you more when you get to the
point.” Obviously, an actor has no
control over the length or brevity of his lines—but he can control the
expression of such techniques as his objective,
character action, and inner monologue, which should always be as concise
and direct as he can make them.
Loquacity gets in the way and muddles the playing of these actors’
tools.
· “Empathy. You will more
easily be able to see things from other people’s points of view. You will be able to argue the other side of an
argument better.” In Greatest Improviser, Hines speaks of
empathy for the character with which the improviser’s been endowed, particularly
if it’s a popularly unsympathetic one (Hines used Hitler as an example). Frankel would admonish his students that
Hitler, Iago, Richard III, Fagin, Lady Macbeth, Joan Crawford, and all other
stage villains don’t see themselves as bad guys or gals. It’s incumbent on the actor to find the
empathy for his or her character in order to play him or her without coming off
like a villain out of a 19th-century melodrama.
· “Acting. Improv is
acting and writing but it’s more acting. You become more reactive and emotive just
through the sheer reps of playing make-believe in front of others.” I think this one speaks for itself and needs no further comment.
· “Clearer opinions. You have
opinions all the time but very often you don’t pay attention to them as they’re
forming. Not the big ones, but the
little ones. You see someone on the
street eating an ice cream and lots of tiny versions of superiority, jealousy,
gluttony will flit through your brain, and then vanish. Improv makes you notice and then hold onto
those opinions because in a scene you might need them.” My first thought on this facility is for the
actors’ habit of observing real people they encounter in their daily lives
because they never know when they’ll have to play some character who reminds
them of the stranger, friend, or family member.
But the truth is that actors need to approach the other characters in
their plays the same way. One of the
techniques Frankel teaches is for the actor to determine what he calls the
“main character action” (what Stanislavsky-based teachers often call the
“superobjective”)—but Frankel goes on to require his students to devise a
version of their MCA as it’s directed toward each other character with whom
they come in contact in the play. He
also teaches that actors must glean what he calls “hearsay” by going over what the
other characters say about them and make judgments about whether statements are
right/true or wrong/false. None of these
applications will work efficiently or usefully unless the opinions are succinct
and clear.
· “Patterns. Patterns are
funny, and you will learn to see them early and often.” In Michael Kirby’s theatrical structural
system (see “Theatrical Structure,” 15 and 18 February 2011), Patterns are a
significant connective device in all aspects of a production, including
dialogue and acting—both of which are the purview of actors. Kirby (1931-97) identifies several other
structural devices related to Patterns, such as Themes and Echoes, which are
useful for the actor to spot and capitalize on, so becoming tuned into these
phenomena, whether generated by the playwright, director, designers, or other
actors, is beneficial.
· “Knowledge. You’ll learn
more since you’ll run across so many scenes where someone mentions something
you don’t know. You’ll find out what
they were saying and remember it.”
Actors, especially young ones who
started focusing on theater training in high school and then majored in theater
in college and maybe went on to an MFA in acting, develop tunnel vision,
knowing about little more than their own field.
Hines calls this “a deficit of life experiences to draw from.” Actors who know something about the world
create deeper, more interesting characters and bring more to the play than
those with limited scopes. (I once
advised a high school actress who’d decided to drop out of a trip to Paris with
her French class in favor of staying home to do a community theater production
that she was making a foolish choice.
There would always be another community play for her—she was pretty
talented—but that the trip to Paris, her first visit abroad, would benefit her
in ways she couldn’t even predict, both as an actor and as a person. The young woman rejected my advice,
unfortunately; I don’t know if she ever regretted it—but my first trip to
Paris, at just about her age, had been life-changing.) I can’t begin to count the number of times
some obscure piece of knowledge about the world and the way it works has come
into play in a role I was doing or a production I was directing (see my posts, “Liberal
Arts in the Real World,” 24 July 2010, and “The Relation of Theater to Other
Disciplines,” 21 July 2011); closing oneself off from those discoveries is
limiting to an actor. Or, as Hines
advises: “[Y]ou should try to keep up with what’s going on in the world.”
· “Bravery. You will be more
comfortable to have people see you and watch you.” Believe it or not, there are actors,
especially novices, who are drawn to the stage but are uncomfortable in the
spotlight. If working on improv can help
solve this dilemma, it’d be an excellent asset.
Just as I’ve known lawyers and priests who’ve taken acting classes to
help them appear before audiences (of jurors or congregants in their cases),
actors taking improv classes or performing improv to learn to put themselves
out there would be beneficial for acting in plays.
· “Being Present. You’ll worry
less about the future, less about story, and more about what the moment feels
like and what that implies.” As I noted
earlier, while improvisation is by definition spontaneous and in-the-moment,
acting in plays is rehearsed, prepared, and planned—but has to seem as if it’s
happening in real time. Rehearsal is
where the planning and preparing happens; by performance, the actor must appear
to be living the circumstances as they’re happening. Combating all that rehearsing isn’t easy, and
if working in improv can develop that skill, so much the better for the
actor. (This is often the goal of doing
improvisations in rehearsal, but not all directors use the technique, and additional
practice is always good.) Furthermore,
as Hines writes, the improviser becomes “a Sherlock Holmes of observing the
present instant.” Granted, an improviser
has “to figure out from context clues what [is] going on” in a scene that’s
just starting up, something the playwright has given the straight actor;
nevertheless, this skill will stand a dramatic actor in excellent stead for
gleaning the “present circumstances” of a scene so that she can immerse herself
in them. (Uta Hagen devised an exercise about
a character from a period play in a made-up scene—that is, one not in the
play—outside the crisis of the drama, like Desdemona getting ready for a ball
in Venice before she met Othello. The
point is to explore all the ordinary things a woman does and feels when she’s
not the subject of a play. The same
examination is useful for contemporary characters, and the goal is to find the
reality of their moment-to-moment lives.)
Arguably,
the clearest convergence of improv and scripted acting is in the somewhat
abstract and diffuse advice Hines gives to commit to the premise of the scene
and the character with which the improviser has been endowed. Accept the circumstances of the scene and go
with it. This is what’s called
“yes-anding” in improv-speak: you say “yes” to the set-up and then you take it
further. Hines writes that the
improviser needs “to stop thinking and to start watching and committing.” He commands, “Get out of your head”! Every acting teacher and director will tell
students and cast members to commit to their choices and to the circumstances
in the script, to make bold decisions for their characters—dramatic for dramas
and comedic for comedies, but big. As
for getting out of their heads, Aaron Frankel had an expression that revealed
what he thought about actors’ getting stuck in their heads and over-thinking or
over-intellectualizing their roles: he called it “head-fucking.” (I always thought this was an especially apt
term: not only does it communicate the point that relying too much on
left-brain analysis was counterproductive, the expression also connotes that
the actor’s using the wrong body part for the function indicated.)
Part
of committing to and immersing themselves in the scene requires improvisers to
engage the creativity of their right brains.
When confronted with an "unfamiliar scenario,” Hines instructs the
improviser, “Use an ‘as if,’” one of the most familiar tools among
Stanislavsky-based actors and teachers. Also
known as the “magic if,” it’s “a lever to lift us out of everyday life onto the
plane of imagination.” According to
Hagen, it ties the actor’s imagination to the given circumstances of the scene. It’s an essential technique for both
improvisers and actors in scripted plays, virtually a sine qua non, for, as Stanislavsky declares, if a would-be actor
lacks imagination, “He must develop it . . . or else leave the theatre.”
Of
course, even where there are parallels, the applications can be different, from
just slightly to vastly. Among the
reasons for this is the development time for an improv scene and a play:
improvs are fairly brief, several minutes on average, so the performers need to
get to the meat of the scene—what Hines calls the “game of the scene,” the part
that’s funny or “the unusual thing”—pretty quickly; the dramatic actor has
anywhere from 10 to 15 minutes for a short one-act to two hours and up for a
full-length play to build the arc of his character and his objective.
Another
reason the function of similar skills can be different is the goal of improv,
which is comedy, in contrast to dramatic acting, which can be funny,
seriocomic, melodramatic, or tragic—or various combinations of any of these (“pastoral-comical,
historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral”). When faced with choices in a scene, straight
actors select behavior that’s appropriate for their characters within the play,
always taking into consideration the genre of script on which they’re working:
actors in comedies pick funny actions, actors in tragedies pick tragic actions,
actors in dramas pick dramatic actions.
Improvisers, however, are constrained to make comic choices. In the chapter “Be Funny,” Hines warns: “to
be good at improv, you have to be
funny.” That’s not a burden the
conventional actor must bear; many an actor who can’t be funny on cue has had a
perfectly successful career in dramas.
Being
changeable, Hines insists, is “uniquely important” to improvising, but it, too,
has a practical application to scripted acting.
Unlike improvs, plays may be rehearsed and “set,” but there are
accidents, and actors also change what they’re doing. If your scene partner does this without
warning you (an ethical breach, granted, but it happens), you have to be ready
to go with the new impulse—even if after the performance the stage manager
comes back stage and says, “Take out the improvements.” One of the facts about live performances is
that they’re never the same from show to show—and actors have to be prepared to
respond to changes, intentional or otherwise.
An
aspect of changeability Hines identifies is switching from thinking “What is
going to happen next?” to “What must have already happened?” In other words, Hines says, “Stop thinking
forward and start thinking about the moment before.” Usually, a straight actor is oriented toward
the future, pursuing his character’s objective, which is his goal in the
play. But Stanislavsky requires that the
actor must never appear to anticipate his actions (because the character can’t
know what’s going to happen next), and Hagen writes, “The fight to prevent
anticipation, to prevent thinking and planning ahead . . . is a struggle that
seems to go on and on . . . .” To help
establish “immediacy” (Hagen’s term for “being present”), she has exercises to
guide actors to work on the “immediate preceding circumstances” of each of their
scenes, each entrance they make so that they’re coming from a past in which they
were doing something specific somewhere specific under specific conditions—a
life before the scene starts or the entrance is made. “While waiting for the entrance,” explains
Hagen, “you have responded to an imagined immediately preceding event by a real
doing which allows you to continue your assumed life on stage.” Though the application of inventing what’s
just happened is different for an actor in a play and an improviser (for whom,
Hines instructs, the “future is not worth worrying about”), the task is analogous.
To
accomplish authenticity, to make their characters truthful, Hines tells
improvisers “to simply be yourself.” He
asserts that great improvisers’ “real selves—their temperaments, their
opinions, their reactions—are a huge part of every character they play.” Now, obviously this advice can’t be applied
directly to dramatic acting—every character an actor plays can’t be himself. But acting teachers will all tell their
students that when building a character, it’s always advisable to start with themselves—to
use as much of their real personalities and lives as they can and build on that
(with endowments, “as ifs,” substitutions, and so on) because, as Hines
continues, “As an actor, you’ll never have more experience playing any
character besides yourself.” (In eight
of Hagen’s ten Object Exercises, the actor uses himself as the “character”; the
same is true of eight of the ten assignments in my own acting technique
curriculum.)
Nevertheless,
despite any appearance that improvisational theater and scripted acting are
incompatible performance forms, there are cross-overs. The fact that Hines sought out an acting
class in his early training and refers to theater figures like acting teacher Sandy
Meisner and theatrical casting director Michael Shurtleff, whose books he
obviously studied, demonstrates that he finds parallels. In fact, Hines considers himself an actor and
has said that improv classes are “more like acting classes” than exercises in
silly fun. When I was an acting student
and, later, when I was trying to carve out a career on the stage, it was clear that the fundamentals of
improvisation were useful skills for a straight actors, too. (I suppose that’s obvious considering how
many acting teachers and directors use improvisation in their classes and
rehearsals.) So, how well does Hines
press his case for improv—or, to be precise, his guidance for the improviser?
There
are no professional reviews of Greatest
Improviser of the kind that run in the New York Times Book Review or the arts pages of your local paper. There are blurbs on the back cover of the
book from improv pros and reader reviews on sites like Barnes & Noble and
Amazon. All of them are extremely
positive and laudatory. All of the
reviewers I read seemed to be improvisers—which is the audience Hines is aiming
at, so that makes sense. But I do wonder
what someone like me, someone in the performing arts or at least knowledgeable
about the field but not an improviser,
thinks about Hines’s book and his advice.
For
instance, my friend Kirk Woodward, who, in addition to being the father of
Heather Woodward, a member of UCB who’s quoted in the book, is an actor,
director, and acting teacher himself, liked Hines’s book “a good deal, mostly
because he seems to keep his chosen field in perspective.” Indeed, the author points out, “Improv
doesn’t doesn’t try to lead you anywhere.
It’s just something that attracts certain kinds of people.” He acknowledges, further, “Improv is
something you do because you like it, not for what it gives you” in terms of
financial rewards or notoriety. This is
awfully close to Stanislavsky’s advice to actors: “Love art in yourself and not
yourself in art.” Hines warns that
“commercial success is not the same as happiness.”
I had
a serious and continuing problem with the scenes Hines presents as illustrations
of his instructions, however. Hines’s own definition of improv is “making up comedy scenes” and he bluntly states in the book that ”to be good at improv, you have to be
funny.” Funny is kinda the point of the
form. But I was very disturbed to find
that most of the scenes Hines describes in Greatest
Improviser just aren’t funny. (A couple even struck me as downright
creepy. One focusing on menstruation has a decided ick-factor!) Now,
maybe Hines’s readers are more in tune with improv than I am and I just don’t
get it. Maybe the scenes don’t seem
funny on the page—after all, improv is not a literary form—but
when performed live before an audience by improvisers using all their intuitive
acting talents, it works. I’m usually
very good at visualizing a performance from a description, though. When I
read a play (or even a review), I “see” the performance.
Alternatively,
maybe the parts of the scenes Hines cites illustrate something instructive, but
aren’t actually funny. That could be true, but it seems
counterproductive—especially when it’s operating nearly all through
the book. (Furthermore, most of Hines’s
examples are whole scenes—or, at least, the game of the scene—the part that’s
supposed to be funny.) What were not talking about here is what in acting
classes is called “studio acting” where the student actor is working on a
specific acting problem, not trying to solve the scene. This is particularly true in acting technique
classes, but even in scene study classes the student isn’t focused on
performance issues like pacing, timing, or even staging. If a civilian watched an acting-class scene,
she’d probably think it was awful—because it’s not a performance. I’m sure there is similar classroom work in
all the arts, whether it’s dance, singing, music, or improvisation. This is not that; the scenes Hines cites are
from actual performances. Where spectators
(presumably) laughed.
I
broached this quandary with Kirk, who agreed that it’s “possible that some of
this material doesn’t look funny on paper because it isn’t, but that it’s given
life by the performers,” but went on to propose, “A lot of it seems to be of
the ‘you had to be there’ quality.” The
difficulty here, though, is that if Hines is presenting these scenes as
teaching points in a book, they should come off the page as funny so the
reader, hopefully even a non-improviser like me, can see the culmination of the
lesson Hines is trying to impart. This
strikes me as a serious deficiency for a how-to book.
This
isn’t to say that the pointers Hines provides aren’t useful and even fundamental
truths in improv. I have to trust the
dozens of readers who testified that Hines’s techniques have worked for
them. Hines’s reputation as a performer,
and even more as a teacher and coach, leave me little choice, given my own lack
of experience on which to base a judgment, but to believe the testimonials. (Also, nothing Hines says in Greatest Improviser seems remotely
illogical or unlikely.) If Will Hines is
the Uta Hagen of improv (I’m thinking Respect
for Acting here) and I were an improviser, I might be out putting his lessons
to the acid test on stage forthwith. Except,
how do I get around the impression that the product of his advice isn’t funny? How’d you feel about a book on carpentry that
presents instructions for building a chair that sound fine, but are illustrated
by a photo of a chair that doesn’t look like it’ll stand straight or hold your
weight?
“I
don’t think you can teach people to be funny,” Hines admits. “But you can teach people how to maximize the
funny that they have,” he continued. That’s what the UCB training,
including the advice in Greatest
Improviser, is all about. As Kirk
phrased it, “[T]he whole point of the UCB approach seems to be to set up
something, if not permanent, at least more structured than just getting up
there and being hilarious.” It’s
precisely the rationale for Stanislavsky’s development of his actor-training
system (and for Hagen’s book and teaching philosophy—as with nearly all modern
training for the stage): teach the student actors (or improvisers) how to marshal
what innate talent and inspiration provide them so they can control it, use it,
even call it up when needed, rather than wait around for it to show and just
let it run wild and lead them by the nose.
“You can teach people to take the things they are amused at in the real
world,” Hines explains, “and translate that to the stage.”
In
the introduction to the UCB improvisation
manual, the authors affirm, “In reality, no matter how much fun they are having
onstage, great improvisers are working together while adhering to a set of
clear guidelines. Every improviser who
starts a scene with another improviser is entering into a tacit agreement to
use these guidelines to build a comedic scene with his or her scene partner.” As Hines puts it, “Improv is a real art form
that can be worked at and that takes preparation.” That’s what UCB’s
classes, the UCB manual, and How to be
the Greatest Improviser on Earth all
are about.
David Shepherd, the co-founder, with Paul Sills, of the Compass Players of Chicago in 1955, died at 94 on 17 December 2018. Compass was the progenitor of the improv movement that ultimately led to Second City, Compass's successor, and the Upright Citizens Brigade. Among Compass's members over its brief life and short revivals included Mike Nichols, Elaine May, Barbara Harris, Shelley Berman, Alan Arkin, Jerry Stiller, Anne Meara, Alan Alda, and Diana Sands.
ReplyDelete~Rick