jennings rampage

Actually, this week I’m in love with Avril Lavigne.

August 12th, 2002 | by Scott Jennings |

I can’t put to words the great relief I feel that, at least for now, I’ve made the cut and will be an “Improv Journal.” No ghetto for me — better dedicate some journal-space to improvisation.

This is going to sound curmudegonly and, horror of horrors, maybe a little bit like what Berrebbi might say. But it’s my journal, I don’t have to worry about follow-ups to this message, and I’m certainly not the first king of controversy.

Too many people are performing longform improvisation right now. I don’t even feel like I need to make a value judgment on the quality of the work that I’m seeing to make that statement. (I’ll save that for later.) I say that solely in reaction to the small audiences that these groups are playing to, and the amount of money that many people are presumably losing. The market for amateur-level (still not a value judgment) longform improvisation is completely saturated right now. There’s simply too much supply for the demonstrated demand.

Allow me to meander through some theories and opinions on the ramifications of this situation.

First, the price of skilled improvisation (that’s a value judgment) is set artificially low. You can see the Swarm and Mother and Respecto and the freakin’ UCB with freakin’ TV stars for seven freakin’ dollars, which many entertainment guides rightfully call the best value in the city. These slap-dash (getting closer to a judgment) teams can’t bring the same quality, as no one who understands improvisation would expect them to, yet they can’t afford to put on a show for free, which is the only logical answer to $7. Drawing a parallel to the market for automobiles in the 1980’s, the novice teams are like the American automakers, left helpless as the experienced teams, like the Japanese, dump their superior product on the market at a lower price than that market would bear. And since no one’s around to levy tariffs on Respecto Montalban, if you’re rooting for the amateur-level improv scene to flourish, you should root for the UCBT to raise their weekend ticket prices. Probably to around $15 or so. (And sure, a student discount, whatever.) But cheap improv is a part of the culture, and it’s a noble goal, but it sends a perverse message to the mainstream: even the very best improv isn’t worth as much as a shitty movie that we drop more money on without batting an eye. (I’m really glad I didn’t pay for Road To Perdition [capsule movie review: so close to being a good movie, but the ending was all wrong], otherwise I’d be pissed off.) No one reading this expects these novice teams to compete (in the free market sense, not the Cagematch sense) with the pros, but they practically have to. This is the end of the objective analysis; good that I got it out of the way first.

Now, some mental-masturbatory self-serving ancedotes about my own experiences that will lead me into ivory tower value judgments. I remember the very first set of Harold team auditions that ever happened. It was about a year ago, and the result was Petrol, which is an outstanding team whom I absolutely adore. At the time of those auditions, I was coming out of my first level 3, and felt like I was just about to hit my stride. I didn’t get a callback, and was crestfallen. Didn’t quite understand what happened. Didn’t quite understand why I wasn’t good enough. To be clear, I didn’t feel like I had a sense of entitlement, which is a frequent criticism levied at those who complain about “the system;” I felt I was good enough for a team. (I was wrong, but that’s the kind of realization that only perspective of time can bring to the surface.)

Obviously a lot of other people felt the same way, and the big community discussion was about the lack of performance opportunities. Used to be that there was one or two level 3 classes, and they’d play New Team every other week, and then they’d get placed on house teams, and that was that. Then came the influx of the new blood, throwing those expectations out the window, and a whole bunch of good-but-not-as-good-as-the-new-standard people were sitting around aimlessly, and you had the Practice Group Craze. At one point, I was in class or practice group five nights a week, and I wasn’t much of an abberation. Around this time, Freaks Local lost its lease, and it never got the chance to be the venue it had the chance to be, and we were left back where we started. The more industrious among us explored Surf and the Red Room and the other small houses around town that could be rented out for $150 or so for a night, and before long, you had a few spot shows for some generally solid performance groups.

Flipside marked the beginning of the end. By having a producer worry about renting the room and dealing with the landlord and printing postcards and doing most of the promotion and packaging the stagetime in twenty-five minute chunks for the low low price of $35 (which some people did manage to find a way to quibble about), all the risk of putting up a show was completely eliminated. And the early Flipsides were great, because they were predominated by groups that had already been working together with the goal of performance, and the market was still untapped.

But what Flipside did was generate the notion that all practice groups must be performance groups. Practice groups come and go with the breeze, it’s the nature of the beast. Schedules change, moods change, it’s a free country and no one’s forcing us to work with anyone else. But with the allure of cheap stagetime on Saturday night just hanging out there ripe to be plucked, who could blame these transient practice groups for making performing into part of their plan? Flipside’s producers had no incentive to control the quality of the show, since their costs were covered by the groups paying to play plus a very modest door, and they were being watched by many for profit-taking, since, naturally, the culture seems to abhor money. But it was still an unqualified success for the first two months or so.

(Full disclosure: Yes, I play Flipside. When the show’s format was different, I played once or twice a month in a three-man group that was for all intents and purposes an experimental fuck-around, and I currently play with Ichi Ni basically weekly in one of the longer slots. But Ichi Ni heeds all of the advice and meets all the qualifications I’m about to dole out.)

And then it started getting ridiculous. Flipside’s four slots per week weren’t enough for the sudden glut of performance groups, and all of a sudden, on top of Flipside, shows were being promoted at a number of other venues. By my count, on any given weekend, at least twelve longform groups perform at venues other than the UCBT. (Some of them more than once. I’ll call out Corpa by name because I’ve said it to their faces and I know they can take it, but one time when they weren’t booked at Flipside, which was a house they helped to build, they booked themselves at another show at the exact same time as Flipside. That one had me scratching the noodle.) The pendulum has clearly swung too far in the other direction.

I hate sounding like an old-timer or a theater person, because I’m neither. The first time I set foot onstage to perform since my fourth grade class play was my level one graduation show in December of 2000. But watching the way the people around the UCBT treat their art and respect their stage and their audience has made me try to do the same no matter where I am. Most of the groups performing in these weekend shows should not be on stage. They’re just not ready. And I’m a big believer that your presence on stage itself justifies your being there, but with the prerequisite that you have respect for that stage before you take it. If your group hasn’t been working together for at least three months before attempting to perform, then you shouldn’t ask people to pay to see you perform. If your group doesn’t have a coach that’s committed to you as a performance group and not just as a mediator for improv exercises and games, then you shouldn’t ask people to pay to see you perform. If your group doesn’t have a coach that’s willing and able to see most of your performances and give you notes afterwards, then you shouldn’t ask people to pay to see you perform. For that matter, if your group doesn’t have a regular coach, then you shouldn’t ask people to pay to see you perform. If your group isn’t willing to have frank discussions about your collective visions and goals as a group, then you shouldn’t ask people to pay to see you perform. If your group isn’t willing to make the tough choices about who in the group fits in with that vision and who doesn’t, then you shouldn’t ask people to pay to see you perform. If your group doesn’t have fun together and doesn’t have fun on stage, you’ll never produce a piece worth paying to see. If you view rehearsing and performing as a social opportunity rather than an attempt to further an artform, then get off the stage. If you’re doing the work for ulterior motives and you’re not having any fun, the entire audience can see it in your eyes.

And so I’d like to draw all of this to a single point: please do the artform and the community and the meaning of the words “UCB-trained” a favor and work out your bugs in private. Before you play Bippity Bippity Bop for the first time, have a team meeting. Make sure you all agree on what the word “improvisation” means, because many different people have many different answers, and the rest of the road is much smoother if you’re clear up front about it. Get a coach who is just as committed to your vision as you all are. Take rehearsal seriously and don’t miss it. Hang out after rehearsal in an environment in which everyone is comfortable and get to know each other. Familiarity breeds comedy. Eliminate the players who, by the consent of the group and with the guidance of the coach, aren’t progressing or aren’t committed or are just fucking with the group’s energy. Make no apologies for doing so — this isn’t happy social fun hour, this is an endeavour to stage a show that people will want to see. Work together for at least three months before you even think about booking a show — you may come to the conclusion that you shouldn’t. Once you do book a show, don’t feel obligated to perform Harold. Harold is at the same time the most powerful rehearsal tool and the worst possible performance choice for most. (The obligation to call back games is the single most obvious roadblock to an entertaining performance. Not all games were meant to be called back, and Harold only gives you three.) Do what it takes to obligate your coach to see your shows, even if it means paying them for their time. If your coach won’t see you on Saturday at midnight, it doesn’t matter if it’s Del Close himself, fire that coach and find one that’s dedicated to you. You need notes on your performances. Trust me. Don’t hesitate to fire your coach, either — it’s only business, and it’s still not happy social fun hour.

If you’re not willing to do all of this — ALL OF THIS — then be honest about it, have fun practicing with your friends and the people you like working with, and please don’t take the stage without taking the responsibility. There’s still absolutely no substitute for stagetime to develop a well-rounded performer, but I’m quite sure that irresponsible stagetime does you more harm than good. Quite sure.

Who am I to say all of this? Absolutely no one and one of the most qualified critics of this work all at the same time. Talk to me about it anytime.

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THE SETTING: The Sunday evening poker game at Sloth Central. I have the deal.
THE EVENT: I fall in love with Jessica Myles.

Scott: We’re playing poker. Seven card stud for high/low split.
Jessica: Qualifier for the low?
Scott: Yes. Eighty-seven qualifies.
Jessica: What about the wheel?
Scott: The wheel is the nut low. (a beat, then lovelorn) I’m in love with you.