jennings rampage

You guessed it: moratorium, schmoratorium.

I hope this sounds whiny and obnoxious. I know it’ll sound scattershot, since I’m writing it quickly to get it out and get to bed, and I rang my bell a couple of times in the Piledriver run-though. But if I can take it all the way to whiny and obnoxious, then hell, that’s an added bonus.

I do not want to be an improv critic. I do not want to be an improv authority, or an improv barometer, or a source of improv opinions. That train has already sailed, I know, but I want off. I want to be able to watch an improv show without having people watching for my reactions. (I watched a show recently, and I shifted forward in my seat and put my head in my arms folded in the empty seat in front of me. I don’t think it was an obnoxious thing to do, I was just shifting. The person sitting next to me patted me on the back, as if to say “yes, I agree.”) I want to go back to the days where people didn’t tell me that they’ll be listening for my distinctive laugh before a show begins. (I have a distinctive laugh.) I want to be able to not go to an improv show without someone winking and nudging and acting like they understand why I don’t want to go. (If I only went to shows that I’m sure I’d think were good, I’d hit the UCBT on the weekends and that’s it. Thing is, I hardly ever do that.) This is half paranoia, you can be sure, but I really do feel a shift.

I don’t regret saying the things I said above; they needed to be said, in my opinion, they’re effecting positive change already, and they have generally been received quite positively with the notable audible exceptions. But I did sell away my innocence. I took an authoritative tone, acted like I knew what I was talking about, and people believed it. I made judgments, and articulated them. That’s what critics do. But after a recent show, I took off immediately instead of hanging around like I normally do, this time my every facial expression scrutinized for the subtle nuances of “good job, the audience loved it.”

Coaching has done a lot of the same things. It’s a role that I really enjoy and I really feel I’m growing in to, but it’s really hard to know “what’s wrong” with every single scene that’s ever attempted in any single circumstance, and to be able to recall those scenes at any given moment and use that information to extrapolate patterns in players’ habits and then devise ways to emphasise the good habits and eliminate the bad ones. Coaching is fucking hard, if you’ve never tried it. Don’t take it lightly; people are trusting you to do all those things and make it appear effortless in order to lend authority to your advice. And even then, sometimes the students will ask questions and want things clarified and will disagree with what you say and expect you to defend your opinion of a ninety second scene (that was edited far too quickly, btw) that will never again see the light of day. It’s not for the weak.

I’ve never known how to deal with respect. I’ve never known how to deal with being looked up to. In my last job, it’s not tough to trace the beginning of the end back to the moment I was promoted to a supervisory position. I have a dueling set of motivations: to succeed and be the best and be recognized for it, and to blend into the crowd and not cause any trouble and not stand out. That’s probably not so unusual, but I’m really feeling it right now. I’ll get used to it — the rewards of coaching are absolutely incredible, and I’ll find my comfort stride.

Also, my personal opinion on what you were about to ask me matters very little in the long run. Tonight, I wish to diffuse the hype. Diffuse, diffuse.

I’m a whiny and obnoxious person, in case it wasn’t yet apparent.