Truth in Comedy: The Manual of Improvisation (11 page)

CONDUCTED STORY

A Conducted Story is a little more elaborate than a One-
Word Story, but the principle is
the same. Like the One-Word Story, this teaches players the importance of being "in the
moment," and makes it painfully obvious when they are not.

Basic Conducted Stories require players to build a story together, as though they had one
brain, but several mouths. The players line up in a semicircle on stage, with one of them
crouched down at the front of the group to function as a conductor, just as a symphony
conductor leads an orchestra.

The conductor leads the narration —
generally one player at a time —
by pointing at (or
otherwise signifying to) the players so they know when to start and stop talking. The exercise
often begins with an audience choosing a title, or an object that eventually is incorporated into
the story. The goal of the group is to tell one single, coherent story with short segments, as
chosen by the conductor.

When the conductor points at a player, he begins speaking
immediately, picking up the
tale precisely where the last player left off. He continues talking for as long as —
or as short as
—
the conductor indicates. When the conductor suddenly points to someone else, the player
shuts up instantly so that the new player can pick up the story from him.

The challenge for each improviser is picking up the very next word —
or even the very
next syllable —
in the sentence. Each player has to listen carefully and watch the conductor at
all times, so that he can stop on command. The story should not be choppy, but told in a
continuous narrative voice.

During a scene, a beginning improviser often has trouble knowing when he is not in the
moment. If he tries to think ahead during a Conducted Story, however, his mistake will stick
out like a sore thumb. Players who think ahead trying to second-guess what comes next in the
story usually end up starting a new sentence when they are pointed at, instead of finishing the
sentence started by a fellow player. This is because the actor wasn't listening. The only way to
succeed at a Conducted Story is to listen and pay attention every step of the way.

47

The pace of editing each narrator varies according to the whim of the conductor, but the
Conducted Story is most entertaining when the players have to finish each other's thoughts.

In building the story, the players should be conscious of all of the necessary components
that make a story interesting —
elements like action, characters, emotion, ambiance, a
cohesive story line and a resolution. It's important to tell the story as coherently as possible.
Trying to make it silly or crazy often makes it less effective —
since it's being created by
several minds working together, it's guaranteed to get silly enough on its own. As a group, the
players know that a resolution to their story is needed; with the common goal in mind, they will
[ And it.

Various writing styles or points of view can be
used
to add
dimension to the
Conducted
Story. Each player may
rate in the style of a different well-known author (often selected by an
audience), while still committed to carrying the story forward.

One memorable narrated story was actually performed by an ImprovOlympic team
comprised entirely of psychologists. Each of them assumed the point of view of a different
mental illness! While telling the story together, they separately revealed the symptoms of a
psychotic, a paranoid-schizophrenic, a manic-depressive, a hypochondriac, and several others.

There are other devices more experienced players can use for workshops or performance,
involving similar techniques and principles which force players to stay in the moment, and not
think ahead. Some practices have resulted in several people portraying one character in a
scene, and the actors have to speak at a normal pace,
completely in unison
(it's actually easier than
it may sound). Other workshops have devised oracles, which speak one word at a time to
address (and answer!)
great philosophical questions of the universe.

KEY POINTS FOR CHAPTER SIX

*Stay in the moment. What is happening
now
will be the key to discovery.

*Nothing is ignored. Follow the unexpected twist.

*There is no such thing as a mistake.

48

CHAPTER SEVEN
Building a Scene

Action begins with the disruption of a routine.

—
Keith Johnstone

WHAT IS A SCENE?

Two actors on stage do not make a scene.

A pair of performers standing before an audience, talking to each other about their
mother-in-law problems, do not constitute a scene —
they may just be having a jokey (if
cliched) discussion. Several improvisers doing a Pattern Game or Hot Spot may interact in a
very entertaining manner, but they aren't doing a scene.

So then what
is
a scene?

Every scene contains a few key elements.

Most importantly,
a relationship
must
exist between the characters on stage. In improv,
it's normally discovered through the course of a scene; the more quickly it is found, the faster
the scene progresses.

Of course, the easiest way to advance a scene is for the performers to make assumptions.
If the first line is, "I've come for my test results, Doctor," we already have a fairly solid idea of
the relationship. And if the response is, "You have a very peculiar disease,
Mr. President," the
relationship is clearly defined. There is enough information for a scene; the groundwork has
been laid.

Also important is the relationship between the players and their environment
which is also
discovered through improv. The scene between the President and the Doctor will be radically
different if we discover it takes place in outer space rather than the Oval Office.

No matter what the setup, however,
the
event
is
crucial to every scene —
the situation that
makes this day different from all the rest.
This is where the action begins. It arises from the
game moves, which become the structure of the scene. It can arise from the very first sentence,
or even before any words are spoken.

Many scenes don't start off as strongly or with as many assumptions as the previous
example. Two actors walk on stage and may find themselves doing something more mundane
or routine, such as washing dishes or tightening bolts in an assembly line. As the Keith
Johnstone quote at the beginning of the chapter tells us, it is when the routine is disrupted that
the action of the scene begins.

And what results is usually far more interesting than what was planned.

49

KEEPING AN OPEN MIND

There is a big difference between a strong, information-
filled initiation that
makes
assumptions, and a preconceived notion used to control a scene.

For example, the opening exchange in the scene between the President and the Doctor
starts out with an opening line and an assumption, but the player (presumably) isn't trying to
promote a pre-planned scenario. If he was, the equally presumptuous response probably
demolished any intended plot. The biggest mistake the first player could make would be to
downplay his partner's response in order to continue shoving his scenario down the throat of
his partner.

Having an idea is not bad in itself, especially if the actor conveys it easily to his partner
through a simple initiation, such as a line of dialog or a physical movement. The simpler the
idea, the better.

It is vitally important, however, for an improviser to drop his idea immediately the
moment the scene takes an unexpected twist. Of course, it doesn't make much sense for one
player to devise an elaborate plot for the scene.

When all the players are involved in its creation, the scene is much more interesting. Two
heads are better than one, and in Harold, six or eight heads are even better.

A common mistake for some improvisers is to be led by the audience. If the crowd laughs
loudly at one particular moment, the performer may be tempted to push the scene in the
direction that the audience is responding to —
instead of responding to his fellow performers.

Unfortunately, an_audience doesn't necessarily want what it thinks it wants.
A player is
usually much better off listening to his fellow performers and director than the audience
members. George Wendt remembers that during his days at Second City, it wasn't enough to
make the crowd laugh.

"Del said, 'We don't care if it works for the audience —
it has to work for us,'" says
Wendt. "At that time, an improv scene that we may have become fond of because it got a lot of
laughs had to work for Del, (producer) Bernie Sahlins, and (pianist) Fred Kaz —
all three of
them —
or else it would not be considered for our Second City show. 'Don't tell us it works —
we'll tell
you
if it works.' "

START IN THE MIDDLE

Exposition sucks.

Backstories and explanations are rarely the most exciting part of any book or film;
generally they are a necessary evil.

In improvisation, actors are seldom hamstrung by exposition. Instead, they simply ignore
it all, and begin their scenes in the middle!

Nothing is more boring or wastes more time than two improvisers starting a scene with
"Who are you?" It is always helpful if the players know each other (or their roles)
when they
begin their scene; they need to make assumptions about their relationship right from the start.

50

When two players pretend their scene actually began five minutes before the lights went
up, they make discoveries much
more quickly. They spare the audience their excruciatingly
dull groping around for information that should simply be assumed.

SHOW, DON’T TELL

An improviser accepts what his partner says as a gift, and builds on that idea. He may
respond with another gift, and the two of them build their scene based on the information in
their statements.

They must make
active
choices, rather than passive ones, and then follow through on their
ideas. Everything said can be heard and used, even what might be considered a mistake. Since
"action begins with the disruption of a routine," the "mistake" could be the disruption that
begins the action.

Too many actors make the error of talking about doing something instead of doing it; a
potentially interesting scene gets frittered away because no one is actually doing anything. If
the idea is active, it leads, step by step, to the next idea. But if the idea is talked away, the actors
never arrive at the next idea.

Suppose two actors are on stage, and one of them must choose whether to stay with his
wife and children, or run off to a silver mine in South America. An inexperienced improviser
might make the mistake of agonizing over the decision for several minutes, weighing the pros
and cons. Boring! He might even choose to stay with his family. This is a more noble decision,
but he's just chosen the routine, rather than the disruption, and we're left with no action. He's
also wasted the audience's time wallowing in his angst. Chekov or Ibsen could probably script
an interesting version of this scenario, but in improv, the active choice is the only one to take.

Given the choice, any experienced improviser must immediately leave his wife and
family, and run off to South America. If it's only a thirty-second scene, so be it —
this allows
us more time for their follow-up scene, which will obviously begin deep in the South
American silver mine. See how much further the active choice leads?