A brief flirtation with improv
“If it doesn’t challenge you, it won’t change you.” -- Fred DeVito, as quoted on the back of one of my race shirts.
The house lights went dark, and I followed my classmates single-file off the stage. And thus, my 10-week career as a student and performer of improv came to a close.
I had done a 2-minute performance with a partner. We were playing two guys in quarantine with no internet -- resorting to prank calls on a landline and other lame activities to keep our brains busy. I had us making sweaters out of pine cones --- inspired by a “Martha Stewart” prompt from the audience -- and mused about whether they could go in the washing machine.
About an hour later, we were at the bar next door, recapping the highlights.
My classmates were PUMPED to share their plans to keep performing together and begin another round of classes.
And I was silent.
The best part of improv class was the opportunity to meet and get to know an extraordinary collection of folks. We had masters of physical comedy, an accent expert and a couple of people who can make you laugh just by raising an eyebrow. An instructor who eats, sleeps and breathes improv at least 5 days a week, and whose enthusiasm recalls the Kool-Aid Man. And then there was me.
I had quietly arrived at the decision to continue getting as much as I could from the improv experience but not to pursue it any further after Level 1. It reminded me of the moment early on in law school when I decided I wouldn’t be a litigator.
My decision was based on the practice itself, but also the level of commitment to the practice. And to explain that, here’s how I decided to do improv in the first place.
I was drawn to improv’s very open, “yes-and” approach to partnering on scenes. You take whatever your stage-mate gives you and treat it as a gift or an offering. I saw a parallel to coaching, where I have to take whatever the client gives me and run with it. I knew at least one of my mentor coaches was really into improv, even traveling for performances and classes. And I wanted to find the edge of my range of expression.
Those who know me well experience understanding, loyalty, warmth. I’m always friendly, but strangers don’t typically get to know me very easily. I’ve had plenty of experience with fellow introverts. Some come across as aloof, arrogant or standoffish. My particular brand is reserved.
Reserved served me well as a shy only child who preferred to hang back and assess new situations rather than jumping in with both feet. And reserved hit the spotlight, literally, the summer after my senior year in high school.
I was at a TV and film camp in Boston. In one of our projects, I finally got to sit behind an anchor desk and read the news -- something I’d been dreaming of and intended to pursue in college. But we had to redo the scene because our instructor told me I needed to push harder to get more of my personality to convey on screen. I vaguely remember thinking the second take was better. I later struggled a bit with coming across too serious or wooden during my brief career in television news, compared to some colleagues who seemed to come alive and burst through the screen. I’ve been aware of the issue ever since.
So, what a gift to wind up in an improv class 25+ years later with an instructor who is fearless in her self-expression. Prone to blowing up into applause, or cheering, at any given moment. And pushing her students to begin a scene with emotional commitment, only to dial it up more during the scene.
I quickly discovered everyone’s range is different. We had some standouts who could start at 4 out of 10 and blow up the room with an 11. Fury, sadness, laughter. And a couple of us who felt like we were pushing ourselves at 8 or 9, but would convey outwardly at something like 4 or 5. Week after week, we’d keep pushing ahead.
We started getting into object work, and I hated it. The part of my brain that would think up something clever to say in the moment, and the part of my brain that pushed my body into the exaggerated pantomime of peeling and eating a banana, did not seem that interested in cooperating with one another. I was having enough trouble keeping up with the verbal and emotional side of improv. I found the physical stuff maddening.
I was doing my best to keep track of these experiences by journaling the next morning. And I really enjoyed my classmates and all of their energy. Still, I was absolutely exhausted by improv. I suspect part of it was timing. Taking an after-dinner class 45 minutes away from home by Metro, and heeding the occasional call to go out for a beer afterwards, meant for some pretty late nights. I stopped expecting myself to be functional early the next morning and started scheduling my first meetings later. And I reminded myself that my classmates were between 7 and 20 years younger than I was -- all unmarried and without kids.
The culmination of our learning was a 12-minute showcase. We warmed up backstage and gathered our energy. Our fabulous instructor got us revved up. I know at least one classmate had gone to the bar before stage time to calm his nerves. But I wasn’t nervous at all. My years of being on TV and speaking in front of audiences had prepared me for this moment as much as the improv class had.
I don’t think I dialed my emotional range past 5 or 6 on stage. And my object work consisted of turning the pages of an imaginary magazine. A couple of chuckles, polite applause, then my partner and I shuffled into the background to watch the rest of our classmates do their thing.
I look forward to joining some of these classmates for performances again, because I know they’re amazingly talented and committed to the practice of more classes and more rehearsals. I’ll be joining them as a member of the audience, though.
I was an improv performer once. And I’m both glad I did it and glad it’s over.