The good show & the bad show: a parable
The good show
“I AM AN IMPROV GOD.
All those months of training, all those LEVELS and MASTERCLASSES have finally paid off. I’ve cracked it. I understand improv at a molecular level. It’s like the Matrix — I don’t even see the flashing green numbers anymore, I see the connections, the possibilities, the potential, the relationships. I see beneath the skin of the scene into the muscles and tendons and — and — lymphatic system — of theatre itself.
It’s all so clear to me now. Since finishing that show we just did 5 minutes ago, I feel like I’ve evolved as a performer. Like I’ve crawled out of the primordial ooze and grown arms (for space work) and legs (for walking around the stage and doing even more space work).
Christ, I think back to my first drop-in class and I have to laugh — because I was bacteria, I was a single-celled improv protozoa. Now I have opposable thumbs and a rudimentary knowledge of using tools to make fire and build shelter. That’s how much I’ve grown. As an improviser, as a performer — as a goddamn human being.
And they ARE tools. I see that now. Everything I’ve ever been taught in class — every skill, every technique — is now a tool I can use on stage — balanced and well-maintained, instantly accessible from where they hang on my giant metaphorical improv tool belt. I feel the weight of my own success as I move through the adoring crowd — there’s Jan from my Level 3 class, I’m so glad she got to see me do that show. We’re like comrades-in-arms, Jan and I, we’ve seen some shit, deep in the Harold trenches in week 6 when it seemed like we’d never find a third beat. But look at me now. Look what I can do.
It was like flying. Doing that show was like walking on air. My every move hanging tempting and apparent in front of my face. All that was required of me was to reach out and trust. I was in flow. Like a master martial artist. Time slowed down around me. I walked between the raindrops. The raindrops of beautiful offers made by my wonderful team mates.
We were telepathic up there. We literally saw each other’s thoughts. Man, I love them so much. They are good people. I’m so lucky to have them in my life. It’s true. They are ALL artists and geniuses and poets. And you know what? I think I might be that little bit more special. I think I might be an improv savant.
Right, where shall I stand at the back of the auditorium so that people can see me as they leave…?”
The bad show
“Ok, that’s it. NEVER AGAIN.
I want the ground to split open and swallow me. Do I really have to walk past all these people to get to the green room? I’m pretty sure they’re all looking at me. Don’t look at me, look at the host. She’s actually being funny.
Ha! Being funny. Something we didn’t manage to achieve at any point during that 25 minute comedy vacuum we just manifested on stage.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a hell-scape of missed offers, clichéd initiations and THE TOTAL ABSENCE OF LISTENING TO EACH OTHER. Holy crap, that was a shit show of biblical proportions. Like we’d been cursed by the god of improv herself.
And lo, did the god of improv smite the house team with seven plagues: a plague of empty brains; a plague of audience members looking at their phones; plagues of drunken hecklers, bad edits, shallow characters and slightly racist accents. And in our final moments, verily she did dispatch the angel of comedy death and we simply died on stage.
And no one will mourn our passing.
Why can’t I do this anymore? I could do it last week. I was on fire. Now my improv career has burned to ashes. Career? That’s probably the funniest thing I’ve said all evening.
The only joke here is me.
And I could feel it going wrong. That’s what really gets me. I could feel the show sliding out from underneath us and I couldn’t do anything about it. In fact the exact opposite happened, the more I tried to right the ship — the more ugly and desperate and stupid I became. No one listened to me. And I didn’t listen to anyone either. We might as well have each been acting on a separate stage.
I hate this. I hate feeling so useless at something I love so much.
No one will play with me ever again. I’m toxic. I’m radioactive. I give off the fetid stench of failure and “No but”. I’m finished.
Where can I hide until the audience have all left…?”
The moral
Hey, friend.
It’s just improv.
It’s not the end of anyone’s world. And it won’t be the making of you either.
Whether it’s a good show or a bad show — it’s probably mostly in your head anyway.
Here’s a good rule of thumb: if you have a bad show — you’re only allowed to feel bad for as long as your were on stage for.
But here’s the catch: if you have a good show — you’re only allowed to be smug about it for the same length of time.
It’s a good deal to make with yourself. It works. And it means you’ll still be improvising a decade from now.
Improv is a divine spark of joy AND madness.
Enjoy it but don’t let it consume you.
