Sunday, April 06, 2008

That was kind of dark

I have improv on the brain.  Walk with me for a moment.

A common note given to me, and my fellow improvisers: “that scene was a little dark.“  Also: “you’ve been playing a lot of dark characters tonight.“  Worse: “That was a really dark show.“  I first encountered the note when playing with the ImprovBoston Family Show, where its frequent application made total sense.  That scene about borrowing Dad’s gun?  A little dark.  That scene about divorce?  A little dark.  That offer about stabbing your brother?  Wee dark.  Part of me would always delight in scenes that flirted with age-inappropriate subjects—the parents never seemed to mind, the kids were very forgiving, and by the 45-minute mark I’d get talking-animal-fatigue.  But I always knew what “dark” meant in the context of the Family Show.

After leaving the Family Show, I got really, really excited to return the world of censor-free improv.  My first two months in UnNatural Selection, every scene I drove was about divorce, rape, genocide, and hilarious combinations thereof.  I attacked that stage with a year’s worth of pent-up whateverthefuck compels you to mime fistula or crack jokes about Nazis in front of a paying audience.  More shocking than my horrible mind/mouth was the realization that many of these scenes worked.  Not just worked, but soared.  With devilish glee, the cast would support the most awful initiations, and usually one-up them until the line was irreversibly crossed and we were saved by an edit.  Nary a mention of how dark the material was.  Quickly the fever ran its course, and the number of “dark” scenes petered out.  Yet, that cast still reminisces about those shocking and amazing moments.

This past Saturday, the Mainstage had a very dark 10pm show, and I was a primary contributor.  Unfortunately, it didn’t win us any favors with the audience.  We had the usual array of divorce, family strife, and messy breakups, but most scenes had a heaviness, a grim pallor, which is the epitome of what we have come to term the dark scene.  It’s pretty common for the 10pm show to have more dark scenes than the 8pm—we justify it as the more “adult” show.  But the justification ignores the pattern: if we retrospectively label the scene or show as dark, it’s because the scene tanked or the show didn’t resonate.  Scenes that deal with dark material but are funny are never “dark” scenes—they’re hilarious!  So good!  I couldn’t stop laughing on stage!

Outside the context of a family show, I believe that a scene or show’s “darkness” has nothing to do with its subject matter. 

Furthermore, I will posit this, knowing that it’s sometimes unfair: dark is improv-code for slow or lazy.  What we’re responding to is not the subject of the scene, but the pacing, and often, the lack of real content. 

The scenes are superficially fine: there’s a clear relationship, location, and strong emotional choices.  There is conflict, damnit, and we hope conflict is the path to hilarity.  It should be.  But when we’re lazy, tired, or just slow, we don’t get there in time.  There’s always tension, but it’s not enough.  The scene sags; everybody in the room can feel it sinking, and as the players’ mood gets heavier, the scene gets dark.  At a certain point the players trick themselves into thinking that this heavy conflict must be “the game.“ 

Two veteran improvisers can circle each other for five minutes with their basic tools (relationship, emotion, character, conflict) and still not identify a game worth playing.  If we were less practiced improvisers, it’d be painfully obvious, but we have years of bullshitting to fall back on, and we can “act” without actively thinking about the choices we’re making.  Hence the phenomenon of more dark scenes in the 10pm shows, when we’re worn down and the smaller audience’s silence isn’t quite as oppressive.

I’m a principal perpetrator of this unfortunate habit; if this analysis seems critical, it’s meant primarily for myself.  I get the “that was dark” feeling too often these days, for all the wrong reasons.  I hope that I’ve correctly identified the pattern—the first step to breaking it.

Improv-savvy readers: thoughts?