Keeping it Real

Michael Brunström is very experienced in the ways of British Impro. He was originally introduced to it completely by chance when he bumped into his hero, the late, great Ken Campbell in the street. Since then he has worked on a multitude of projects, pushing the boundaries of what improvisation can achieve; from the often surreal "My Show, My Rules" to an improvised Greek Tragedy in a day. Most recently he has created the Curt Hatred shows and co-created Fingers On Buzzards, an Impro/pub quiz hybrid.

Some thoughts on improvisation and 'reality'.

UK improvisation, although small in scale and performed mainly by (over)enthusiastic young amateurs, is nonetheless rooted in hefty long-worn traditions. Put (over)simplistically, these are a) The Keith Johnstone 'shortform games' tradition, b) the Joseph Campbell arc-plot longform tradition and c) the North American Harold tradition. Yes, I know: there are plenty of others.

Every improviser has their preference. Arc-plot longform impro is thought by some to be too proscriptive and formulaic. Likewise, some longform improvisers tend to dismiss shortform impro as tending towards silly gags, or consider the physical and verbal restrictions imposed by some impro games as either pointlessly limiting or empty displays of virtuosity. (I once heard of a Canadian improviser complaining that Keith Johnstone had 'instituted the tyranny of games', which is a magnificent phrase, and if I were Keith Johnstone I would be proud of it.) In spite of the strong feelings that practitioners of each tradition have, there is far more common ground between them than they usually admit. Indeed, each of these approaches owes much to the other two, and they are ultimately inseparable. Yet without this diversity, the impro scene in the UK would stagnate and become uniform.

It is noticeable, however, that until recently the North American Harold has not gained much of a footing in the UK. I've seen several troupes try it out, but often without great enthusiasm or success. The one element of the Harold that UK improvisers find particularly difficult is the opening monologue. Both performers and audience members alike have told me they are uncomfortable with its 'confessional' feel.

We British are too anally retentive, too don't-make-eye-contact-on-the-bus, too cynical. We don't like to think of stage performers as normal people. We like glamour, artifice, character comedy and masks. We like our shows to begin with a fast-paced game or a big song-and-dance number. When performers get up to speak in their own voices, we get nervous. I've heard people complain that when improvisers talk about themselves it smacks of vanity, of navel-gazing, and that they're performing 'more for their benefit than for ours'. I've even heard it said that to use real-life experiences as the basis for scenes, rather than making it all up from nothing, is somehow 'cheating'.

This is wrong. Scenes that are rooted in reality work better. Not just sometimes, but all the time. That is why, when performing a Harold, the monologues have to be real and cannot be fictitious. The opening monologues aren't something that can be edited out of a Harold – they're absolutely crucial to it. There is an indefinable quality that comes from material that has been derived from specific real-life. Genuine experiences transformed through a lighthearted playful approach obey the formula 'Serious + silly = funny.'
Yet UK impro tends to shy away from this aspect of the Harold. I've seen 8-Bit perform their Harold monologues in a mixture of voices, partly their own and partly as characters. There seemed to be a reluctance to divulge anything too personal or revealing in them. When GTI did their 'Harold' in the second half of their show, they based their scenes on a collection of ideas thrown out from the audience rather than on their own experiences. When Harolds skimp on reality, no matter how skilled the improvisers are, there is a tendency towards 'Silly + silly = stupid.'

Not all UK troupes are afraid to use real experiences as a source of material. The Maydays have been particularly successful in adapting the Harold format to British sensibilities. Multistory used a multi-stranded longform format very similar to a Harold. Rather than narrate monologues, they got stories from the audience. Kevin Tomlinson does this too. The Couch use a similar approach for their shortform show, though with far less serious or reverent intent. Playback Theatre was popular here a few years back, too, though their shows were often criticized for being too like a therapy session. On the whole, though, we Brits don't like 'the Real'. In nearly every case, basing scenes explicitly on the personal experiences of the improvisers themselves has been seen as a step too far.
How, then, are UK improvisers to square this circle? How can they keep scenes vivid and real, without the off-puttingly confessional monologues? What does a 'British Harold' look like?

In the show I direct, 'Curt Hatred', I use traditional shortform games, rather than monologues, to generate the material that will be reincorporated in subsequent scenes. As a result, every show appears highly divorced from reality, with utterly absurd content. In order to counteract the accumulation of bonkers notions that have no basis in experience, I instruct the improvisers to treat everything with the utmost seriousness. By concentrating on the characters rather than the content, showing what's at stake for them, and setting them on an arc-plot journey, I encourage the audience to identify on an emotional level with the action on stage and making the action seem relevant and vital. By imbuing daft material with gravitas and importance, the aim is to recapture the formula 'Silly + serious = funny.' Employing elements from arc-plot longform – exploring internal conflicts, identifying archetypes, finding the 'bother' on which each scene hinges – could be one way, albeit an imperfect one, to ground an impro scene in reality. (Yet I should emphasize that my particular show has been largely a failure, as audience numbers have shrunk down to nothing.)

However, I want to draw attention to another approach, a completely different kind of 'reality' which I don't think has been adequately explored by improvisers: the reality of the show itself.

Communicating directly with the audience, literally making eye-contact with as many individuals as possible – without 'dipping', 'skipping', 'arcing' or 'glazing' – and sharing the scene with them, accentuates the reality of the show. It is a style of performance that gradually fell into redundancy with the introduction of footlights to theatres at the end of the eighteenth century, eventually leading to audiences sitting silently and reverently in near-total darkness, peering through an invisible fourth wall. (The invention of 'cinema' could be said to predate that of celluloid by at least a hundred years.)

Whereas some improvisers I've spoken to say they enjoy the theatricality of having an audience in darkness, creating an atmosphere of hushed expectation like you find at standup shows or music gigs, I always prefer shows where the audience are more involved with the performers – not necessarily by yelling stuff out throughout the evening, but by feeling close enough to the action to register its subtlest signals, establish a direct personal connection and build a shared experience. It makes the occasion more lively and vivid. And it encourages a style of performing that celebrates the challenge of spontaneity itself – the deeper game.

I can think of several improvisers – the majority of them women, incidentally – who are masters of connecting with an audience, moving effortlessly between the reality of the scene and the reality of the room, without blocking either. It's not about 'gagging', 'commentating' or 'popping out of the scene'; it's about sharing the scene with the back row. These performers have the miraculous skill of combining fearless honesty with irony and wit – and that's a very British approach. It's a skill that is central to clowning, but it is not often taught in an impro context. I would like to see more of this style of performance in impro. In addition to everything else that's going on.

Alan Marriott says that there are two ways of being, both on stage and in life. He calls these 'downward/inward' and 'upward/outward' intentions. As improvisers we need to cultivate our upward/outward intention in order to be receptive and responsive to the many offers we receive during a scene. These intentions can be found in audiences as well. British audiences are notoriously 'downward/inward', especially when they're when they're being lectured to and when they're watching standup comedy. They slouch and squint in their chairs, as prickly and antagonistic as urchins, with their arm crossed and their fists clenched. If improvisation has any social purpose it is to reach out to the cynical Brit. If improvisation can coax him towards the edge of his seat, make him feel relaxed and open him up to experience child-like playfulness and joy – by Harolds based on true-life experiences, by epic and engaging narratives, or by the sheer excitement of suddenly being aware of the here and now – then it has done a good job.

Fingers on Buzzards, the improvised pub-quiz is on at the Edinburgh Fringe.
When: 7:50pm, 6-27th August
Venue: Dragonfly
Cost: Totally free!