Whilst discussing improv with my Granddad, he asked me a
question I’d never considered before -
what is there to stop people writing up your scenes and passing them off as
their own material?
Well, obviously there’s nothing (short of hiring a bouncer
to frisk people for pens), but in response to this surprising query, I
surprised myself with my answer.
‘Nobody would want
to do that because sketches and improv scenes are very slightly different.’
Up until then, I had not considered nor articulated that
point. I agree with it though.
Sure, on a surface level, the two seem to have a similar
shape and use the same devices - recurring characters, catchphrases and
callbacks. Only playing one idea at a time – but they’re different beasts.
The most glaring contrast clearly is how they’re formed. In
improv, you organically discover something fun together. With sketches, it’s
just you versus a blank page. Is it any wonder then that I’ve barely scribed
any skits since committing my nights to improv? And I’m on the committee of the
London Comedy Writers. I should be inspired to churn out pieces weekly!
But no. I can’t go back to scripts now. The creative process
of improv is far more joyful. It produces exciting one-off ‘you had to be there’
moments every single time you go onstage. The audience gives you more leeway
than they would with prewritten material because they know that you don’t know
what you’re doing.
Which brings me onto a further distinction: audience
expectations. Recently an improv coach called me out for being witty at the top
of a scene. That’s my old sketch instincts kicking in – I’m used to aiming for
that first laugh as soon as possible. You walk on with a joke at the top of a
sketch and the audience love it because they’re expecting three minutes of wall
to wall gags. You’ve given them what they want.
This doesn’t necessarily work with improv. As said coach
pointed out, if you start with a witty line, someone has to follow it up with a
wittier one in order to build momentum. A joke contest then ensues and any
chance of a story or character developing dies. The audience is amused but you’ve
robbed yourself and them of a more interesting scene that actually had no
obligation to be funny. Improv can be straight scenes or impressions or games.
There is no one tone or style.
And so to my third distinction: pacing. Sketches often race
to get their premise out hence why they frequently start with exposition-heavy dialogue
that nails their situation like ‘the delegates are late, ambassador’, ‘we need
a new name for Cheetos’, and, famously, ‘ello, I’d like to register a complaint’.
Improv players, however, have the luxury of time. They can
start scenes by making eye contact, silently sizing each other up, and
assessing whether anything about their partner’s body language or position on
stage suggests what type of dynamic or situation to play. They cannot rush to
their premise until they have found and agreed upon it. Their first line doesn’t
have to be funny or informative (although obviously if it’s the latter, that’s
brilliant– specificity and context is reassuring. Once an audience gets the
setup, they will follow you anywhere). It just has to be the first ball over
the net in a tennis rally that gets the game going. Improv can be a far more
relaxed affair.
And it’s this aspect that would get lost in the write up of
a spontaneous skit. Yes, tightening scenes would make them more concise, get to
key details earlier, but cutting to the chase would be far less fun for both
performer and observer. For everyone involved, the Eureka Moment is exhilarating,
the relief intense. The unintentional delayed gratification is what makes
improv special. Sketches can withhold key details – on the radio you can reveal
within the punchline that both characters were squirrels – but they do so on
purpose because they knows when to play a trump card. Improvisers aren’t even
sure they’ll have a card. That mystery is what keeps their form fresh and
interesting and makes it ultimately more thrilling than sketch.
My Granddad’s other question was whether I get paid for
gigs. Uh, pass.
