Sketches VS Improv

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.