Finally, the improv post

STIPIMM: “Conga,” by Gloria Estefan

I don’t know why I’m having such a problem writing about improv. I promised a post over a week ago about our recent experiences with live improvised comedy. I think I intended to pontificate proudly on comedy and its creation, but never really got around to forming a coherent idea in advance. So, I never started. So, forget the diatribes. Let me tell you about these three evenings.

Two weeks ago, on Nov. 1, I was invited to participate in a special event called “The Director’s Cut” at Improv Asylum in downtown Boston. The idea of the event is to get local filmmakers to show short films before an audience and get the director to interact with the improv actors. At its best, it’s a win-win situation: the improv hopes to attract a new audience with movies and the filmmaker gets a venue to show his/her film.

At least that’s how it’s supposed to work. In reality, that Tuesday was only the second time they had done it, and the word obviously had not gotten out. Only three people showed up for the event, and they were all co-workers of mine. I was grateful for those three, but when they have to use the ushers and ticket-seller as seat fillers, it’s hard to get overly excited.

That said, I had a blast. There were two film that evening: mine (which played second) and a 48-Hour Film Festival entry that a former member of the Improv Asylum troupe had done. It was actually one of the best 48-Hour Film Fest films I’d ever seen; it was a musical (imagine having to whip together a musical in 48 hours) and they did a good job with what they had. But, the 48-Hour Film Festival is a breeding ground for mediocrity (with scattered moments of brilliance), so saying it was the best of its kind I’d seen is not saying much. Still, it was impressive what they were able to do.

After my film, which was painful to watch almost three years after it was made, I got to “direct” the improv troupe, which basically meant assembling the random details they were supposed to start with (a character named Smith Bill, in a shopping mall) and then inserted random deviations from the course they were going on. The end result was a Westside Story throwdown between the Pretzel Hut and Cinnabon, and a rapper named Frosty McClean who peddled jewel-encrusted thongs to high schoolers. Bizarre and hilarious; the actors were quite good.

In other improv news, Bridget and I went together to two performances of one of BU’s student improv groups, Spontaneous Combustion (commonly known by the abbreviation Spon-Com). The first time we went contained the aforementioned visit from the diaper-clad Lear. The second time was more sedate, with 2/3rds of the house filled. But both times were exceptionally fun. In my limited experience with seeing college improv groups, they tend to be funnier in concept than in reality. College students who think they’re good at being funny on a dime are a dime a dozen, but it’d be tough to find one of them who’d be worth… um, a dime.

Spon-Com was much sharper and smarter than any student improv I’d ever seen before. Several of the actors consistently demonstrated an impressive comedic range and speed. Of course, both the good and only so-so actors were helped by safety in numbers; it’s easier to find the funny when there are nine people contributing ideas than it is if there are only three or four. Even with a nine-person cast, Spon-Com had quite a few dull moments in their performances, but that’s not necessarily unexpected. Improv is hard stuff to sustain for long periods of time. They benefited from having a friendly audience, not to mention a few audience members (namely me) who will laugh at just about anything. So eliciting laughter from me is not necessarily a trophy to crow about. However, last Saturday’s Spon-Com was the first time in ages that a live performance had made me laugh so hard that I cried. Two tear ducts up.