Author: Jules Munns

Hands up if you have heard something like this in an improv class: ‘Say the first thing that comes into your head.’ ‘Go with your gut.’ ‘You know the answer.’ ‘Just see what happens.’ (The last one is even the subtitle of our level one syllabus.) How many hands are up? Everybody’s? I’m glad. If you dip your toes in improv, you would be forgiven for thinking it is all learning permission and getting over that time when (at 14) you were told you couldn’t sing, or draw, or that your poetry sucked.

Now when you start improvising, this idea is very important. If you come from an education system that teaches compliance (and if you are reading this, you probably do), learning to trust the quiet voice inside is important, even subversive. It’s one of the reasons why improvisation can be so transformational. It re-asserts the value of the individual, and that creativity sits within and serves us all. That’s undeniably beautiful.

This idea has a fine and noble history. The journey of modernisation in the post-enlightenment West has been the gradual expansion of the circle of those who are considered ‘fully’ human. From men with historical position to those without, to women, the poor, those of the global majority, alternative* sexual and gender identities, the neuro-atypical. Gradually, and not without setbacks, more and more people have become part of the mainstream of thought, given rights in law and in practice. It’s called humanism.  It’s not a perfect process, nor is it finished, but you would be hard-pressed to not think it is wonderful. More and more people are now considered to be people. And it is an idea that is (as it always has been) under threat. Information capitalism and the surveillance state, with their abilities to nudge and massage opinions stand ready to take it apart, to make us better cogs in the great greed machine. But this is not my area, so let me get back to IMPROV.

Because, like my courgette plants, this beautiful and liberating idea can get out of control in an improv class. (The ugliest behaviours are often over-extensions of the best ones.) What happens if all you ever do is trust your instincts and other people are more fun to watch? What if their scenes are (whisper it) just better? Might it be that the ‘you’ which is being expressed is worth less? Might it be that you are not enough after all? Better book another masterclass!

There is a bit of a problem here with learning improv from skilled performers. An experienced improviser who performs regularly will (and should) speak to you from their experience. They will tell you what serves them when they get onstage. And if they have years and years on the clock, most likely accessing their instincts is what they need to do. The graft and grind of simple, technical improvements are probably far behind them. They listen to their instincts because they have trained them. (This, incidentally, is the reason why I have made a point of never improving past the level of ‘perfectly decent’ at improv. If you are struggling with all this, so am I. My instincts suck. It keeps me honest.)

It all comes back to a great divide in artistic creation: the formalist versus the romantic. Formalism holds that great art comes from the most elegant use of the formal expectations that surround the artform. You learn what others have done and are in relation to that tradition, part of a great sweep of history. Romanticism says that greatness comes from inspiration within. The best expression of the person in paint, words, or notes. Just know, says the formalist, just be, says the romantic.

Those of you who read this blog regularly will detect me setting up a false binary. The truth, of course, is that to be creative you need formal skill and romantic inspiration both. Each fuels and serves the other. Skill allows you to express yourself as you want to, and a drive brings you back to the grind. “Inspiration exists, but it must find you working”, says Picasso. (He was an awful man, but hella quotable.)

Because here is the uncomfortable bit. At a certain point, your instincts will no longer serve you. The very ‘self’ which was delightful to express will become the thing that stunts your growth.

Instinct is the positive word for prejudice. It is composed of low-res, simplistic heuristics which work most of the time. They are, as Ramachandran puts it “a summary of how we have reasoned before”. Note the last, dangerous word. I do not want to be restricted to how I have reasoned before. I want to try new things and learn from them.

So when (as I sometimes do) I say ‘fuck your instincts’, I am of course being provocative. But I also mean it. Your instincts are wonderful, powerful things. But they are not You. You are not bound to them. You can ignore them sometimes. What they offer are just options, and there is great power in just not doing the thing which you always do. You might learn some new instincts, or make those you have more precise and nuanced. You might completely unlearn something that isn’t serving you. Try improvising as you wouldn’t. Fuck your instincts.

* I am using the word ‘alternative’ knowingly here, as in alternative to the cis-het-monogamous norm which was being expanded from.

Game is a word that gets used a lot in improvisation. A lot. And being a wordy kind of guy, I am always cautious of words that get overused.; they get rough around the edges, lose their function. I like my words precise. Let’s start by defining the four most common uses of ‘game’ in improvisation. I am sure there are others, but this is a good start.

1. Short-form games – familiar to anyone who has ever seen ‘Whose Line is it Anyway’, these are pre-set structures originally created as training tools, but which are great to watch. Maybe each line starts with the last word of the previous line (to work on listening), or you can only say a set number of words (to work on brevity and subtext). They often make the audience feel like they are in on the joke, playfully torturing the player. These games are not always scenic. In fact, there are many categories, including line games (where players stand in a line and step forward to contribute a line or idea), naive games (where a character must guess a particular piece of information) or elimination games (where players are, you guessed it, eliminated one by one). These games are very accessible and can create a solid show even with inexperienced players.
2. Games slots – a part of the Harold format, game slots sit between the sets of three scenes and often involve the whole company. Games pull together the strands of the piece, break the rhythm of two-person scenes and can give a new angle on what is going on. These can be set games (even short-form games as above), or created in the moment. A memorable recent game saw the players come on one by one and name what Pantone colour they were and the name, then swirl and mix themselves into a painting and describe what we could see.
3. Game of the scene – a way of playing scenes often associated with UCB in the US and the FA in the UK. ‘Game’ in its simplest form means scenes in which a particular aspect of a character’s behaviour is repeated and escalated. You might choose a trait, say ‘happy’ and connect it with a person, say an astronaut. The game of the scene is to find more and more ways for the astronaut to be happy. ‘I can’t believe I am finally going into space. Wheeee!’, ‘Look at me, mum. I’m eating freeze-dried ice cream!’,. The fun of this is to find the most extreme expression of happiness as an astronaut (‘An alien is coming out of my chest – just like in the movies!’’) and that is often the end of the scene. While it is definitely not the only way to play (some people find it very restrictive), it makes for very funny scenes.
4. Just Plain Games – a much larger and vaguer category, which can include basically anything you might play in an improv class. Big booty, Zip Zap Zop, 8 things. You know the ones. Improv Encyclopedia has hundreds, of varying quality. There are word games, circle games, failure games, rhyming games, physical games, abundance games, and games where you create games.

But what makes them all games is a restriction of freedom. You don’t just do whatever you like, you follow the rules, whether they are set beforehand or created in the moment. Indeed, you could say that the rules of the game are the game, and by playing by them the game is created. By this way of thinking about it, a game and an exercise are the same thing. A game just sounds more fun.

Outside of improv, of course, the word game is often associated with some form of competition. But they are still restrictions of freedom. By agreeing to play rugby, you only throw the ball backward. In chess, your pawns move one square forwards (unless it is their first move or they are taking an opponent’s piece). In a computer game, the restrictions of freedom are hidden behind the code, but they are still there. For all the fact that we ‘play’ a game, they are governed and defined by a list of things you can’t do. The difference is that board games, computer games, and sports normally have win/loss conditions, or at least indicators of how well you are doing. But by playing the scene of the happy astronaut, you still give up the right to be sad, or confused, at least for now.

To many people, this way of thinking about a game feels like a straitjacket. Stop telling me what I can and can’t do, this is meant to be my fun time! Surely, in improv, you can just do whatever you like? Well, yes, you can. But others might not want to play with you. Because games are a social tool. In playing a game, we are setting expectations with the people we are playing with. Creating a micro-culture, using the rules to find each other and cooperate.

Because the counterintuitive thing is that giving up part of your freedom can feel wonderful. Steeping into a game (games must have a start and an end), we take a short holiday from the terrifying complexity of reality, with its ill-defined rules, infinite players, and unclear criteria for success. We agree to a smaller, organised playing field and a set of people we are playing with. The choices are fewer and oddly, that increases the joy.

A couple of weeks ago, perhaps unsurprisingly, I was teaching a Harold class. New-ish to it, the class had just worked their way through the form. It had been fun, but difficult. Memories were stretched, brains overloaded. And as we finished, haltingly, unsure if the question was allowed, a student put up her hand and asked: ‘Do you actually enjoy openings?’ She was not being difficult, or obstructive. She was just confused.

Now I’ve done improv in a lot of countries and with people from many more. And improvisers are (nearly) all lovely people. They are kind and open, determined to have fun and tend to accept you where you are and for who you are. Improvisers have been my colleagues and friends, people that I have sat up till dawn with and laughed until my ribs hurt. One is the mother of my two children. But improvisers have also broken my heart

Because too much of a positive can become a negative. Too much helpfulness becomes stifling, too much morality becomes rigidity. Too much love becomes obsession and too much attention to detail, perfectionism. Danger lies in an excess of the habits and patterns of improvisation. Sometimes we need to know when to not.

So below I have listed three behaviors which are easy for improv to slip into. Behaviours that come from holding a good thing too tightly, from assuming that if a problem is not solved, the solution is to do the same thing, but harder. Behaviours that can worm their way into your groups, classes and communities with the best of intentions and from the gentlest of people. But behaviours that can cost you dear and hurt you deep. I like clean threes and subverting Bible tropes, so let’s call them ‘The Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse’.

Toxic Positivity

By no means restricted to improvisers, toxic positivity is the idea that no matter how difficult and challenging a situation is, one should maintain a positive mindset. That not doing so is a personal failure. Keep calm and carry on. Choose love. And if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.

Now there is, of course, a lot of good that comes out of staying positive. Hell, the chances are that a part of your early improv training was saying yes and, finding what there is to like in somebody’s offer. Positivity is neglected in our culture and negativity often confused with intelligence. Joy is powerful and sometimes a choice. Sometimes.

The problem comes when positivity is all that is permitted. When we police the emotions of those we play with and gently diminish or exclude the person who does not LOVE EVERYTHING. In a beginner’s improv class, we might encourage by celebrating what happened simply because it happened, but as we gain in understanding, we have the right and the duty to say when something sucks and ask why. To express our dissatisfaction or anger. To say when we feel like we suck and we hate everything and then not solve it, but see it as part of the experience. 

Toxic positivity ignores the complexity and texture of a process. It decentralises a part of ourselves and requires us to pretend to be tooth-achingly happy. And it’s as dangerous as being endlessly negative.

Toxic Sincerity

There are two brands of toxic sincerity. Over honesty and over seriousness. I will not spend much time on the first except to say that it’s not always the best idea to say everything that you are thinking and feeling right away. Sometimes you need to take a beat, consider your options, act smart rather than fast. It’s overthinking that’s bad, not all thinking and anyone saying you should never think when you improvise is probably trying to suck you into a dependency culture. Obsessive, immediate honesty can lead to a community that fetishizes trauma.

And although improv should always be delightful, but that does not mean that it can’t sometimes be uncomfortable, like glancing over the rim of a volcano. In the right circumstance and with the right boundaries in place, one can play an offensive character or a stupid one. In playing (and playing with) things that have hurt us, we can take away their power. After all, if one can treat the frivolous with gravitas, then one can be light-hearted about the serious.

Over-seriousness is a tricksier thing. After all, if we are making something that aspires to be more than simply funny-ha-ha, we need to take things seriously, to play scenes about things that matter and treat our scenes themselves as if they matter. Things matter when we decide they do.

But, at least for me, part of the delight of improv is a sense of lightness and delicacy. We never have to stand by what we say, or even repeat it. There are no decisions that are locked in and repeated eight nights a week. We try out an idea for one scene, see how it feels, shrug and move on, always learning.

Toxic Agreement

Improv is a social act, a re-connection with simple groupish behaviour that we are taught is dangerously subversive. That is (some of) the fun of it. Just doing things together. There is such joy in losing oneself in the task, breaking down the boundaries of the skull. It’s the biotechnology that means a group of small, weak-limbed primates can take down a mammoth, raise a barn or play a test match. And working together often means being a little dumber yourself, trusting the iterative, piecemeal process and not trying to control it. You give up the luxury of individuality to be part of something bigger.

But. That means that the first voice can get to determine the tenor of the conversation. The fastest brain sets the direction of travel. If all we can do is ever agree, then we can waste our time on something we are all gradually losing our commitment to. Sometimes if something doesn’t work, you Warhol it and make the accidental wonderful, sometimes you say ‘hell, no’, discard it and remember that creativity is inefficient.

These three behaviours are tempting because, in smaller doses, they work. Be positive, sincere and agree and you will probably create some good improv together. For a night or two, even a year or two. It’s easier than dealing with the complex, ever-changing. But if you do not have the space to be cynical, to be flippant and to disagree, problems will grow underneath the surface. Not saying what you think pulls you apart from each other, makes the moments together less genuine, less together. Noticing and dealing with these three behaviours can be the thing that keeps your group together. Not noticing and not dealing with them, can tear things apart. Antiseptic stings, but sepsis kills.

I would love to end this blog with five simple steps (or better, three!), but doing so would miss the point. All of the above behaviours simplify and reduce. They make complex problems seem simple by erasing some of what we think and feel. There is no simple solution. That’s kind of the point. Acknowledging your own impulses and making spaces for others takes time, and sensitivity. Off-the-peg solutions don’t work.

Because I do enjoy openings, but I get that some people don’t. They can feel formless, pretentious, a task rather than a treat. So we talked through what the student might dislike about openings, and found some possible ways in, some places to start. And the conversation helped more than just her. I hope it made the next objection easier to raise. The next Harold was better. That’s the way it goes.

‘I love improv’, said a student, looking me intently in the eyes, ‘It’s so much cheaper than a shrink’. We are leaning on a bar after class (his third). He bottom-lips beer froth off a thick mustache and looks towards the dartboard,  considering what he could buy with the money he has saved. A potters wheel maybe, or a greenhouse. He wouldn’t be the first to imprint on me like a baby duck, and he certainly wouldn’t be the first person to compare improv to therapy. (Two of the people who came to our retreat are members of teams with the word  ‘therapy’ in their names.) I am a decent enough improv teacher passing on the work of smarter and wiser folks, and improv done well is transformative.

Now I see why he said what he said: for many (including myself) improv can have a sense of coming home, of finding your people and the way of being that allows you to face and express yourself. Improvisers often refer to their teams as families. I am out of London now but used to love the sensation of going to an improv venue alone and seeing people I knew anyway. It felt (apologies for the word) natural. Healthy. A village organised by shared passion rather than geography.

I have absolutely no statistics for this, but I would think that neurodiversity and mental illness are significantly higher among improvisers than among the general population. It’s a community based on fluidity of identity, accepting people where they are and forgetting what’s outside the room. It gives a sense of power and agency, and that will almost inevitably attract a certain kind of person. Try finding an improviser who has not been bullied or excluded at some point in their life. It’s a tough ask. So hello, I have generalised anxiety disorder and suffer from depression. I take my pills, meditate and exercise where I can. I try to laugh at myself, be a good dad and get decent sleep. Some weeks, it works. 

To be clear, my issue here is not with therapy. Therapy is great. Shout out to Karen, who I see Thursdays at 11 am. She’s calm, insightful, and doesn’t take any of my bullshit. What troubles me is therapisation; the concept creep therapy ideas into other areas of life, and with it, the expectation that those other things can replace or even emulate therapy. 

Among them: improv. It’s so easy for what we do to get shot through with the language of actualisation and boundaries, of doing the work and trauma. As our awareness of mental illness grows, these words are more than ever in the public discourse. That normalises the discussion of mental illness. But it also risks reducing the impact of the words through overuse. Badly understood terms badly applied can be dangerous. 

Improv is a wonderful context to challenge yourself, but for us improv teachers there is a real danger that we let this go to our heads: when people tell us it’s like therapy, we can swell in the chest and the ego. The pandemic exacerbated this danger. Working from home and locked down with people whose eccentricities they were normally able to avoid, improvisers flocked to online classes for a little bit of normal. Checking in and out became the norm and we improv teachers were suddenly unlicensed and untrained keepers of sanity. At times it went well and at times it didn’t. We all did our best. Now things are open again, it is essential we establish the difference between one thing and the other. Improv and therapy should be kept firmly separate. 

Because improv is cheaper than therapy the same way that a yoga class is cheaper than a hip replacement. They involve the same part of the body, but the difference in scale is so great that few useful comparisons can be made.

So I am not your therapist. I do not know how to deal with your compulsions, phobias, and bad habits any more than I do my own. If you actually think you need therapy, then I recommend this: therapy. It’s hardly the point, but it will also make you a better improviser.