Confessions of a Long-Form Snob

Level C's "Gone Blue" @ Second City Training Center - 2004

"Short-form ain't funny.  It's for people who can't improvise."
27 Year Old Nelson Velazquez

When I was in the beginning stages of my improv journey in the early 2000s, I was learning the proverbial ropes at the venerable Second City Training Center Chicago.  I learned how to play a bunch of cheeky short-form games but the longer scenic games were the ones I really enjoyed as I got to flex my burgeoning acting chops and my ever-growing 20-something male ego; I knew everything at that time including what was funny and what wasn't.  Somehow I got it into my thick and ever-balding skull that short-form improvisation was a kid's game while long-form improv was for the "real improvisers".  

Long-Form > Short-form (Or So I Thought)

I developed my strong opinion about what "kind of improv" was best early on.  I thought long-form was the "right" path in being a good improviser.  Part of cementing that opinion wasn't voluntary; I was institutionalized to think "long-form"!  I was in two expensive conservatory-level programs back-to-back, taking expensive classes at another prestigious long-form-based school (never finished the curriculum), and was in an active sketch comedy group where expensive long-form work was touted as the best way to generate sketch material.  The other factor that turned me onto long-form was that I had heard stories from fellow students who had taken slightly cheaper classes at another theater known for being all about short-form; stories of harrowing notes being given after performing scenes, students'  comedic voices being trounced upon in very dismissive ways by high-profile teachers, and where the mainstage show was at the time quite an expensive outing for 2 hours of weekend night.  None of that sounded appealing to me.  My thought was, "When am I ever going to really need short-form in my career?"  

Soon enough.

Short-Form > Long-Form (Or So I Thought) 

It turned out that very same short-form theater actually did other kinds of shows outside their normal programming; some of which were actual long-form shows.  I eventually started auditioning for teams at that very same short-form theater.   My thought process in doing so was "Do well enough to get on a team, do some good shows, and wait until long-form show auditions become available."

Since I was new to the theater, I had to audition for their incubator teams.  "Fine," I thought. "I'm better than these beginners, but whatevs.  I'll pay my dues."

The audition itself was pretty simple from what I remember.  We warmed-up together outside of the mainstage area, went in, handed out headshots & resumes to the auditors, went up on stage, told a little fact about ourselves unrelated to improv, and then formally began the audition.  I played a couple of games I had played before in classes and learned a new one on the spot (tag team monologue).  I walked out of the audition feeling pretty good about it.  Eventually, I was offered a spot on a new team and one step closer to doing long-form at another theater.

A Whole New World (Don't You Dare Close Your Eyes)

The rehearsal process for our team was very eye-opening.  As I watched other perform exercises or games, I realized, "Uhm....these people are, like, REALLY good."  My ego began to deflate and bouts of serious self-criticism creeped in.  I saw how people would get to the point of their scene really quickly where it would take me a couple of minutes to rev the engine to get to what the scene was about.  I saw a ton of characters come out of people right from the very beginning of the scene where I was more about planning one character for the whole class and using it multiple times.  I also saw just how nice people were being to each other - being really supportive of each other and giving laughs to scenes when they really didn't deserve them.  I was really humbled by those rehearsals.  I began to realize "I don't know 💩 about short-form.  Why didn't we do this stuff in class?"

It was at this point I started seeing the power of short-form improv.  You get maybe 5 minutes to play a game and entertain a paying discerning crowd.  You need the necessary skills to be creative quickly while still holding onto the fundamental facets of what makes improv so great: listening, reacting, and discovering.  There's no time for slow-moving, self-indulgent improvisation when you've got a drunk guy in the back of the theater looking to laugh his ass off every 15 seconds.  

After that experience (and many more), I began to regret ever thinking short-form was inferior.  I  had fallen in love with the format and saw just how powerful it could be especially in the realm that it excelled at: connecting the actors on stage with the audience watching it multiple times throughout the show.  That opinion kept me from delving deeper into the art of improv and probably cost me opportunities I could've taken advantage of at the time.   I see now that I needed to go through that experience to make me who I am today, but I'm not gonna lie: I sure was (and still am) full of 💩 back then.

So, What's The Difference Between Them?

What's the difference between short-form and long-form then?  The amount of time it takes to get "to it" to entertain a crowd?  One is more narrative than the other?  Sure.  Those are aspects to how the formats get consumed, but to me, the difference between short-form and long-form is:

In short-form, we tell the audience the game we're playing. 
In long-form, we don't.

That's it.

The skills required to perform in either format are the same.  You still have to listen, react, and discover in both.  You still have to emote in scenes.  You still have to develop characters and relationships just like any theatrical piece.  In short-form, you tell the audience how to watch the subsequent scene and what to look out for so they're "in on it".  In long-form, you don't telegraph what game is being played along the way; the audience has to figure it out.    

Edit That Thought

It took me a long time to figure out the difference.  I love both formats equally now and don't really differentiate between the two artistically.  The differences to me are more production-oriented topics.  If I'm playing at a bar or a small town that hasn't been exposed to a lot of improv, I might stick with a short-form show.  However, if I'm playing with another short-form team on the bill, I would want to give the audience something different to watch and thus may perform a long-form improvised musical instead.  

I do my best nowadays to expose my students to the relationship between short and long-form so that they can see that they are just different sides of the same theatrical coin.  I hope they don't make the same mistake I made in creating an unnecessary division between the two and are able to explore improv free from barriers and judgment.

Have you ever flipped your thinking on a form, format, or philosophy? What changed your mind? Drop it below — I’d love to hear your “I was full of 💩” moment.

Screw the Checklists. Trust the Movement.

I teach improv by starting with silent object work and movement — not scene goals, just doing. When you move first, the rest of the scene reveals itself.

Screw The Checklist

Last night I was teaching an improv class when we hit on the idea of establishing the Who/What/Where/Why (the "4 Ws") of the scene.  Now, personally, I hate the 4Ws framework because it makes beginners treat them like a checklist — forcing each one into the scene instead of discovering them through play.  I’d rather they use just enough brain power to move, interact with their space, and listen. React to their partner. Let those discoveries tell you who you are, where you are, and why any of it matters.

Hit The Reset Button By Trusting The Movement

One thing I preach to everyone is:

If you don't know who you are, what you are, what's going on, get in your head, or just need to survive the scene, go back to the object work.  It will save your ass!

I learned this lesson when I had to improvise by myself unexpectedly for a long time at a show a few years ago.  If it wasn't for my dedication to object work at the top of the show, it would've been a disaster.

However, last night, I put together my framework with this mantra for the first time.  I finally understood why object work saves you.  It's a reset button for your involvement in the scene.  It's a way for you to discover the who/what/where/why again and again without the pressure to entertain anyone while you figure it out.

I’ve been teaching this way for years — trusting object work, reacting honestly, discovering - not declaring.  But it wasn’t until last night that I realized: that instinct I kept preaching? It’s not just a technique.  It’s the reset button. And I finally found the reason why it works. The how? That’s coming soon in my book.

What’s your reset button on stage — the thing that saves your ass when your brain blanks? Drop it in the comments. I’m looking to shamelessly steal it.

The Geo Tracker: My First REAL Car

1986 Ford Mustang LX

She sputtered. She choked. She once lurched herself into a cement pole on her way out. But before that? She was mine. But I had to give her up...

Lifestyle Upgrade

I was a junior in college and had scored a scholarship that covered not only tuition, books, and room &board, but also paid me a monthly stipend on top of it.  I didn't have a job since I was taking 15-18 hours a semester so that stipend was a God-send to finance my lifestyle.  At the time, I was driving around my beloved 1986 Ford Mustang LX shared between me and my father.  The car was an ugly, 4 cylinder, gas guzzling death trap (my mom would not drive the car for fear it would get her into an accident or leave her stranded somewhere) BUT it was MINE.  When I got a steady stream of money coming in, I decided to use that stipend to help finance my car.  I hated having to give up the car because she was my first but at the same time...

Goodbye, Ya Crazy B****!!!

The 1986 Mustang LX throttle-bodied and had a knack of getting stuck open sometimes especially in the hot, Texas weather. So, when you would turn the ignition off, the car would stay on for about 10-30 seconds afterward sputtering and gurgling until it truly ran out of gas. Depending on where I'd park the car, there would be times I'd die of embarrassment in silence while I waited for the car to finish it's creative death scene while onlookers would judge how crappy my car was and feel sorry for that owner sitting in the driver's seat being jostled around violently.  I was ready to part with that monster.

Gyat Damn!

1996 Geo Tracker

Meet the new girl: The 1996 Geo Tracker

I don't remember exactly why I picked this car to be mine; maybe because at the time, the Suzuki Samurai, it's Japanese cousin, was all the rage amongst the hip-hop community (I wanted a Mitsubishi Amigo too) and it was "close enough" to feeling like I'd be "down with the streetz"...or at least as close as a dorky college kid in South Texas could get with a Geo Tracker and a dream. Also, my Tracker was a convertible with a hard top on it; I was living in an apartment complex and had experienced a number of break-ins over the years so having hard top for me was a must.  I was stoked at the idea of having a brand new car with some cool-factor built into it.  

After finding it on the Chevrolet lot, my dad, girlfriend, and I walked into the office with the salesman and Dad began the dreaded "negotiation" process.  My dad could do many things — tell a joke, fry a mean chimichanga, teach you Algebra without breaking a sweat — but a great negotiator, he was not.  Since it was my first time buying a car, I kind of stayed out of it and let him do his thing.  All I cared about was the monthly payment.  I don't remember if that was asked of me but I'm sure he negotiated me paying something close to MSRP on it after all was said and done 😆.  As long as I could afford it and it would leave me with some change, I was cool.

Oh, The Chaos!

Dad had authorized them taking the Mustang as a trade-in.  Of course, the dealer wanted to drive it around  before making an offer on it.  "Oh no," I thought.  It had barely limped into the dealership — then sputtered for a solid 10 seconds after we parked, as if it was still deciding whether to give up or go out swinging.  I got a sick feeling in the pit my stomach as they kept talking. My dad handed over the keys to the service guy dressed in grease-stained blue coveralls and a faded trucker hat; let's call him "Billy Bob". He grabbed the keys and proceeded out the front doors to my red jalopy.  "Faaaaaawk," I thought praying the car would behave itself long enough for us to seal this deal in my favor.  

As we sat across the salesman desk, I watched Billy Bob get into the car and fire it up with a huge roar; I guess he pumped the gas pretty hard before hitting the ignition.  The salesman, whose back was to the calamity about happen behind him, was shuffling paperwork around and maybe trying to upsell us on other services they offered.  Billy Bob pulled out of the lot and roared off down the street.  "Good," I said to my girlfriend while simultaneously letting out a sigh of relief.  I thought, "OK, we're half way done."

About 5 minutes later, Billy Bob enters the lot.  I watch him quickly pull back into the same spot where it was parked. He turned the car off. Then the fireworks began.  The car convulsed like a chain-smoker at mile 3 of a marathon — coughing, wheezing, and throwing a tantrum like a toddler hopped up on Capri Suns and vengeance.  It then lurched forward from its parked position and smacked the yellow cement bollard hard.  Billy Bob, slack-jawed and befuddled, jumped out of the car with the quickness.  We couldn't hear him but he was saying something to the car looking shocked while motioning with Looney Toons-esque ferver towards others in the adjacent  garage. 

I busted out laughing hysterically.  The salesman and my dad watched me crack up not knowing what the heck was so funny about the contract they were discussing.  I excused myself and walked out of the room still laughing. My girlfriend walked out and asked me what was so funny.  I did my best to explain it to her (she didn't find it funny) and awaited Billy Bob's verdict on the car.

A Deal Sealed by a Crash

Billy Bob walked into the sales office and yells "500" and walked out just as quickly as he came in. "Deal!" I yelled. To me, that amount was worth more than the headache of having that car (I'm sure we could've gotten more in parts alone) but after that trade-in debacle, I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible with my new car.

I drove that car until it died in 2006.  It served me well until the transmission started slipping and I had replaced the starter 3 times in the span of 3 years.  The story of that trade-in? It involves heartbreak, a tow truck, and a tearful call to God — but we’ll save that for another chapter.

Changes

I've experienced a shift in my approach to my work lately and haven't been able to put my finger on what that is just yet. There have been a few of things happened recently to remind me of how awesome theater could be.

I attended a Conservatory 3 showcase recently and both teams were really good. It was fun to see them *just play*. No BS. Just fun. Go up there and get dumb with each other. Totally got inspired by them and wanted to run up on stage and play with them.

Last night's TMLMTBGB rehearsal was super strong with some of the plays really coming together with hive mind and strong emotional choices being made. I normally abhor tech weeks but this one I'm actually enjoying (probably cuz I don't have to memorize 30 two minute plays).

I also ran a workshop recently where I married my IT consulting and improv worlds together to show each other how similar they truly are. Got rave reviews on it.

I don't know if it's old age or just maturity kicking in but something has changed for me in the this Covid-endemic world. I hope that I keep the courage to continue working and determining what it is while enjoying myself a bit more.

#grateful  

Rawk It To The Top!

I recently subbed a class on their last day.  Their super-talented teacher had something come up last minute, and fortunately I was already nearby doing working with a class to put together their musical direction for their show; so, I volunteered to take it.  Once I was confirmed I got it, I checked out their syllabus; there was nothing on it too hard to take them through.  I figured we would play the games the teacher requested and I'd tweak things here and there to get them ready for the next term of classes.

Things went way differently than what I expected.

The class was very large but friendly.  We met informally outside of the classroom while we waited for it to be vacated by a previous class.  Everyone seemed psyched to enjoy their last day and I recognized a few students from the improv jams I have been leading previously.  We all got along great.  They even laughed at my corny jokes so I felt pretty comfortable with them already.

Once we got  in the room, we immediately got to work.  I did my usual thing of tying the warm-ups to what we would be exploring later in class.  Their energy picked up from the beginning and soon they were buzzing.  Eventually, we go to the point of playing the games.  With me stressing them utilizing object work to discover the play within the games, they took to the instruction like fish to water.

We took a break and I left the room to go retrieve something from another theater.  Once I returned, I saw a large group of them bunched up talking.  One of the students asked, "Are you teaching the next class in the next term?"  I told them "Yes."  A roar of cheering erupted and a student asked if she could hug me.  I was caught off-guard by the reaction but I'm not going to lie - I loved the attention and the appreciation and most importantly the confirmation that I provide value to folks in their improv journeys.  We played some more afterwards with some new games and finally ended the class.

One of the students approached me telling me that they were at first thinking of giving up on the improv program but after that class and knowing they would have me as a teacher, they decided to give it another shot.  Again, it felt good to be wanted and not just tolerated.

I got this from that same student via email:
"I wanted to thank you again for the incredible class on Sunday, the entire crew's energy at the bar afterwards was electric and we're all super excited to take part in [class] with you."

I can't wait to get in a room with these cats and share what I have to offer.