jook
Jun 29th, 2007, 03:10 PM
I found the following article interesting and enlightening. From the culture that brought us "speed dating"...
Improv For Daters
Esther D. Kustanowitz - Staff Writer
As he and I looked at each other, searching for our opening lines, we both knew we had no script or pre-existing chemistry to rely on. I said something that established our relationship. He added on to the premise. I responded with my take on the connection we’d created together. Living in the moment, we listened to each other, reacting truthfully from our collective life experience within whatever circumstance and setting we were given. It was almost like dating. But it wasn’t — it was improv class.
I’ve been taking improvisational comedy for about five years, and it’s taught me a lot about listening, interpreting visual cues and body language, and interpersonal communication. I’ve also learned that people don’t understand what improv is. (Even my spell-checker wants to correct the word, from “improv” to “improve.”) To so many, comedy equals standup — a solo performer on a stage, asking an audience if they ever noticed how funny-sounding the word “kumquat” is. But improv is something else entirely — an unscripted, spontaneous creation of character, relationship, environment, conflict and resolution, conducted between two (or more) people. Kind of like dating.
This past April, improv and dating thematically collided, on a stage in the social hall of Chicago’s Anshe Emet Synagogue, at a comedy program held by synagogue young leadership and JUF in honor of Adar, the Hebrew month home to the jovial holiday of Purim. The group of seasoned Windy City improvisers (known, for one night only, as Jews Love Ginger Ale) graciously allowed me, the only woman and the least-experienced performer, to bring my estrogen, energy and singles-columnist experience to a series of improvised scenes, including one about speed dating.
The boys cycled in and out of the scene as my speed dating matches, creating increasingly bizarre characters with whom I, playing it straight as “Esther Kustanowitz,” was supposed to interact. To be certain, there was hyperbole involved; one of the characters was a set of conjoined twins fused at the back hair. (That’s right, the back hair.) But some of the less outrageous, yet still unsuitable, “speed daters” were a little too close for comfort. And judging from audience response, the resonance extended beyond my own experience. Dating, I concluded, was improv without an audience.
A form of formalized flirting and relationship building like no other, improv provides a structure for creating chemistry with someone who is equally invested (if only for five-minute scenes). The intimacy and unconditional support of my onstage partners was intense, but ultimately ephemeral; when there was no post-performance follow-up, I found myself wondering why onstage chemistry didn’t always translate offstage.
While chemistry may not extend beyond the curtain call, the lessons of improv do. Neither dating nor improv should be an opportunity for standup comedy, for one person to stand in the spotlight begging for laughs, while the other sits in the audience, taking silent advantage of the two-drink minimum. Real humor and authentic connections emerge from relatable characters and truthful situations. Each person depends on the other to identify common ground and build a relationship. And when you make a connection, you want that connection to continue.
There are even rules, designed to make both partners look good, even if the chemistry’s a little weak. Validate what your partner says, even if you disagree with it. Don’t dominate the scene — it’s not about you: It’s about building something together. Listen, so you hear the words and the intention behind the words; pay attention to body language and nonverbal communication, to understand what’s not being said out loud. Don’t become mired in conflict. If you can’t agree, don’t storm off the stage. Use your wit and wordplay to extricate yourself from conversational quicksand, but finish the scene.
And if the person playing opposite you isn’t a team player who treats you as an equal, you can team up with someone else next time — there’s no reason to bind yourself to working with someone long-term if the chemistry (or the respect) just isn’t there.
Some comedy performers spend years looking for their ideal partners — not a standup comic, full of one-liners and monologues; someone who you trust implicitly, who listens, values you as an intellectual and conversational equal, and who tempers the inevitable drama with humor without denying its presence. But when performers find their comedy soul mates — Burns & Allen, Steve & Eydie, Stiller & Meara — the results, well worth the wait, can be legendary.
Esther D. Kustanowitz can be reached at jdatersanonymous@hotmail.com or via her blog, myurbankvetch.com.
Improv For Daters
Esther D. Kustanowitz - Staff Writer
As he and I looked at each other, searching for our opening lines, we both knew we had no script or pre-existing chemistry to rely on. I said something that established our relationship. He added on to the premise. I responded with my take on the connection we’d created together. Living in the moment, we listened to each other, reacting truthfully from our collective life experience within whatever circumstance and setting we were given. It was almost like dating. But it wasn’t — it was improv class.
I’ve been taking improvisational comedy for about five years, and it’s taught me a lot about listening, interpreting visual cues and body language, and interpersonal communication. I’ve also learned that people don’t understand what improv is. (Even my spell-checker wants to correct the word, from “improv” to “improve.”) To so many, comedy equals standup — a solo performer on a stage, asking an audience if they ever noticed how funny-sounding the word “kumquat” is. But improv is something else entirely — an unscripted, spontaneous creation of character, relationship, environment, conflict and resolution, conducted between two (or more) people. Kind of like dating.
This past April, improv and dating thematically collided, on a stage in the social hall of Chicago’s Anshe Emet Synagogue, at a comedy program held by synagogue young leadership and JUF in honor of Adar, the Hebrew month home to the jovial holiday of Purim. The group of seasoned Windy City improvisers (known, for one night only, as Jews Love Ginger Ale) graciously allowed me, the only woman and the least-experienced performer, to bring my estrogen, energy and singles-columnist experience to a series of improvised scenes, including one about speed dating.
The boys cycled in and out of the scene as my speed dating matches, creating increasingly bizarre characters with whom I, playing it straight as “Esther Kustanowitz,” was supposed to interact. To be certain, there was hyperbole involved; one of the characters was a set of conjoined twins fused at the back hair. (That’s right, the back hair.) But some of the less outrageous, yet still unsuitable, “speed daters” were a little too close for comfort. And judging from audience response, the resonance extended beyond my own experience. Dating, I concluded, was improv without an audience.
A form of formalized flirting and relationship building like no other, improv provides a structure for creating chemistry with someone who is equally invested (if only for five-minute scenes). The intimacy and unconditional support of my onstage partners was intense, but ultimately ephemeral; when there was no post-performance follow-up, I found myself wondering why onstage chemistry didn’t always translate offstage.
While chemistry may not extend beyond the curtain call, the lessons of improv do. Neither dating nor improv should be an opportunity for standup comedy, for one person to stand in the spotlight begging for laughs, while the other sits in the audience, taking silent advantage of the two-drink minimum. Real humor and authentic connections emerge from relatable characters and truthful situations. Each person depends on the other to identify common ground and build a relationship. And when you make a connection, you want that connection to continue.
There are even rules, designed to make both partners look good, even if the chemistry’s a little weak. Validate what your partner says, even if you disagree with it. Don’t dominate the scene — it’s not about you: It’s about building something together. Listen, so you hear the words and the intention behind the words; pay attention to body language and nonverbal communication, to understand what’s not being said out loud. Don’t become mired in conflict. If you can’t agree, don’t storm off the stage. Use your wit and wordplay to extricate yourself from conversational quicksand, but finish the scene.
And if the person playing opposite you isn’t a team player who treats you as an equal, you can team up with someone else next time — there’s no reason to bind yourself to working with someone long-term if the chemistry (or the respect) just isn’t there.
Some comedy performers spend years looking for their ideal partners — not a standup comic, full of one-liners and monologues; someone who you trust implicitly, who listens, values you as an intellectual and conversational equal, and who tempers the inevitable drama with humor without denying its presence. But when performers find their comedy soul mates — Burns & Allen, Steve & Eydie, Stiller & Meara — the results, well worth the wait, can be legendary.
Esther D. Kustanowitz can be reached at jdatersanonymous@hotmail.com or via her blog, myurbankvetch.com.