There is this thing called “The Actor’s Nightmare.” (Christopher Durang wrote a play about it; it has an entry in Wikipedia.) Very simply, you find yourself onstage. Everyone else onstage is looking at you; they seem to be expecting something from you. Oh crap! you suddenly realize, It’s my line! But what is your line? You have no idea, you have no memory of rehearsing this play, you don’t even know what the play is.
You then wake up drenched in sweat, out of breath, clutching your pillow in gratitude. It was all just a dream. This, as I say, is a thing. I have had this nightmare myself, more than once. Never in real life, I hasten to add. I bring this up as a way to begin a discussion of Improv. Because Improv people actively seek out experiences like this. They even have a game that reproduces its salient features. Live, onstage, with everyone watching.
PWR’s own Mark Gardiner is one of these people, these improv people. I wanted to talk to him about it, to find out why on Earth he would do this to himself. I felt like a devout adherent of one religion trying to understand the faith experience of someone devoted to one of those other religions, you know, the false ones. The weird and inexplicable ones. I came away halfway (more than halfway, maybe) converted.
As an actor, I like scripts. I write plays, I translate plays. I like having a safety net beneath me, knowing that a playwright has thought all this through already. Maybe even a famous playwright: maybe even Shakespeare. I like a road-tested text.
That’s not what you’ll find over at the Church of Improv. They go out there and make it all up as they go. Like the legendary drummer Shelly Manne said about playing jazz: never the same way once. There might be some indication of structure provided up front, a particular game or scenario. But then you’re on your own.
Mark began his improv journey as an undergrad at Grinnell College, and then was led further astray as a grad student here at Stanford, taking Dan Klein’s improv class. Now Mark works with Made Up Theatre (find them at madeuptheatre.com), performing to live, paying audiences in Fremont. He has been a main cast member since July 2024. They perform both long-form and short-form improv scenes; though both forms have their charms, Mark prefers the long-form, inasmuch as it offers more complex satisfactions, more elaborate possibilities and in Mark’s view is more challenging. To become adept at the long form a group needs superb chemistry, which takes time and experience to develop. Short form lends itself more to games and specific structural cues.
Made-Up Theatre also offers a range of classes, team-building workshops, and even a family-friendly weekend matinee performance. Something for everyone! I was especially intrigued to hear Mark talk about a devised performance piece he and some co-religionists are preparing for the upcoming San Francisco Comedy Festival: a cyberpunk play called “The Professionals.” As a devised piece it’s not strictly improv: some characters and settings are worked out in advance, leaving the story to be worked out live and impromptu. This hybrid form seeks to combine the coherence of a thought-out structure with the invent-the-parachute-as-you’re-falling thrills of improv.
As Mark explains, improv is about offering your scene partner a gift, an instigation to their creativity. It would be poor form to block them or trap them. A good move in an improv is something that opens up more possibilities, something that extends an invitation to your partner without narrowing their scoop of action.
Improv exercises are popular in PWR (as those of us who participated in Kath Rothschild’s workshop at the last September Session can attest), but Mark uses them only sparingly in the classroom. He agrees that such exercises can be very helpful in teaching rhetoric, especially spoken rhetoric. Above all one should commit to one’s argument; proceed boldly and think always about the audience’s experience. How can I make what I’m doing more clear, direct and vivid?
