Offstage: Auditions, Rejections, & Next Moves

When it comes to improv, auditions are a flawed casting methodology. The nature of auditions devalues everything improv is supposed to be about and promotes everything it isn't. Collaboration becomes competition. Support becomes selfishness. Listening becomes laugh-seeking. It can be a frustratingly unreliable method of identifying ability.

In a perfect world, directors would spend most of their time scouting the talent pool and talking to teachers and coaches about up-and-comers - intimately getting to know the strengths and weaknesses of as many performers as possible and casting by invitation. Unfortunately in many places that's a full time job, and most improv directors just don't have the time. So they hope we're capable of accurately representing our skills in the short, high-pressure window we're given. And we hope they're capable of recognizing our skills in a crowded environment.

Auditions are necessary evil. They're far from perfect, but they're what we've got. If we want improv to be a part of our lives, auditions are going to be a part of it too.

So we put ourselves out there.

We show up to the audition full of excitement, fear, and caffeine and we try to represent our skills to the best of our ability. We support our scene partner. We show a range of choices and emotions. We do our best to have fun in spite of our nerves.

Then, almost as soon as it starts, it's over.

So we wait.

And we wait.

And results go out.

And we get rejected.

We go through the audition over and over in our heads. Where did we go wrong? We thought we did pretty well. We felt good about our choices and we did some good scenes. We weren't perfect, certainly, but no one else was either. How could they not recognize the skills we know we have? Why don't they want us in their show? Why don't they want us at their theater?

Here's the bad news:

Improv has never been more popular than it is right now. Getting cast at a major theater is the hardest its ever been. The gap between interested performers and available spots on resident casts has never been larger. There just simply isn't enough room for all of us, and that means a lot of us are going to be rejected.

Here's the good news:

We do not need permission to do improv.

If this is something we love, if this is something we want to do, we do not need approval from any individual or institution to continue to do it. 

Of course we want those "official" opportunities. Of course we want the support of an established theater. Of course we want the credibility that comes with being put on a premier stage. All these things are great. None of them are necessities.

A theater is just a big shiny box.

It might have a big stage in a big room and a bar in the lobby. It might have fancy lights and a sound system and cool posters in the window. This is all just packaging - stuff intended to attract audiences and improve their experience. Strip away all the packaging and what's left is a group of people making stuff up. And we can do that anywhere.

Here's more good news:

Because improv is more popular than it has ever been, the indie scene is thriving. There are indie nights happening in apartments, bars, breweries, cafes, hotels, rehearsal spaces, and anywhere else at least twenty people can fit in a room. There is a massive amount of stage time available to us if we are willing to seek it out. These might not be the best opportunities in terms of atmosphere and audience size, but they are chances to hone our skills and continue to do what we love.

Recognize the value of those opportunities. Take advantage of them.

I am no stranger to rejection.

It took me 6 auditions to get a callback at ImprovBoston. I spent a full three years of my life being told I wasn't good enough do to improv and I wasn't even close to making the cut.

Each failed audition crushed me harder than the last. All of my friends got on casts before I did. People with a lot less experience than I had were getting picked over me. It didn't make any sense. I was doing everything right and it still wasn't enough.

Somewhere in the midst of all that rejection I decided I wasn't going to let it beat me. I wasn't going to let people tell me that I couldn't do improv. I wasn't going to let people tell me I couldn't have what I wanted.

I decided that I was going to do whatever it took to become one of the best improvisers in the city. I would outwork, outstudy, and outrep everyone. I would push myself harder than anyone else pushed themselves. I would be tougher on myself than any coach or director possibly could be.

I wanted to become undeniable. I wanted to prove them wrong.

I still approach every day with that mindset. I'm still driven by those goals.

Here's a hard truth about improv and life in general:

Some people have to work harder for the same opportunities.

They will tell us we aren't good enough. They will tell us no one wants to work with us. They will tell us we aren't worth the effort to train. 

Become undeniable. Prove them wrong.

Here are some things I did in those three years that directly contributed to my improvement:

1. Understand that you are constantly auditioning. You never know who is going to be a future director or producer. Give a full effort every time you perform because they could be in the audience, even if that audience is only 3 people. Be reliable - sometimes all you need to do is show up when you say you will. Be nice to everyone because no one wants to work with assholes.
2. Invest in the community. Go to Jams. Stick around at the bar after shows. Talk shop with other performers. Make some new friends. Directors and producers are more likely to take chances on people they know. New shows and teams are constantly being born over burgers and beers. 
3. Study your heroes. What makes them good at what they do? What about them do audiences respond to (mannerisms, characters, etc)? Steal all of it and add your own spin. Ask your local heroes to coach your team or at least run a workshop.
4. Study yourself. Coaches and directors aren't going to give you notes on everything. Their responsibility lies with the development of the group as a whole. Record your shows and analyze your scenes. Try to notice when you're making the same choices frequently and force yourself to mix it up.
5. Tell people what you want. Directors want people who are invested and excited. Find ways to let them know you want to work with them. Ask them what you can work on to put yourself in a better position to do that. Listen to them. Do those things.
6. Learn from other places. Take classes at other theaters in your city or intensives out of town. Take workshops even if you're not interested in the subject or know who the instructor is. Read. TJ & Dave's book is great. Mick Napier's book is great. Will Hines' book is great. Take an acting class. 
7. Do stuff without permission. Make a video. Put a practice team together. Write. Create your own show and put it up somewhere. There are tons of ways to get better that don't require anyone's approval. It doesn't have to be for any reason other than your own personal growth. The work that no one will see will be some of the best work you ever do. The opportunities you create for yourself will be the ones you're most proud of.
8. Do other things. Improv has a tendency to suck people in and burn them out. Take breaks from time to time. Check out other art forms. Study other subjects that interest you. Travel. Not every show is a can't-miss show. Improv is about reflecting life. When too much of your life is centered on improv, it will start to get stale. Take some time to live. Improv will still be here when you get back.
9. Love yourself. When you decide to unconditionally value your own abilities, you become invincible. When you know without a doubt that you are good at this, no amount of rejection can hurt you. It might be frustrating. It might not make sense. You might feel like you don't fit anywhere. You might have to create all your own opportunities. But as long as you honestly value yourself, rejection will never be able to beat you.

I'll finish with this quote from the film The Imitation Game:

"Sometimes it's the very people who no one imagines anything of who do the things no one can imagine."

And this video about someone great who was initially overlooked: 

Memento & Finding Meaning in Nothing

A common piece of advice for initiating an improv scene is "start in the middle". The idea is that if you want to do a scene about an unusual dog at a pet store, the initiation of "I'm afraid the dog is still full price even though half of it is stuffed" is much more effective than "Hi, welcome to the pet store". The former gets to the meat of your premise right away, while the latter requires a good amount of meandering and patience from your scene partner (who might try to move the scene in a completely different direction altogether). "Start in the middle", in short, means "get to the point". 

This is great advice for scenes where we have a full or even partial premise in mind, but what happens when we find ourselves at the top of a scene without an idea ready to go? We look up expectantly at our scene partner only to see them looking expectantly back at us.

"Uh oh", we think. "We've got nothing." 

This can be a terrifying moment. Uncertainty is scary, especially when we feel we don't have anything to hold onto. We might start to panic; going into our heads to think of a weird thing to say, or reaching out for some indeterminate object in the hopes that some sort of activity might give us more time to think. What we often don't realize is this - 

The simple act of being onstage with another person is all we need to start a scene.

In the film Memento, Guy Pearce's character suffers from a condition that prevents him from forming new memories. Every time he "comes to" he has forgotten everything about the events leading up to that moment. He has no idea how he got to where he is, or if he has ever met the person he is talking to before. Even the people he sees every day are completely forgotten when his memory resets. His condition forces him to constantly rely on context clues; to become an expert in finding meaning in the smallest details.

Here's an example where his memory resets in the middle of a chase:

Notice that Pearce starts with self-examination - "Okay, so what am I doing?" He finds himself running but doesn't know why. Also notice that despite not knowing why he's running, he doesn't stop. That's the key. He knows his memory is faulty but he still inherently trusts himself.

So instead of "Why am I running? I'll stop and figure it out."

He thinks "I'm running. It must be for a good reason. I will keep running and that reason will reveal itself to me shortly."

And it does.

                                      Wish I remembered to bring marshmallows...

If we approach our "nothing" scenes with this mindset - that we're where we are doing what we're doing for a reason -they suddenly become a lot less terrifying. We know we're supposed to be there, we just haven't quite uncovered the specifics. And just like in Memento, we can do that using context clues. 

If we take a moment to observe closely we can find meaning in the smallest details.

How are we standing and what does that mean about our attitude or emotional state? Do we have our hand in our pocket because we're nervous or because we're grabbing some change for a vending machine? Are we squinting slightly because it's bright or because we're suspicious of something? What does the distance between ourselves and our scene partner mean about the space we're in or the intensity of our relationship? Is their smile one of sincerity or politeness? What can we infer from the smallest movement or subtlest posture?

When we have nothing, everything is a gift.

Try to be comfortable with the idea that these types of scenes can start a little slow as we dedicate those first few moments to observation, so resist the urge to panic. 

It's also not the time to be polite or coy. If the context clues tell us we're on a beach, say it and make it real. Don't wait and hope our scene partner reads the clues the same way.

Conversely, it's also not the time to be stubborn. If we think we're on a beach but our scene partner cements us at a bank, they're right. Understand that our first instincts only carry us as far as reality permits. Guy Pearce thought for sure he was the one doing the chasing until his scene partner pulled a gun on him.

Be adaptable.

An interesting thing about this approach is that it almost always forces us to "start in the middle" even if we weren't intending to do so. When we're looking for meaning in the smallest details, our mind frames things differently. The first few moments aren't about looking forward to try to figure out what the scene could be, they're about looking backward to see what the scene already has been. What did we say to make our scene partner look at us in this specific way? What did we do that got us to this specific position in space and time?

Finding meaning in nothing allows us to step into the middle a scene that had already begun before we even found ourselves onstage. Our job from there is simply to play the rest of it out.

Into the Pensieve: Going Meta

One of the things that makes human beings special is our ability to get emotionally invested in completely imaginary circumstances. It's why we cry when Wilson floats away in Cast Away, or why your partner gets mad about something you did in their dream. Our imaginations are powerful things.

In improv we push this immersive ability to its limits. We (usually) have no costumes, no set, no objects, no music - none of the advantages that movies and traditional theater have to help the audience immerse themselves in the world we're presenting. We hit the stage with nothing but our bodies, minds, emotions, and the hope that if we commit hard enough to our choices the audience will fill in all the blanks. Luckily, they usually do.

But what happens when they don't?

What happens when, 5-8 minutes into our set, all the "good will" laughs have died off and the audience stops responding vocally? We find ourselves doing several scenes in a row with maybe one or two light laughs each. "Uh oh..." we think. "This is going poorly." And we're right.

And we panic.

And we need to do something - anything - to get a BIG laugh.

And we notice our scene partner's object work isn't quite as precise as it could be when we hand them a can of beer and they drink it without opening it.

And that's our chance.

"How are you even drinking that beer? You didn't even open it!"

And the audience laughs. And we relax.

We saved the show.

Or did we?

This is "going meta"  - commenting on the scene you're currently inside of in a way that reminds the audience that they're a bunch of people in a room watching people make stuff up.

We do it because it works. We needed a big laugh and we got one. But at what expense? Now the audience remembers who they are. They remember they're watching a show. They remember they paid $12 to watch adults make funny faces and they're trying to decide if it was worth it. We've destroyed the immersion. We've torn down everything we spent the last 5-8 minutes building. With one line. Because we panicked. And because WE needed that laugh.

Going meta is a selfish act.

It doesn't serve the scene because it destroys the immersion. It doesn't serve the audience because it makes them self-aware. It doesn't serve your scene partner because (in this example) you're calling them out for sloppy object work. Going meta only serves the needs of the person who panics and needs the instant positive feedback of a big laugh.

This one's for metaphor fans:

Immersion functions like the Pensieve in Harry Potter.

In the Harry Potter universe, the Pensieve is an object where you can store and review memories. Here's a clip from The Goblet of Fire where Harry discovers the Pensieve for the first time:

There are two main takeaways here. 1 - David Tennant has a very active tongue. 2 - When Harry is viewing memories in the Pensieve, he's not just watching them on the surface of the water. He is literally in the room. He is experiencing the memory as if he was there himself. Though he can't interact with them, the people seem real. Though he can't influence the events of the memory, he feels involved. Look at his face as the trial unfolds. He is concerned, uncertain, and most importantly, fully invested.

A fully immersed improv audience will feel the same way. They are literally in the room, and though they can't (or shouldn't) interact directly with the performers, they will feel involved and invested as long as long as we continue to fully commit to the worlds and characters we are building.

But how would Harry's experience change if Dumbledore suddenly turned to him and reminded him that he wasn't actually in the courtroom? That he was actually face down in a bowl of magic water.

          Harry...you alive? I fell asleep.

He would feel self-conscious and probably a little silly. He would be distracted, and he wouldn't be able to focus his full attention on the memory. He'd probably miss something. Going meta has the same effect on an audience. It reminds them that what they're watching isn't real, and when things aren't real they stop being important.

Now here's the part where I say "but":

It is entirely possible to comment on a scene in a way that does not destroy the immersion.

But it's tricky. When something is a little off or we blatantly break the reality of the world, the audience will recognize that. It's important for us to acknowledge that we see what they saw. They need to know that we're in total control of what's happening - or at least more than they are. 

So how do we acknowledge a "mistake" without going meta?

Justify from within.

Find a way to make it work by making it a part of the reality of the scene. Pointing at it and saying "that's weird" is simply not enough and usually, for the reasons I explained above, counterproductive.

In the Pensieve scene, when Harry plops down next to Dumbledore, he is confused why his professor is ignoring him. It is not until someone passes a hand through him that he understands the rules of the memory world - he can watch but he can't interact. The Pensieve justifies from within.

In a recent Oregon Fail show I played a federal detective who was attempting to arrest someone for murder. As I did, I found myself saying the line "I'm going to place you under arrest under the order of our current President..." In that moment I recognized that I was in trouble. Oregon Fail takes place in the year 1848 and at the time I had no idea who was President in 1848 (it's James K Polk). Recognizing that my character would have to know the name of the current President, and recognizing that the audience would expect that too, I justified from within. I finished with "...whose name I will not mention out of respect." It fit my character, it fit the world, and it was a subtle wink to the audience that let them know that I saw what they saw without ruining the immersion.

The beer can example is no different. If, instead of calling out our scene partner for sloppy object work, we had made it fit the scene by saying something like "you really have to teach me how you're able to open these with your teeth", we have acknowledged the "mistake" without breaking the immersion. We've also given our scene partner the gift of a character ability instead of making them look bad. It clears all hurdles. Justify from within.

So what do we do if we find ourselves struggling at the 5-8 minute mark? We've done several scenes in a row and the audience just isn't responding. What do we do when that urge to go meta starts creeping in? Don't pull back. Don't rip Harry from the Pensieve. Push him deeper in. Commit harder. Make what's happening matter more. Believe it more. If it matters to you it will matter to the audience. If you believe it, so will they.