Improvisation is one of the most misunderstood and underrated methods available to the artist. Reduced in the collective consciousness to a mere party trick, or at the very least live entertainment that must specifically be comedic, what it actually is is a writing technique that can be used for anything, and by anyone, in order to generate dialogue and performance that is truly of the moment and present.
An actor’s job entails many things, but chiefly it entails the hiding of the fact that you know what you’re going to say next. People—and therefore, characters—very rarely know what exact specific words will next come out of their mouth, and yet an actor is expected to know every next word by heart, if not of the entire play or movie, than at the very least of that scene shooting on that day. However, when improvisation is employed, they become someone who is plausibly really in the moment—words fall out of them in a more natural-sounding way, because the words are naturally occurring. I’ve seen good actors become great actors just by letting them improvise, and not necessarily total improvisation, mind you—not arbitrary control of every direction the story or scene can take—just the ability to form words as a person actually might, within the parameters you have set forth for the piece.
Writers are often resistant to allowing actors to improvise—they don’t want their precious, perfect words discarded. Writer-directors on the other hand are typically more accepting of it—they understand that the scene working is what matters most. A writer is trying to create words, whereas a writer-director is trying to create a movie. What made sense on the page six months ago isn’t necessarily what will make sense in the moment of shooting, and sticking to a flawed blueprint will result in a creation that is structurally unsound. A blueprint is all a script is, by the way—an idea of what might work. Sometimes that idea is completely right—I’ve made plenty of movies with next to no improv, and they’re just as good as any of the others. Other times though, a moment is missing an immediacy, and that must be restored to it or else the film will suffer. At that moment, it can become time to channel the muse once again.
Part of the reason I’m so open to improvising—generating dialogue, spontaneously, like a pen in the air—is because it is so close to the actual way in which I write with my fingers. As a writer, I very much embrace myself as a vessel—I allow the words to come through me, not from me. Much as the hand is quicker than the eye, the muse is quicker than the brain—it’s not my job to understand what I’m putting down but instead to be a ‘stenographer for the muse’, a term I coined a couple years back and which never ceases to accurately describe what, in my eyes, a writer should strive to be above all else. Inspired by the writing philosophies of both David Milch and Steven Pressfield, I do not think about what I’m going to write beforehand, or after, or during—I sit down and I write, and then I go do something else. My job is to show up—my job is diligence, which is what the muse requires above all. Show up every day and she will understand that you are a willing conduit, a faucet for her to pour through onto a page. Approaching the craft in this way is the single greatest thing I’ve ever done for myself as a writer—prior to that I was a ‘when the mood strikes’ type of writer, treating the muse like someone to booty call randomly. The muse doesn’t want that—the muse wants a steady relationship in which she spends time with you every single day. Give her that, and she will give you more writing than you could ever imagine.
Improvisation, properly done, is being a vessel with your voice much like writing is being a vessel with your fingers. You do not need to ‘think’ in any real sense—ability is not marked by quickness of wit, but in the ability to surrender to the present. Those who are most fully in the moment do best, whereas those who are coming up with quips constantly are just trying to put themselves over, at the expense of the moment, and thus, the work. Seeming clever is not the goal—something coming out of you that you feel no personal ownership of is. It belongs to the moment, it arrived from the muse, and it simply came through you. People that try it this way for the first time are often shocked that their material is good, because they typically associate their good material with a feeling of pride and personal ownership. It’s disorienting for them to feel nothing, and be congratulated for something they let happen rather than something they made happen. But it is the job, it is the work that one should actually do—it is close to godliness, or at the very least, it is being a genuine psychic medium.
Whether you are sitting in front of a computer, or standing on a set, improvisation is a writing tool you have in your belt. Improvisation is channelling—it is making yourself into nothing so that there is nothing in the way of what needs to arrive. When it is improvisation-in-name-only—a bunch of actors trying to ‘make it’ and outwit each other on stage in order to try and seem like the most talented one of the bunch—it is charlatanism, it is a fraud. It is being a fake psychic, as opposed to someone who is truly receiving something. Don’t be a scam artist—be an artist. Truly receive.
Thank you for reading, and if you enjoyed this piece, show your support for me and my works by contributing $2 per month to my film studio, Kill The Lion Films!
That was good, specially about the psych part. Work your mind to stay at the present moment and you should'nt have to work that more at all. Thanks for the tips !