Category: Immersive Acting

In traditional theatre, directors and actors talk a lot about subtext. After all, the playwright has set the text for us, the words are not in dispute, so we devote our creative energies to realizing all the ways people would live out these lines and communicate non-verbally. How would they move, respond, and betray their deeper meanings? That’s subtext.

In immersive theatre, when performers respond to their audience and other realities around them, not only do we deliver subtext, but we can wield the far mightier weapon of text proper.

The Albee Controversy

This past May, the theatre community enjoyed a great kerfuffling that had everyone taking sides. A producer in Portland had cast a black actor in the role of Nick in Who’s Afraid of Virgina Woolf? When the Albee estate got word of this, they more or less requested that Nick be re-cast as Caucasian as intended by the author. When the producer refused, the Albee Estate rescinded the rights to the show.

Note that this casting choice requires cutting lines that refer to Nick’s blonde hair and blue eyes, so it’s not just subtext that changes with this casting. (Although this raises another the question: should only Aryans be cast in the role?)

So: is the Albee Estate correct in policing the interpretation of the play? Or should directors be free to cast differently than the author imagined, and so tell a new story within the old story?

I fall heavily on the side of the Estate. Virginia Woolf? is a staunchly realistic play that reflects a specific time and place (personally, I consider it too old to be understood by 2017 audiences, our culture of relating has changed so much). A mixed-race marriage, although legal in New England at the time, would hardly be common. Add that to the mix, and you alter the fundamental dynamics of the play. As Albee himself considered it, a mixed-race marriage “would not have gone unacknowledged in conversations in that time and place and under the circumstances in which the play is expressly set.”

Essentially: there would be text. Adding subtext where the behaviors of George, Martha, Honey, and Nick acknowledge the race issue isn’t enough. It’s simply not a thing humans would do. While it’s true that we don’t always say what we feel, things can reach a point where something is a big enough deal that we’d respond with words proper. And words are not within the rights of directors who’ve licensed a play.

And honestly, if you want to tell that story, get thee to a keyboard. Write it yourself! No one’s stopping you but you.

authors vs. Auteurs

I think theatre is suffering from an epidemic of auteur directors: directors who feel they can—or should—tell “new” stories with the same old scripts. Most often, they want to cast light on prejudices, or perhaps they just want to make things more interesting. Likely there’s some vanity involved in doing something “unique” with Hamlet. But this approach, if not handled very astutely, ends up fundamentally changing the story as written. It can easily slip into Stunt Theatre.

Probably our Shakespearean traditions are to blame: to keep his supremely old plays relevant, directors often take wild liberties that involve unusual casting and bizarre settings, plus plenty of judicious cuts or textual changes to make it all hang together. No problem—there’s no Estate to defend Shakespeare! I myself have indulged in such liberties in the past: modernizing Hamlet and gender-swapping Horatio into a friend-zoned woman, turning Salerio into a courtesan fond of serving the priest Solanio.

Note how both of these changes gave a new and sizeable part to an actress—the real goal behind my machinations. Did I go too far? I thought my Salerio/Solanio choice added to the sense of Venetian corruption, important in a play where there are no heroes. I think I toed the line of auteuring that underlines themes instead of undermines them. But no doubt Shakespeare would have written very bawdy text if this was what he intended! Were my audiences confused that the characters never verbally acknowledged Salerio’s status in the community? The reality of the world I gave them grated against the text-as-written—and only words could resolve that tension.

It’s more acceptable in Shakespeare: the heightened language has an alienating effect on the audience—we’re already experiencing unrealistic behaviors—and so we can live with the lack of people talking about what’s actually going on before our eyes. Plus we know Shakespeare’s plays well and can usually identify the director’s flourishes. With other stories though, auteurs can easily leave their audiences fundamentally confused.

Words speak louder than actions

We communicate a great deal with our bodies, but to really get things done, we use words. It’s one thing to be eyeing me all night, but a totally different, impossible-to-ignore thing when you ask, “Want to go back to my place?” We miss body language all the time (my now-husband missed mine for months!), but unless we have our earbuds shoved deep into our auditory canals, we don’t miss words.

When it comes to communication and response, words are the more powerful tool. Immersive theatre, uniquely positioned as responsive storytelling, should use words freely. Especially when something attention-grabbing happens, words help diffuse the tension between the reality of the moment and the imaginary world of the story. Auteur theatre can only dream of such powers.

Now of course, I got permission from my author before that first time I veered off-script. Happily the authors of The Man From Beyond decided that it’s more important to respond to the moment than it is to stick to the script. So sometimes text gets skipped or replaced, and I keep that up until it feels natural to get back on track. I think that’s great. Keeping things real should matter more in this genre.

If there’s a ban on text as in Sleep No More, performers have to rely on body language to respond to or correct their audience. How adept they are at manipulating our bodies to do what they want! But if the format of the show allows for words, more powerful response is possible. The audience may not respond to Madame Daphne parting the curtain, but they’ll never ignore “Please, follow me.”

I think language is particularly helpful in audience correction: it’s faster, clearer, and easier to internalize as you continue inside the experience. My first time at the McKittrick, I got in a brief skirmish with a black mask. I didn’t understand at first that he was blocking my way on purpose; if he could have said “You can’t go in there,” it would have cleared matters up much faster. (Yeah, I…uhhh…tried to follow Lady Macbeth into her glass box.)

So whenever a player goes astray, has a clever notion, or something interesting happens, expect Madame Daphne to throw down some serious TEXT.

When it comes to wielding the superpower of response, nothing compares to improv theatre.

Improv’s life-blood is being responsive. It’s made-up on-the-spot, more human in many ways than a play. Without a script or even a set destination, improvisational actors have to respond constantly to each other, and they’ll often incorporate audience response as much as they can. Basically, they don’t ignore a damn thing.

Audiences explode with laughter when a performer deftly responds to something that just happened. The more an improviser can integrate the reality of the current situation, the better. “Your name is Carly, and you’re a biologist? Let me sing a song tailored just for you.” “Damn, I just forgot your character’s name in this scene. Let me acknowledge that with a quick quip.” Crowds go wild.

The atmosphere becomes electric. This is LIVE! The audience feels special, because they are witnessing something real and unrehearsed, happening only in the here-and-now of this time-and-place.

Note how audiences of comedy-improv are not the same folks wandering into your local professional blackbox. One does not get from a play what one gets at an improv show, and vice versa. Can immersive theatre—devoted to designed storytelling and live response—capture both audiences? I hope so. (Granted, there aren’t a lot of comedy immersives being done right now, and people want comedy. Thoughts for another day).

SPECIALNESS

Giving audiences a sense of “specialness” is key to improv’s success—and immersive theatre takes that to the next level. The more room we allow for response and relation, the more audiences will go away feeling special. That’s a serious gift.

The generation brought up with “special snowflake” sydrome is all grown-up and looking for entertainment. We want to brag to friends about the once-in-a-lifetime thing we witnessed last weekend. We want the celebrity experience. When an actor chooses us for a scene or incorporates our presence or, better yet, actions into the show, we feel HUGE and will undoubtedly brag about it at the watercooler that is Facebook.

IMPROVISING INSIDE A SCRIPT

But immersive acting is not improv. I’m an utter dunce at improv and was intimidated at the prospect of being cast in my own show (a choice we made for financial reasons. Okay, and I’m not terrible at it). To my delight, I discovered I could handle immersives just fine. My goal isn’t to be imaginative or funny; it’s to be honest to my character in that moment. Improvising within those parameters comes naturally to me. It’s more like when something goes wrong on stage, and you address it…except that happens about 20 times a performance instead of once a production.

At a recent show I attended of True West, an actor struggled to hang up a phone on the wall. Once he finally got it to stay, he flipped it off—the realest and funniest moment in the performance. That’s improv. That’s the wondrous “live” part of “live theatre,” that we trumpet so proudly to get butts in the seats, but so rarely actually occurs. Ask any actor or avid-theatre-goer for a favorite  moment in a play: my bet’s they’ll recall some wonderfully wild improvised moment.

Immersive theatre guarantees that improvisation happens every show. Instead of waiting for a prop to go rogue, immersive theatre introduces the wild card of the active audience. Everything and everyone is in play—electricity pervades the air. And people love the hell out of it. “Every show’s different” is a promise that immersive theatre actually makes good on.

But here’s the rub: in a play or otherwise rehearsed piece, audiences can always tell the difference between improvisation and the script. The voice shifts, the body changes. (Which says something about how far actors are from being convincing humans. Oh, well. It’s hard.)

Immersive actors should learn to shift seamlessly between the two modes: script-improvised response-script. We don’t want the improvisations to stand out as “of a different kind”—the more improvised the entire show feels, the more special the audience feels. In The Man From Beyond, we made a deep commitment to pass off the fantastical as actual. If we did our job right, you should find yourself asking “Is this real? Or part of the game?” Everything, from my props to my actors, needs to feel real in The Man From Beyond (well…with one major exception…and that’s specifically designed to feel fake).

“Stop acting” is my go-to note as a director.

A THIRD STYLE OF ACTING

Acting schools approach improv and scripted acting as separate disciplines—you will rarely encounter a true master of both. With immersive theatre, we now have a third style of acting, somewhere in-between the two pillars. It’s not all fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants like improv: there’s a story (or at least a very specific scenario) that doesn’t change night to night. But it also lacks the rigidity of scripted acting: there’s an audience around you that you cannot ignore.

Should we open a special school? As a holder of a useless master’s degree, I’m not clamoring for it, but I’m positive we’ll get there eventually. Right now all immersive actors are learning on the job, and probably each show will always have a learning period, as the available real estate for response depends greatly on the immersive’s structure.

Scripted improv?

At Strange Bird Immersive, we keep a living document that we call “l’esprit de l’escalier,” or more simply, “answers to weird responses.”

In improvisational theatre—or even in staged acting, when something goes wrong—a performer often thinks of the super-clever response after the moment has passed. But immersive actors, thanks to the genre’s devotion to small audiences and extended runs, will most likely face that moment again.

While there’s a very long tail for audience responses, I can attest that the same sorts of behaviors keep coming up: laughter in this section, jackassery at this question, some guy lies that he did it (when he didn’t) just to see what you’ll do about it, etc. We write down every unusual audience behavior and then set an ideal response to that behavior. This way audiences can get the best response without breaking immersion. More than making me look cool under pressure, the document primarily serves to give new actors in a role a jump-start on the behaviors they are likely to face.

Is anyone else keeping logs like this for their immersives?

I’m sure improv actors are appalled right now: it’s against the spirit of the whole thing! Isn’t scripting improvisations like this taking away the electricity of the moment I’ve been praising this whole time? Maybe. Like all things in acting, it depends on delivery. What I do know is it does make the script and the improv feel more of the same kind, and I think I value that more. Plus it saves us from asking every new actor to the fight the wolves anew. It’s the responsible thing to do.