In the improvathon format (originally developed by Die Nasty in Edmonton, Canada) a company of improvisers tells one narrative story over consecutive 2-hour episodes for days at a time, with many cast members & crew going without sleep for that entire period. I have just finished a Lord of the Rings-themed 48-hour Improvathon in Southend-on-Sea. I’m definitely not feeling normal yet. At least part of me is still in the rolling hills of The Shire. So I thought it would be the perfect time to share my thoughts about the format and what it can teach us about improv in general.
An improvathon requires you to invest heavily in simplicity. With over twenty characters to contend with and a running time that’s measured in rotations of the planet, it’s easy for everything to go off the rails in a heartbeat.
But simple choices lead to elegant improv. Simple lyrics create impact (and allow others to sing the chorus with confidence). A simple plot invites you to concentrate on the emotional stakes of the adventure. Even a simple initiation can be accepted and built upon with less effort.
Simplicity is a gift to your scene partner and a gift to the show.
Sleep deprivation has many disadvantages. Your vocabulary shrinks, and your memory falters. Sometimes you walk into walls or trip over oversized polystyrene pumpkins. Once, I became convinced that we’d moved theatres mid-show.
But sleep deprivation also makes you believe in the world of the show with an all-encompassing passion. Indeed, once you’ve been living in that world for more than 24 hours, your perspective shifts to be primarily that of your character.
So believe in the worlds you create in improv. Don’t just look at them as empty delivery vehicles for your jokes. Make them complex and deep and consequential. Allow them to live. Because if you believe in them, then your audience will too.
If you believe in the world of the show, then you can share your emotions with greater authenticity. What you feel is real, even in the fictional construct of a theatrical production.
To give an example from my most recent improvathon experience - my wizard character lost his memory, returning him to a carefree, childlike state. I spent the best part of twenty hours playing this version of the character, and striking up a firm friendship with his house elf in the process. When the moment came to recover my magic and my memories, I felt a very real sense of loss and despair. Because this entirely-fictional premise had real-world consequences for me as an actor. I was legitimately sad that I could no longer play the low-stakes, fun version of the character. It also meant that I did fewer scenes with my friend, with whom I felt I had built an easy chemistry over the early hours of the morning. It brought a sense of melancholy, responsibility and existential dread that I could then tap into as a performer.
To summarise, none of the circumstances were actually real, but the feelings I felt were entirely legitimate. And all of it was fuel for the performance.
We can’t go on hyper-extended journeys of personal discovery in our 25-minute improv shows but we can always choose to care about our characters. We can also choose to acknowledge what’s actually there between the performers and celebrate that connection on stage. That mode of play is always available to an improviser.
I promise you it can be an absolute game changer for anyone looking to make their scenes richer and more dramatic.
Another unexpected advantage of sleep deprivation is you often don’t prejudge the moves you make on stage (you might judge them afterwards but that’s another story).
Sleep-deprived improvisers are fearless and that means scenes in improvathons are more likely to be beautifully alive and have a driving momentum of urgent action. Mostly, characters aren’t standing about making improv plans. They grab their swords and set off to slay the beast. Or they tell their husband how they really feel. Or they enact a fight between the Night Watch and the Blue Man Group using the medium of freeform jazz choreography.
We can all learn from that. Do the thing. Don’t talk about doing the thing.