The Art of Conversation

OK. Enough with the pretty boys. Back to comedy ....

I had two experiences this week that in combination have lead me to some powerful realizations about stand-up ... first, I bombed ... second, I saw Memoirs of a Geisha.

Now, I should start by saying that "bombing" is probably not quite the right word to describe my show Wednesday night. The word implies both failure and embarrassment. And the experience was neither of those things. It was an experiment. I set out with an agenda and goals and I learned from the experience. So in that sense it was a smashing success.

However, what I did not get from the show was laughs. Which is something for which a comic usually strives. So in that sense, I bombed. But I didn't care. (Please no, "there, there, don't cry, it happens to everyone" comments. I'm fine. Really.)

Being an open-mic, it was a room full of comics. I pay a cover charge and get stage time. So that time is mine to do with as I please. There's no obligation to deliver the laughs, as there is with a "real" show. So with no obligations and nothing to prove I went way out on a limb and tried something new and weird.

After writing Ode to the XBox 360 this week I decided that it was funny. I decided it was so funny, in fact, that with visions of David Sedaris dancing in my head I decided to try performing it as a dramatic reading of a humorous essay. I saw it as an experiment and as a question. "Can I infuse this script with enough energy and emotion that others will find it as funny as I do?"

I got what I wanted, a clear answer to my question. The answer was a resounding, "no".

They starred. They coughed. They started their own private conversations out of boredom. But they did not laugh. Someone in the audience asked if my set was a sponsored Microsoft product placement and the comic after me asked if the show had turned into a Bowery poetry reading.

Why?

Hold that thought....

Yesterday I saw Memoirs of a Geisha. It's a stunningly beautiful film. I left the theater feeling like I'd had a dream about a fantastical world. It really captured the visual world of the geisha, where the artist attempts to turn everything into art from dance to conversation, from walking to holding a fan, from eye contact to seduction, and even just pouring a cup of tea. This idea of creating visual and verbal illusions and finding art in the smallest details appeals to me.

So what does all this have to do with stand up?

Stand up is the art of the illusion of conversation. Leaving aside crowd work (which is often more scripted than it appears) it is not actually a conversation. The performer mounts the stage with a script, albeit a sometimes flexible one, and talks about topics of his choosing. But the comic wants you to feel that it is a conversation. The magic comes in the carefully constructed illusion that the comic is speaking with the audience, not at them.

If you look at the structure of stand up, it's not all that different from a State of the Union address. There's a speaker, an audience and a script. It is the presentation of the material that is vastly different in stand up. Comics go to great effort to make the audience feel like they're just hanging out, having a casual evening swapping stories and making jokes with friends. But they're not. It's an illusion. The more convincing the illusion, the better the comedy.

I have occasionally seen Robin Williams criticized as not being as spontaneous as he's represented to be. Of course he's not! Did anyone really think he actually thought up all that stuff on the spot? No. He slaved for hours over every word. The magic is in making it appear spontaneous. And to me, that is the greater achievement ... making something carefully scripted appear spontaneous.

I've seen other comics, notably Marilyn Pittman and Scott Capurro, change gears in the middle of a stand up set and do something that's obviously scripted, bits with a more narrative tone. Marylin's bit is her "Naughty American Savings and Loan" and Scott's is "I want the straight American dream."

I remain convinced that some version of my Ode to the XBox 360 can work as an intentional shift in tone in the middle of a much longer set. But it can't work standing on it's own, as I presented it on Wednesday and here's why.

1. There was no illusion. The audience immediately knew they were being talked at. Without the connection provided by the illusion, they knew I was not engaging them. So they did not engage me.
2. There was no context. Friends of mine who've read the bit thought it was funny ... because they know me. They know what a nerd I am. They know I'm the kind of guy who would have a powerful, emotional experience in response to a new technology. This is a funny premise. (At least I think so.) But it requires context. And with the bit being 5 minutes and my spot being 5 minutes, there was no way to establish this context. No context = no humor.
3. It was the wrong medium. Night-club stand up is a very specific medium. My essay is funny. But it's humor lies in its careful twists of language and the clever turn of a phrase. These things do not translate to the loud, boisterous, drunken, distracted environment of a night club. That environment is more suited to ... say ... dick jokes. David Sedaris' essay readings work because he's performed them in mediums where the audience wanted and expect them. I doubt he ever tried to read them in a night club. But I'll bet if he did, it wouldn't work.
4. To get laughs, the bit needs more jokes. I've written a couple other bits in a narrative form like my Ode to the XBox 360. But they have little jokes in them to pave the way. If I'm gonna do the bit as stand up, it needs more of that.

So that's what I learned this week.

Now if you'll excuse me, please, I'm off to enroll in geisha school.