Real-time invention

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This article was published 07/05/2022 (1534 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

‘What you’re about to see will never be seen again,” promises Toby Hughes, a member of the veteran troupe Outside Joke. In comedy, truth is everything, and Hughes tells no lie: they’re about to create an improvised musical in the style of film noir, set in cottage country.

The troupe’s new show is titled The Improvised Musical, which promises two hours of improv fed by audience suggestions. On this night, three generations gather at an A-frame cabin — or is it a cottage? — on a lake as pristine as it is shallow, with dark secrets atwirl in the waters. There is forbidden romance, a sexy stepmother wearing a child-sized Little Mermaid bikini, and a pack of beavers looking to avenge their ancestors, who were murdered — gasp — on this very lake many moons ago.

And soon, a dead body washes up ashore. “Like a corpse,” one performer remarks.

It’s Randy, the family’s daughter’s new boyfriend. With a pronounced J-stroke, Detective Rick Moody canoes up to the dock to investigate. He’s never seen pictures of Randy alive, he tells someone. “Only the autopsy report,” he grunts. “When he was puffy.”

The best part about being in the audience at an improv show is also the worst part: nobody knows what’s about to happen. Like any performance, it could be a flop. The schtick could fall flat. The crowd might be a dud. But unlike other performances, there is no chance to come back tomorrow and edit: tighten that joke, improve that vocal inflection, rejigger a dance routine. What’s done is done; each moment and every action is a split-second decision from which an improviser can’t come back.

Now, imagine that what’s being made up is a two-act musical with improvised songs orchestrated as they’re being written. It’s hard enough for most of us to know what to say to the cashier at the grocery store, let alone to make a toast off the cuff at a relative’s wedding. Picture the sweat dripping off your brow if the toast was a song and the groom was a character who was just created five minutes earlier.

True to the art form, a two-act musical is something Outside Joke’s never done before. It’s the thrill of it all that nobody will ever see it again. For the cast, that’s as much a threat as it is a challenge: people paid good money for this, so they need to kill. Fortunately, the members of Outside Joke are stone-cold murderers.

A major component of improvisation is trust, not only between the performers, but between the performers and the audience. Two hours spent poorly can feel like a long time. With Outside Joke, it somehow felt like not enough.

It’s obvious from the start that they’ve been making stuff up for a long time. The cast members — Andrea del Campo, Toby Hughes, Chadd Henderson, RobYn Slade, and Jane Testar — bounce onto the stage and immediately rouse the audience-members to their own energy level. Meanwhile, Paul De Gurse — the super glue that keeps the show together — sits behind a keyboard, keeping his fingers nimble. Then they ask for suggestions, and the hands shoot up in the air.

“We need a setting,” Hughes asks, eliciting shouts. “A CIRCUS”, “AN AIRPORT TERMINAAAAAALLLLL”, “ST. JAMES!”, “CABIN COUNTRY.” We need a genre, Hughes asks. Someone shouts film noir. When was the last time any of us had so much control? It was riveting to feel like what you wanted could actually be possible.

It’s impossible to fully prepare for an improv show, but Outside Joke prepares like they’re studying for the comedy world’s LSAT. In advance of their run of shows, they watch classic examples of genre films and take note of the tropes and motifs: the femme fatale, the hard-nosed detective with something to prove, the lieutenant with questionable morals, the troubled teenager.

Slade, in her portrayal of stepmom Tootsie, recalls Mary Astor in The Maltese Falcon or Marie Windsor in Stanley Kubrick’s The Killing. She does that classic whining voice. You know the one. Henderson had the somewhat thankless job of being the straight-man lieutenant, but shone as the drunk grandpa. Asked whether he committed a murder to advance his own life, Henderson mused with no hesitation that he “can hardly wait” to die himself. It got one of the biggest laughs of the night.

Hughes and del Campo jump in and out of several characters with ease, somehow keeping a clear through line while portraying dead characters and living ones at the same time. Their charisma kept the show flowing.

If the others killed, Testar committed mass murder in her role as Detective Rick Macy. With a throaty warble, Testar delivered one-liners, visual gags and show-stopping songs as naturally as she breathed. “Can I be honest with you?” one character asks Macy. “That’s my preference,” Testar replies. One of the best moments of the night was when Testar’s detective takes a suspect out on a late-night canoe ride, paddling the whole way out. When she gets what she wants, there’s a brief pause before Testar breaks the silence. “So, wanna go back?” Watching her and Williams turn around an invisible canoe was perfection.

And then there’s De Gurse. A bit unheralded during the show, the musical director composes a score and soundtrack in real time, including the swooning songs Hanging Out at the Lake, Detective Macy’s I’m a Dick and a song in which Hughes’ soon-to-be-killed Randy admits what he did in high school that’s tainted his reputation: he killed a bunch of beavers, but he then decided to burn down his parents’ cabin while they were still inside.

There are two indicators that the cast is nailing it. The first is De Gurse, whose smile widens when he knows his castmates are doing something truly special. The second is the audience.

They begin the night a little nervous. Some jokes feel too dark to be funny, a bit too risqué to result in guffaws. But as the show went on, the jokes deepened, and so did the laughter. It’s amazing the different ways people laugh: some squawk like seagulls, others whinny like horses. Some breathe through their noses like they’re blowing them. Others actually shout out loud, “Ha ha ha!”

The first act was all set up, and the thrill of the second is watching the performers try to figure out how to untie their tangled web of red herrings for a satisfying conclusion. This is not a spoiler: the twin brother killed Randy because he was in love with his own twin sister.

If there was ever a time when embracing long-form improv felt right, it’s during the pandemic. Not knowing what will happen next — which has always been the case — has been the defining characteristic of the past two-plus years. Every decision we make impacts every person we see, and we are all making it up as we go along. It’s both the best and worst part of life, just as in improvisation.

When the show ends, Hughes tells the audience they’re welcome to come back to see the show again and prove that it’s all been made up right then and there.

“I think we proved that ourselves,” Slade says.

Maybe they’ll repeat that joke. But just that one.

ben.waldman@winnipegfreepress.com

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