20 January 2017

Berlin Memoir, Part 3


[As I promised in my closing note to “Berlin Memoir, Part 2” (see 31 December 2016), this installment will detail the most significant investigation in which I was engaged during the 2½ years I was stationed in Berlin.  It’s probably no surprise to ROTters who’ve been following this reminiscence that the case involved exfiltration, that peculiar phenomenon in which I’d become the Station expert.  (For an explanation of what exfiltration is and how I got involved in its investigation, I recommend going back and reading parts 1 and 2 of this memoir before embarking on the latest chapter.  That’s also where readers’ll find definitions of the intel terms and army jargon I bandy about.  “Berlin Memoir, Part 1” was posted on 16 December 2016.)]

As I said, most exfiltration cases were minor incidents, especially from the counterintel perspective.  The case involving the Deputy Provost Matchall of Berlin Brigade was an exception.  One other time, however, I hooked a really big one.  The events of this episode, which only took a few hours, were actually set in motion months earlier.  Some time in mid-1971, an ex-GI named “Red” Kappel (I think his actual given name was Martin, but everyone called him Red anyway), now working in Berlin at the PX warehouse, got caught on the Autobahn between Berlin and West Germany driving a car with five would-be refugees concealed in it.  To complicate matters, he was driving his boss’s Caddy, a favorite of the exfiltrators because of its big trunk, implicating this high-ranking Civil Servant—he was a GS-12 or something, the equivalent of a lieutenant colonel—in the tangle.  The East German Vopos turned Kappel over to the Soviets and after they took Kappel to Potsdam for a few days, the Soviets returned him to East German custody and he ended up in jail in East Berlin. 

Military Intelligence interest began in this case because when Kappel had been a GI he had had a security clearance, and when he first came to Berlin after he got out of the army, he delivered pizza for a local restaurant and one of his regular delivery stops was Field Station Berlin, the super-secret, mountain-top ASA SIGINT and ELINT facility—our version of what I described at Helmstedt earlier—and no one knew what he might be able to tell someone about that place.  FSB, located on the highest point in Berlin, Teufelsberg, a little mountain in Wilmersdorf created from the rubble of the city’s wartime destruction (which you see being shoveled into wheelbarrows in The Big Lift), bristled with antennas, domes, spheres, and silos—it looked like a set from the space opera Star Trek—and was a major target of Soviet espionage both because of its extreme sensitivity and because it was aimed at them.

We eventually determined that Kappel didn’t really have any info that the Soviets wouldn’t already possess, though at the beginning we didn’t know that.  Security questions set aside, the case became part of the muddle of diplomatic-military-political issues that made up the Cold War.  An American had committed a crime on Soviet-controlled soil, and the Soviets were going to make as big a deal out of it as they could.  My job was to find out who else was involved and how far the participation of any official Americans, GI and civilian, went.  The people running exfiltrations were the same ones who controlled the worst of Berlin’s crime; as I’ll describe later, they were about as nasty as anyone could be and the generals didn’t want any of their people in bed with them.  And smuggling people across the East-West border by someone associated with the U.S. Forces was clearly a provocation to the Soviets at a time when that was a dangerous button to push. 

We already knew about the warehouse manager, but as the investigation developed and other U.S. Forces personnel were identified, I also ended up coordinating with the OSI, the Air Force’s Office of Special Investigations, which combines the responsibilities of both MI and CID.  I even did a good cop-bad cop interrogation of one AF NCO who turned out to be the lynchpin for exposing the whole team involved in the Kappel operation—he copped out under pressure and named names.  (I was the bad cop.  As we’ll see, I’m very good as playing a hard-ass.  There was also one exercise at Holabird that sort of stunned everyone.  But that’s another story.)  To find out if anyone else was involved we monitored the mail at Kappel’s home and had his phone tapped.  (The rules for this were a lot easier in Germany than in the U.S., and within the military community—and in occupied Berlin, that included civilian employees like Kappel anyway—it was at the discretion of the USCOB.  In Berlin, the three Western generals had supreme authority, though the USCOB seldom exercised it over Germans or Americans with no official connection.) 

Now, Kappel, like many GI’s, had married a German woman.  Beside the fact that she wasn’t a U.S. citizen, a circumstance always considered a potential security risk, nearly every West German had family in East Germany.  Family in the East was a pressure point the East Germans and Soviets were never reluctant to exploit.  Helene Kappel was very vulnerable now, with no income and her connection to the American community and its safety net severed; there was no telling what she might do.  In addition, before her marriage to Red, Helene had been a prostitute.  I can tell you, I learned some interesting German from her mail and the phone tap because when she ran out of money, she went back to her old profession.  She also made contact with the people who had hired her husband to drive the refugees to West Germany (actually they contacted her) and she began to recruit more drivers and car-owners for the organization.   

While all this was going on, though, Kappel was just sitting in an East Berlin jail.  I was on 24-hour call and couldn’t leave my BOQ without telling the Duty Agent where to reach me and calling in every hour or so.  (The Duty Agent, or DA—usually an EM, though for a period when we were understaffed junior officers pulled this duty, too—stayed in the Station all night to answer the phones and respond to an alert by calling the section SAIC’s—Special Agents in Charge.)  My parents came to Berlin for a visit during this time, and they were very impressed at how important I seemed to be because while we were out wandering around the city, I kept ducking into Stuben and bars to use the phone.  Of course, I couldn’t tell them exactly what was going on, but they were very impressed nevertheless. 

All this time, of course, I was writing reports on everything we were learning about the exfiltrators and their operations, as well as the contacts Helene was making and everything else related even remotely to the investigation.  I attended high-level briefings with colonels and generals and ministers—sometimes in that secure room—where I was generally the only junior officer present.  I’d have been impressed myself, if I hadn’t been so afraid of making a mistake.  (I can tell you, I was replaying that previous run-in with the DCSI over the incident concerning the DPM.  The DCSI didn’t like me, and we both knew it.)  I learned at these briefings that my reports were going to the State Department and being read by Henry Kissinger, Secretary of State at the time.  I even had intimations that some of my stuff was going to the White House.  This was a really big deal, and I was the point man.  (Somewhere, in some State Department or DOD archive is a big file with all my reports on this case, plus whatever other people were sending.  That staff study’s probably moldering somewhere, too.) 

Obviously, at one point there ceased to be much more we could do.  Kappel had been caught red-handed (pardon the expression), so there was no denying his guilt.  Except for trying to roll up the exfiltration operations, which we eventually pretty much did, there wasn’t anything left to investigate.  Getting Kappel released became a diplomatic function, so the case went cold except for monitoring sources for word of his whereabouts and potential release.  Everything pretty much went back to normal (which at Berlin Station was frequently hectic and crazy anyway, as you may have learned).  I went back to my regular duties and was no longer on 24-hour call except when I was my section’s duty officer in the regular rotation.  And that’s when it happened.

I was on call for the Counterespionage Section one evening, and I was just hanging out at my BOQ.  (One agent from each section was on call every night and on the weekends.  We had to be available and contactable at all times.  Remember, there were no cell phones, or even beepers, in those days.)  Sometime around 7 in the evening, the DA phoned me at home to come in and take a call.  A guy thought that a recent photo of a wanted Baader-Meinhof member in the newspaper looked like his wife’s brother-in-law (or something).  I talked the guy down, thanked him, and got rid of him.  But as I was preparing to go back home, the phone rang again and the duty agent passed it on to me.  The man on the other end said he was Red Kappel, that he had been released in West Berlin, and he wanted to meet someone. 

Well, this didn’t sound kosher.  Our latest information was that Kappel was still in the East Berlin lock-up, and while it was possible that the East Germans might release him suddenly and without notice, it was highly unlikely.  They were all making too much hay out of holding him.  (Kappel’s eventual release was almost certainly a direct result of Nixon’s trip to Moscow in May 1972.  If they were working at that level, letting him go unannounced, with no bargaining or propaganda, would be pretty silly on their part.  The Soviets could be petty, but they were seldom silly.)  And even if he had been released that way, why would he call Military Intelligence?  Not his wife, not his boss, not the guys who hired him (and probably hadn’t paid him yet), not some friends.  Still, I couldn’t just ignore the call.  I arranged to meet “Kappel” at the PX snack bar across Clayallee.  It was about 8 p.m. now, and the place closed at 9, so it would be neutral, safe, but somewhat private.  We made a date for a short time later.

Now, because this case fell between all the floorboards of military investigations—it wasn’t a security matter, it wasn’t a military crime, and since none of the people involved were GI’s, it wasn’t even a breach of military regs—we shared the case with the military detectives, the CID (Criminal Investigation Division of the MP’s).  I had a CID counterpart, a German-born, naturalized-American warrant officer who didn’t want to be on this case any more than I did.  Karl-Heinz Wiedermeyer also shared with his CID and MP colleagues a tendency to overreact whenever something got a little spooky.  One whiff of spy stuff, and military cops sometimes went off half-cocked.  Not that I was so cool, with my vast experience in counterespionage.  (I once got into some trouble with my CO because I lost my cool when I got stuck with an malfunctioning radio when I was doing security for General Westmoreland at an Armed Forces Day parade.  I started cursing over what I thought was a dead radio, but it was only broken at my end.  They could hear me perfectly well back at base, and cursing on the air is a major RTO—Radio-Telephone Operator—no-no.  So much for cool under pressure.)  I was, however, at least trained for this stuff.  Karl-Heinz wasn’t.  He was a cop, not a spook.  Anyway, I called Karl-Heinz and, because his office was at Andrews Barracks in Lichtenfelde and the ’X and I were in Zehlendorf, we decided that I’d go meet “Kappel” and he’d join us later.  So I went on across the street to the PX complex, and went into the snack bar.

The PX snack bar is a cafeteria.  This one was nearly all glass, with windows all around the two exterior walls, and the entrance in a completely glass wall.  (The fourth side was the food counter and the kitchen.)  At 8 o’clock in the evening, an hour before closing, there was virtually no one there except the workers closing up.  As I entered, I saw one lone guy sitting at the opposite end of the room.  He was at a table, with his broad-brimmed hat pulled down sort of ’40s style, and he was buried in the brigade Daily Bulletin.  Every military post puts this out, with all the announcements, official and unofficial, and it’s a couple of pages long, printed—mimeographed in those days—on legal-sized paper.  A guy in a slouch hat, poring over the DB looks pretty silly, believe me.  The only other people in the snack bar were the cooks and servers cleaning up behind the counter and one teenager turning the chairs up onto the tables in the main part of the room.  Obviously, the guy with the DB was my guy—but he wasn’t Red Kappel.  I’d seen enough pictures of him over the months of investigation to know what he looked like, and this guy was ten years too old, ten pounds too heavy, and a good six inches too sort.  And even with the hat, I could see that his hair was not red (Kappel didn’t get his nickname for nothing).  I had to talk to the guy in any case.  Even with all the deception, he might actually know something we should know.  I doubted that, but I had to make a report anyway, so I had to find out what he wanted. 

I crossed the room and went up to the guy’s table.  I stood across from him, but he didn’t look up from the DBChrist, I thought, the guy’s gonna play Sam Spade or something

“Are you looking to talk to someone?” I said.

“You CIA?”

“No.”

“You got ID?”  He still hadn’t looked up.

“No.  Do you want to talk, or not?”

“OK.”  I sat across from him.

You got any ID?” I asked.  He handed me his DOD ID card (though I’ve forgotten now what his name really was).

“I hear the Reds got one of our guys,” he said a little heatedly.

Oh, God.  He’s a John Bircher or something.  Where’s this gonna go?  “Where’d you hear that?”

“Around.  I work in the EES beverage shop.  The words out.” 

“OK.  Why’d you want to see us?”

“I got a brother-in-law—well, my wife’s brother-in-law—in the East.  He’s a party member, but he don’t like it there.  I can go over and get him to find out where they’re holding Red.”

“Ah, no, that wouldn’t be a good idea.  We really know where Red is, anyway.  But thanks for offering.”  Somewhere about here, I saw Karl-Heinz look in through the glass doors across the room.  It was near closing now, and all the activity in the snack bar had pretty much ceased.  There was only our James Bond wannabe and me in the room, and that teen mopping the floor.  But Karl-Heinz looked around, didn’t come in, and left.  What the hell, I figured, this isn’t important and I’ll just fill him in later, after I talk this guy down and send him home.  I was a little afraid, considering how ditzy the guy was, that he might be armed and if I signaled Karl-Heinz across the room, “Kappel” might lose it or something.  It wasn’t worth the chance under the circumstances.  I let Karl-Heinz go without making a move or saying anything.

“Well, what if I go over and get my wife’s brother-in-law to help me break Red out?  We could go over and get him before anybody knew.  My wife’s brother-in-law”—he never used the man’s name, it was always “my wife’s brother-in-law”—”has access.  He knows stuff, and he can find out things.”

“Fine.  But don’t do anything until we get back to you.  I have to report to my superiors, you know, and they’ll let you know.  Promise me you’ll wait until you hear from me.”

“Sure.  But I want to help.  We can’t just let them get one of our guys like that.”

Jesus, this guy’s gonna do something dumb, I know it.  He’s seen too many spy flicks.  “Of course not.  We’re doing things right now, don’t you worry.  Believe me, we’re not just sitting on our hands here.  Just don’t do anything without hearing from us.  You might get in the way of another operation, you know.  Don’t even talk to your wife’s brother-in-law yet.  Just wait.”

“Sure.  I understand.  But you’ll get back to me.  I’m ready to do something.  I know I can trust my wife’s brother-in-law.”

I stood up then, and pointed out that the snack bar was closing up.  I walked him out and across Clayallee.  We stopped in front of the entrance gate to the compound.  “Now, remember, you promised not to do anything until you hear from us.  Right?  Don’t even go to the East until then.”

“Right.  I gotcha.  I’ll wait to hear from you.”  We shook hands and he walked away toward Saargemünderstrasse, around the corner of which was the small compound where the EES beverage store was, and where I imagined his car was parked.  I watched him go until he turned the corner, then went into the headquarters compound and into the Station.  When I entered the Station, there were three people in the DA’s little office and the phones—there were ten or a dozen lines—were all ringing.  The DA was there, Karl-Heinz, and another agent from the Station who, it turned out, just happened along and got shanghaied. 

“Karl-Heinz, where the hell did you go?  Why didn’t you come into the snack-bar?  I saw you look in, but you left right away.”

“I, uhh . . . .  What the hell are you doing here?”

“I work here!  What are you doing here?  What’s going on?”

“Where were you?” asked the DA.

“Right where I said I was going to be.  What’s this all about?”

“Wait a minute, let me call off the dogs,” said Karl-Heinz.  Most of this dialogue is recreated from my memory—though it’s very close to what we all said.  But this particular line was precisely what Karl-Heinz said.  That phrase is etched in my brain. 

After a second’s hesitation, the three started dialing and talking again, very nervously. 

“What do you mean, ‘Call off the dogs’?”

“I didn’t see you in the snack-bar.  I thought you got grabbed.  We’ve called your CO, my CO”—that’s the PM—“the USCOB, the Brigade Commander, and the DCSI.  We’ve put out APB’s on you, Kappel, your car, and the Caddy Kappel was driving.  They’re shutting the whole city down.”

“Jesus, Karl-Heinz, did you overreact!  I was right where I said I’d be.  The only thing was, when I got there, I found out it wasn’t Kappel at all, of course.  It was just some nut from the EES.  He heard through the grapevine that Kappel got picked up in East Germany, and he wanted to go over and bust him out.  He was a little hinky, so when I saw you peek in, I didn’t want to signal.  Since it wasn’t Kappel or anyone important to the case, I figured I’d tell you later.”

“Well, I wasn’t looking for you, actually; I was looking for Kappel.  When I didn’t see him, I just naturally assumed . . . .”

At this moment, Colonel Collins arrived.  He was already on his way when the DA called to head him off.  Besides, with the DCSI and two generals informed that I’d been kidnapped, he figured he’d better be in the Station to settle the flap.  Unfortunately for me, the DCSI was also on his way in.  The generals, at least, had been caught in time. 

Colonel Collins picked up a phone and made several calls.  I was still watching this whole scene in amusement and disbelief.  After all, I hadn’t done anything.  Was it my fault that Karl-Heinz had jumped to conclusions and overreacted? 

“Well, the shit’s gonna hit,” said my CO.  “The DCSI wants to see us in his office at USCOB.  The PM’s closed the checkpoints and stopped the military train.  The military part of Tempelhof’s been closed, too.  They got the French and the Brits to lock down their sectors also, and the PM’s been on to the German agencies to shut down the civilian crossing points and exits as well.  It took about half an hour to shut the city down.  It’ll take hours to open it all up again.  The DCSI’s gonna be pissed.”

“But why at me, sir?  I was right where I said I’d be, doing just what I was supposed to do.”  I knew the DCSI was just looking for a reason to chew my tail again.  Would Colonel Collins back me again, as he had done before? 

Well, the DCSI did light into me.  At least he started to.  And Colonel Collins pointed out right away that the flap had not been caused by anything I had done.  The DCSI backed off, but he was clearly not happy about that. 

As we left the DCSI’s office, Colonel Collins told me, “When I heard that you were kidnapped, my first fear was that you had your creds with you.  Then I wondered if you had a weapon.”  I looked at him a moment.  He was really more worried about my boxtops and my .38 than about my safety.  How comforting.

As far as I know, the city untangled itself and was back to normal by morning.  I doubt anyone outside the Station, the PMO, and USCOB really knew what had happened.  Probably some travelers were inconvenienced—mostly military ones, since the civilian stuff probably never got closed before the all-clear came down—but they probably never learned why.  Anyway, I’m the only person I know who had a city shut down for him.  Kinda makes me proud to be an American.  This case had gone on for months—over a year I think.  Then, suddenly, the case was over.  Kappel was released.  The scuttlebutt was that his release had been negotiated during Nixon’s trip to Moscow a few weeks earlier.  (I was never able to confirm that, of course, but that’s what everyone assumed.)

The most this case did was ID some more exfiltration personalities, and drive up the fees they paid for cars and drivers.  Because of the more detailed info my study provided, the Allied forces were able to clamp down pretty tightly on the operations and essentially deny the leaders access to Allied personnel as drivers—they could get through checkpoints with less scrutiny than Germans or other nationals—and cars with Allied plates, especially big American cars in which whole families could hide.  The more difficult it got to get these assets, the higher the payment they offered.  The PX warehouse manager had gotten $500 for the use of his Caddy (which he ended up losing, along with his job with the EES; we figured some Soviet general was tooling around Moscow in the Caddy); as a result of our operation, we pulled the lid so tight the exfiltration organizers were offering several thousand for cars, drivers were getting $10,000 and more, and Helene herself was promised a Mercedes for just recruiting people.  For the rest of the time I was in Berlin, GI’s were out of the exfiltration biz—it was too risky, even for that kind of money.  (As the costs went up, so, of course, did the price paid by the refugees.  It was a cash deal, and I imagine fewer and fewer would-be escapees could afford it anymore.)

[So, how many people do you know who’ve had a city closed on their account?  Not many, I’ll wager.  (My Dad was actually thrown out of a city by the mayor . . . but that’s a different story.)  If this episode whets your appetite for more reminiscences about Cold War Berlin, please come back in a couple of weeks for part 4 of “Berlin Memoir.”  Since I’m posting the installments somewhat haphazardly, I can’t say exactly when the next chapter—which covers some of the other intel activities in which I was involved (just the highlights, of course!)—will appear, but they’ve been coming about once every two to three weeks.]

15 January 2017

Stage Rat & Doll Baby


[Some theater stories are just too good to go unshared.  Life in the theater can be more bizarre than even the world of espionage, accounts of some of which I’ve related several times on ROT.  (In fact, I’m in the midst of posting a series of reminiscences of my tour of duty as an intel officer in West Berlin in the 1970s.)  I also recounted some ”Theater War Stories” on this blog on 6 December 2010.  Below are a couple of stories, both from the New York Times that demonstrate what I mean.  They’re not ”war stories” in the sense that they don’t concern a problem or disaster onstage or backstage, but they certainly illustrate that in the world of professional theater, you’re likely to run into all manner of odd occurrences.]

WHITE RODENT FINDS FAME ON THE GREAT WHITE WAY
by Corey Kilgannon

[The following story, which is about the Tony-, Drama Desk-, and Theatre World-winning Broadway production of Simon Stephens’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (Ethel Barrymore Theater, 5 October 2014-4 September 2016) ran on the Times website (https://www.nytimes.com/2014/11/11/nyregion/white-rat-in-the-curious-incident-is-unexpected-broadway-hit.html) on 10 November 2014.  It appeared in the print edition of 11 November in the front section with the headline: “A White Rat Finds Fame on the Great White Way.”]

‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time’ Has an Unexpected Star: A Rat Named Toby

The Broadway cast was less than thrilled when it found out who one of their fellow performers would be. It made them squeamish — not because of who it was but because of what it was.

They would be sharing the stage, it turned out, with a live rat.

“The idea of a rat was not exactly familiar to me,” said Alex Sharp, an actor who plays the leading role. “It was just a thing you see in the subway that has diseases.”

But Toby, the name of the rat kept by the teenager with autism at the center of the show, “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time,” has managed to win over the affection of audiences and the cast — so much so that the rodent role has been expanded.

“She’s a special rat,” said Benjamin Klein, the associate director of the play, which opened in October to critical acclaim.

Indeed, Toby is not your subway-scampering, stomach-turning gray varmint. She — Toby is a female, but plays a male in the play — is a 9-month-old, affable albino who has the cast and crew of the play thoroughly wrapped around her long, tapered tail.

“I’m just a rat servant now — I’m the rat butler,” said Lydia DesRoche, Toby’s trainer, who says she has become sort of a social secretary, chaperoning Toby as she interacts with the smitten cast and crew backstage at the Ethel Barrymore Theater. “People come to visit me after the show just to meet Toby.”

Toby is even more popular than Dr. Watson, a cuddly golden retriever puppy who also appears in the play.

“She just makes being backstage a completely different experience,” said Francesca Faridany, who plays a special-education teacher to Christopher Boone, the British teenager who is the main protagonist.

Ms. DesRoche, who runs a service called Sit Stay dog training, has prepared animals for the stage — in fact, she trained two dogs for the current Broadway production of “Of Mice and Men.” But she had never worked with a rat until the producers of “Curious Incident” called to offer her the opportunity of furnishing and training a rat for Broadway.

“I was terrified of them; I run screaming when a rat crosses my path,” she said. “But I wanted the job, and if that involved touching a rat, I’m going to do it.”

Ms. DesRoche adopted Toby in September from Social Tees Animal Rescue in the East Village.

“They told me she was going to be” — and here, she put her hands over Toby’s little ears and whispered — “snake food.”

Toby was initially afraid of people and would not venture out of her cage, said Ms. DesRoche, who began by getting Toby more comfortable to being handled in small doses.

Then, in rehearsals, she held Toby offstage to acclimate Toby to the flashing lights and loud noises.

She said she trained Toby “the same way I would train a dog.”

“Instead of being motivated by treats, she likes to explore and meet new people,” she said. “So if I wanted her to do something, that would be the reward. I’d praise her and let her go meet somebody.”

While Ms. DesRoche takes Toby home on the weekends to her apartment on the Upper West Side, the rat goes home on weeknights with members of the cast and crew. There is no shortage of takers; members with children usually get first choice.

As she sat in the greenroom behind the stage before a recent Wednesday matinee, Ms. Faridany fed Toby string beans from her lunch and described how thrilled her 4-year-old daughter was when she got to bring Toby home for a couple of nights.

Sitting nearby was Mr. Sharp, who, after initially being daunted by Toby’s presence, now says, “She’s a clean lovely rat, like a little puppy.”

“At first, she just stayed in the cage, and that was the relationship we had,” he added. “Then they convinced me to take her home. Toby is one of Christopher’s best friends, so it’s very important” to be on friendly terms.

Mr. Klein said, “When we first told the cast we were having a real rat, people were not very excited we would have a live rat around.” But now, he added, “this is our star.”

Befitting Toby’s status, the rat has her own dressing room alongside the other actors’ dressing rooms. She shares it with Dr. Watson, and a sign on the door reads, “Puppy and Rat Room.”

Inside, yes, there are light bulbs around the mirrors and fresh roses on the makeup counter (Toby likes to nibble on roses). Also, on the counter is a long tube, for scampering through, and a glass of water, which she climbs up onto, and nearly hops into, as she drinks.

The cage in the room is a formality, since Toby has free range. To satisfy the rat’s insatiable appetite for playing with people, Ms. DesRoche allows her to stay in the greenroom where the cast passes through. Ms. DesRoche has also made a preshow ritual of escorting Toby throughout the backstage area, for short play-dates with those she encounters.

Since rats like small spaces, Ms. DesRoche said, Toby had little problem going into the small carrying case that Christopher carries onstage. Plus, Ms. DesRoche said, Toby does not run away “because rats don’t leave when they have it good.”

Toby displayed such skills and appeal that the decision was made to amplify her stage presence. During rehearsals and previews, Toby, who appears for much of the second half of the play, was kept inside her cage.

“But seeing how good our Toby was, we said, ‘Let’s see what we can do,’ ” said Mr. Klein, the associate director.

Now, Toby hops out to nuzzle, and sometimes scamper over Mr. Sharp. Ms. DesRoche has also taught Toby to run up Mr. Sharp’s arm, across his shoulders and down the other arm.

Toby is also popular with audiences. She elicits hearty laughter when she appears onstage, and Ms. DesRoche said that when she walked out the stage door with Toby on her shoulder, fans swarmed and snapped photographs.

There are a few holdouts in the cast who have not joined the Toby fan club. “But,” Ms. DesRoche said, “at least they don’t jump and scream anymore when they see her.”

Before a recent performance, Ian Barford, who plays Christopher’s father, passed a crowd of fellow cast members gathered around Toby, and mouthed the words, “I do not like that rat,” as if not to let Toby or her fans hear.

It was getting close to show time and in the dressing room, Ms. DesRoche held up the cage. “Toby, five minutes,” she said, and the rat scampered into her cage.

*  *  *  *
THAT BROADWAY BABY, NOW IN ‘IN TRANSIT’
by Joanne Kaufman

[The story below, concerning the a cappella musical In Transit (book, music, and lyrics by Kristen Anderson-Lopez, James-Allen Ford, Russ Kaplan and Sara Wordsworth) currently-running at the Circle in the Square Theatre (opened 11 December 2016), was posted on the Times’ website, (https://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/28/theater/broadway-baby-twan-in-transit-from-pittsburgh-civic-light-opera.html) on 28 December 2016; it ran in print on 3 January 2017 in the “Arts” section with the headline: “He’s Short and Phony, but Finds Steady Work on Broadway.”]

When Margo Seibert joined the cast of the Broadway show “In Transit” this past fall and learned that the script called for an infant, she knew who’d be perfect for the part: the theater veteran Twan Baker.

He made his debut in a 2009 production of “Into the Woods,” as the newborn offspring of the Baker and the Baker’s Wife at the Pittsburgh Civic Light Opera. Since then, Twan — an 18-inch-long, 10-pound (just a guess) blue-eyed doll with an alert expression — has appeared in five Broadway shows, including “Cinderella,” “The Bridges of Madison County” and “Honeymoon in Vegas.” James Earl Jones cuddled him this summer in “God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater” in an “Encores!” Off-Center production.

And yes, that was Twan as Marie (he’s clearly versatile), the love child of George and Dot in the recent Encores! rendition of “Sunday in the Park With George.” (Word is he’ll be auditioning to join the human stars Jake Gyllenhaal and Annaleigh Ashford when the show moves to Broadway in the spring.)

“Prop babies are usually hollow,” said Hunter Foster, who played the Baker in that Pittsburgh production. “When they handed us Twan it was the first time I had a prop baby that felt like a baby.”

Credit Pittsburgh Civic Light Opera’s prop coordinator, Marty Savolskis, who bought a large doll off the rack at a toy store and filled it with beans to create heft.

“It sounds simple, but the actors got so excited,” Mr. Savolskis said. “Adding that weight really seemed to change their experience onstage.”

An infant so special — and so solid — apparently deserved a name. “We thought Antoine suited him,” said Mr. Foster, who shortened it to Twan, in homage to a character in the R. Kelly rap opera “Trapped in the Closet.”

When the Pittsburgh run ended, Mr. Foster and Brynn O’Malley, who had played his wife, kidnapped Twan, and from that day forward have shared custody and occasionally performed in the same shows as their charge: with Mr. Foster in “Bridges,” Ms. O’Malley in “Annie” and “Honeymoon in Vegas.” They have also served as talent agents, publicists and stage parents — creating accounts for him on Twitter (@Twan_Baker) and Facebook, and dropping him off at stage doors and rehearsal studios all over town.

“If there’s a dog in a show, it’s usually a real dog,” Ms. O’Malley said. “If there’s a baby, it’s a doll and you really appreciate it if it feels real.”

“The less you have to pretend the better,” added Ms. O’Malley, who was at first given what she describes as “an old CPR baby” when she reprised her “Into the Woods” role at the Kansas City Repertory Theater.

“It was really bulky and had big plastic arms and legs and smelled like stale talcum powder,’’ she recalled. “It made me queasy, so how could I pretend I loved it?” (At her request, Twan stepped in instead.)

Ms. Seibert made Twan’s intimate acquaintance in a 2012 production of “Pregnancy Pact” at the Weston Playhouse in Vermont. When she learned that her “In Transit” character would have a baby by that musical’s end, she texted Ms. O’Malley to see if the doll was looking for work.

“It’s fun to have a bit of Broadway lore,” Ms. Seibert said, leading the way backstage at the Circle in the Square Theater, where Twan dangled unceremoniously from a hook on a wall near the stage, his head covered in a white cap, his body encased in a Baby Bjorn.

Frankly, “In Transit” doesn’t ask all that much of Twan, who, by the looks of it, is a slave to his art. For other roles he has been covered in blood or dirt. One of his eyes opens while the other tends to stay shut, perhaps the consequence of reported rowdiness at the “Bridges” cast party.

“He’s been through a lot,” Ms. O’Malley said tenderly. “And it’s only made him a better actor.”


10 January 2017

'How to be the Greatest Improviser on Earth'


I’ve never done improvisation as a performance except occasionally as a mime a long time ago.  The closest I’ve come to the kind of improv that Will Hines writes about in How to be the Greatest Improviser on Earth, “the art of making up comedy scenes as you go, on a stage,” I’ve only done in acting classes or rehearsals as an exercise.  So I’m not really qualified to judge Hines’s advice from the perspective of a professional or wannabe improviser, the kind of performer who would take one of Hines’s classes and work with companies like the Compass Players, Second City, Chicago City Limits, The Committee, ImprovOlympic (iO), the Groundlings, and the Upright Citizens Brigade.  Early in the book, in fact, Hines affirms that he assumes the reader has “studied the fundamentals” of improv.  (Later in the book, the author recommends using Matt Besser, Ian Roberts, and Matt Walsh’s The Upright Citizens Brigade Comedy Improvisation Manual [Comedy Council of Nicea, LLC, 2013] as a reference for explanations of basic terms and improv forms.)

It looks, however, like a lot—though not all—of Hines’s improv guidance is valid for "straight" acting as well—except for different terminology.  At the top of a section entitled “Be Authentic,” Hines quotes UCB co-founders Roberts and Amy Poehler emphasizing, “Improv rules are life rules”; the fundamental rationale for the acting system of Konstantin Stanislavsky (1863-1938), based on the psychological theories of Théodule-Armand Ribot (1839-1916), is that the rules of acting are the rules of life.  So my approach to discussing Greatest Improviser will be the relation of Hines’s advice for improvising to basic acting technique—about which I do know a thing or two, having been an acting student for a good number of years and an acting teacher for several as well.  I’ll consider how parallel improv is to dramatic acting and how different.  

How to be the Greatest Improviser on Earth (Pretty Great Publishing Co., 2016) is a how-to book by Hines, long-time member of UCB (he’s from the troupe’s second generation of performers, following the founders Roberts, Poehler, Besser, and Walsh) who eventually became “one of [UCB’s] most sought-after teachers.”  Greatest Improviser, aimed at performers who are already working on stage, provides a copious helping of advice on performing improvised comedy based on Hines’s own experience and lessons passed down from his own teachers and coaches.  The lessons are illustrated by scenes from actual performances and the author provides a number of exercises for practicing each category of advice he discusses. 

In addition, Hines asserts in the official description of the book that Greatest Improviser is “also an examination of how doing improv transforms you.  The book gets into the mental habits you automatically acquire, and how to encourage that change.”  The author explains that the lessons in the book teach “the skills that the real world burns out of you.  You’re socialized to think ahead, stay rigid, be careful, and often be false.  Many are never taught to be funny or healthy.”  Greatest Improviser includes, among others, chapters entitled “Be Present,” “Be Changeable,” “Be Brave,” “Be Authentic,” “Be Funny,” and “Be Healthy.”  (With the exception of “Be Funny,” except under specific circumstances, these are all lessons a dramatic actor must learn as well.) 

The book was edited by Malin von Euler-Hogan, whom Hines identifies on his blog, Improv Nonsense, as an editor who’s also on a UCB improv team in New York, with a cover by Maëlle Doliveux, a freelance illustrator, animator, and UCB-trained improviser.  Hines self-published Greatest Improviser because, as he explains, “I tried to court it to publishers and had some nice meetings.  But basically, I have better direct access to potential customers than any company, so besides the prestige of a publishing company, doing it myself made more sense.” 

Improv, colloquial for improvisational theater, is a type of performance in which all or most of what’s presented is created on the spot as it happens.  In Hines’s work, the characters, story, action, and dialogue are all created without a pre-written script as a collaboration among the improvisers as the scene unfolds in real time.  As Hines describes the phenomenon, “A group of people get on a stage, ask for a single suggestion, and then create one or more comedic scenes based on the suggestion.”  He lays out the creative process, which he asserts “[g]enerally . . . looks like a comedic play,” this way: 
  1.       Do something inspired by a suggestion.
  2.       Understand each other.
  3.       Move the scene forward.
  4.       Find/do something funny.
  5.       Do more of the funny thing.
Throughout the book, the author makes the art of improv sound easy and logical, as if it should come naturally.  Of course, it isn’t (otherwise everybody’d be doing it, right?), but I suppose, as the book’s intended for those already in the business, perhaps understatement’s the best approach for Hines’s audience. The author does, though, acknowledge that “good improv scenes always feel so much grander than what a small piece of advice looks like.”

Though there are improvised (or partly improvised) dramas, especially among avant-garde companies—Joe Chaikin’s Open Theater and Richard Schechner’s Performance Group were both celebrated for developing their dramatic pieces through improvisation and then using improvisation in performance before an audience—and even improvised films, the kind of improv about which Hines is writing, arguably the most common, is comic. 

Furthermore, he states in Greatest Improviser (as well as on his blog, Improv Nonsense) that his focus is the long-form comedy, the category in which the improvisers create complete shows in which short scenes are connected by their stories, characters, or subjects.  (The other improv category is the short form, which is comprised of unrelated brief scenes.)  In both long-form and short-form improv, the scenes often proceed from a suggestion from the audience; Hines’s type of improv follows this pattern.  The long-form improv was championed by Del Close (1934-99), a Chicago improv performer, director, teacher, and coach (with Compass Players, Second City, The Committee, among others) in its early days.  An example of a long-form show is called the Harold, the common standard devised by Close for long-form improv.  The signature performance structure of the iO Theater and UCB, it’s composed of the following segments:
·   a suggestion from a spectator
·   the opening, like an overture in which bits of the ideas developed from the suggestion are depicted
·   three scenes (“first beats”)
·   a group scene (unrelated to the interconnected “beats”)
·   three “second beats,” scenes which revisit characters or situations from earlier scenes
·   a group scene
·   three “third beats”
Most long-form shows are variations of the Harold.  (The name, by the way, is arbitrary and bears no relation to improv or performance.)

Modern improv comedy got its major start in Chicago with Paul Sills’s Second City (1959) and that city became a hub of improvisational theater in the ’60s and ’70s.  (Sills, 1927-2008, was the son of Viola Spolin, 1906-94, author of Improvisation for the Theater [Northwestern University Press, 1963], the description of Spolin’s acting exercises and theater games often called “the bible of improvisational theater.”  His mother’s teaching, directing, and coaching methods were the initial inspiration for Sills’s improv troupe.)  Several prominent troupes started in Chicago, such as the Compass Players (1955) and ImprovOlympic (1980). Toronto, Canada, became a secondary center and the impulse spread around the U.S. and Canada to the United Kingdom and Australia.  The original cast of NBC’s Saturday Night Live (débuted in 1975) was culled largely from Second City in both Chicago and Toronto (and the Canadian branch launched its own popular NBC show, SCTV, in 1976-1981); talk-show host Stephen Colbert and film actor Steve Carell both started in improvisational comedy (with Second City in Chicago).  The current Broadway duo of John Mulaney and Nick Kroll, creators and performers of Oh, Hello (closing 22 January), are both UCB alumni.  Sketch comedy shows like Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In (1968-73) and Monty Python’s Flying Circus (1969-74), precursors in a way to SNL, and The Kids in the Hall (1989-95), were largely developed in rehearsal through improvisation—though performances were (loosely) scripted.

Will Hines was born in 1970 in Dayton, Ohio, and grew up in Ohio and Connecticut.  He graduated from the University of Connecticut with a degree in journalism and wrote for papers in New England and then worked as a computer programmer.  He started improvising on his own after moving to New York City in 1996, going to open-mic nights at local clubs.  “I just wanted to meet funny people,” Hines says, “because as I got older I was being surrounded by more and more boring, resigned people, and I had been friends with a lot of funny people in college and high school.”  Then he took a class with the Upright Citizens Brigade in 1999.  Dissatisfied with living the “square’s life,” the world of “a normal day job and . . . a family,” the “adult world” that “was looking more and more stilted,” Hines found the improv classes “felt like tests to see if I could shake off the dull world and connect to this new exciting one” where there “were cool and interesting people.”  He performed with UCB in New York and ultimately became a member of the troupe.  By his own account, he developed into “a respected performer” with UCB.  The company invited Hines to become a trainer of the next generation of improvisers and, in 2009, he was chosen to run the New York school.  In 2010, Hines launched the blog Improv Nonsense (http://improvnonesense.tumblr.com), whose posts became the basis of Greatest Improviser.  (The posts of the blog have been compiled and published as Improv Nonsense: All The Posts [Pretty Great Publishing Co., 2016].) 

In 2013, Hines moved to Los Angeles—his successor at UCB-NY is his brother, Kevin—where he performed and taught at UCB-LA (and where he became a coach, occasional instructor, and fellow performer of Heather Woodward, ROT contributor Kirk Woodward’s daughter who’d joined the West Coast troupe in 2010).  By May 2016, Hines estimates he’d appeared in “more than 7,854” scenes and, “as a teacher/coach,” watched “about 46,660 more.”  He published How to be the Greatest Improviser on Earth in June 2016.  In addition to teaching, coaching, and performing improv, Hines now writes comedy sketches, performs sketch comedy, directs and appears in comedy and improv videos, and does occasional roles on television. 

The Upright Citizens Brigade was founded in Chicago in 1990 by “the UCB Four”: Matt Besser, Amy Poehler, Ian Roberts, and Matt Walsh.  The four had been trained at Chicago’s ImprovOlympic by Del Close before coming to New York City in 1996, where they performed in various venues until opening their own space in Chelsea on Manhattan’s West Side in 1999.  This was the first permanent stage in New York devoted to improvisational comedy.  UCB started the Upright Citizens Brigade Improvisational and Sketch Comedy Training Center, the only accredited improv and sketch comedy school in the country, a year before they moved into their Chelsea theater.  (The school’s Latin motto, Si Haec Insolita Res Vera Est, Quid Exinde Verum Est?, translates as “If this unusual thing is true, then what else is true?,” a variation of one of the Del Close/UCB impov principles.)  The troupe opened its Los Angeles branch in 2005 and a second New York location, in the East Village, in 2011.  Three of the company’s founders compiled The Upright Citizens Brigade Comedy Improvisation Manual, published in 2013.

The main distinction between acting in a scripted play (or film) and performing improv, of course, is . . . that the latter is improvised!  Obvious, I suppose, but nearly all of conventional actor training, from Stanislavsky (and even his predecessor, François Delsarte) to Stella Adler, Lee Strasberg, and Uta Hagen and all their heirs and successors, is aimed at one thing: to make rehearsed behavior seem intuitive and spontaneous rather than planned, practiced, and repeated.  In improv, the behavior on stage is all spontaneous.  (This makes theater improv different on another level as well.  Both forms are evanescent, but in theater, the performance is gone as soon as the lights come back up—though the play remains.  In improv, even the material is gone after the show.   I’m not sure this is relevant to the performers, however; theoretically, they shouldn’t be thinking about “posterity.”)

This distinction raises another important difference: making up the words and the actions.  Unlike a dramatic actor, an improviser has to become something of an instant playwright.  As Hines advises in the book, “You are a co-writer of every scene you’re in.”  Except in stage mishaps (I recount a few of these in “Short Takes: Theater War Stories,” 6 December 2010), most dramatic actors never have to be this quick on their feet—though in Realistic and Naturalistic plays, they have to seem to be.  Speech on stage is behavior just as any movement or action is—and has to appear just as natural and impromptu.  But dramatic actors don’t have to write the dialogue and create the plot (at least, not on the spot)—that’s usually someone else’s job.

Another difference in improvising, particularly the kind in which Hines is involved, and most acting work has to do with props, both set pieces and hand props.  Put simply, improvisers don’t use them.  They mime all the objects that appear in a scene, a task most dramatic actors aren’t called to perform unless they’re doing Our Town or some other exceptional script that calls for mime or pantomime.  In every acting class I ever took (or taught), the students were admonished not to mime props called for in a scene; even if we had to substitute an easily-obtained item for the one described in the script, we had to have something because handling objects is a fundamental part of acting. 

Costumes, too, were part of my acting training regimen—again, even if we had to approximate the dress of the character for the scene.  “Clothing so influences my character, is so crucial to me,” says the late actress and acting teacher Uta Hagen (1919-2004), “that I would find it impossible to come to a rehearsal for Blanche in  Streetcar Named Desire dressed in slacks and sneakers as it would be for me to work on Saint Joan in a frilly chiffon dress and high-heeled shoes.”  Playing a businessman in jeans and a T-shirt was out of the question in my acting classes (unless, perhaps, you were doing Steve Jobs, I suppose); even if the student didn’t have a business suit, he was expected to come to the studio in some kind of tie and jacket and slacks.  (Aaron Frankel, who taught a classical scene study class at HB Studio, kept a locker of period costumes for his students to use so they wouldn’t be tempted to do Oedipus in khakis or Chimène in a mini and boots.)  I once did a scene from Albee’s Tiny Alice in  which I played a cardinal, so I had to come up with some kind of robe, cap, and staff to sub for the cardinal’s regalia.  Later, when I played an officer in a Revolutionary War play, I wore a rehearsal costume of an 18th-century-style cutaway coat, breeches, English riding boots, and a saber to get used to the restrictions and problems caused by the uniform I’d wear in the production.  Improvisers aren’t obligated to follow this procedure because, not knowing what characters and situations will be thrown at them, they can’t dress for every possibility.

Hines, however, acknowledges the cross-over between improv and straight acting to some degree.  Most of the people whom Hines quotes in Greatest Improviser are respected improvisers, including many of his own teachers; however, he cites a few figures from straight theater as well, notably Broadway casting director Michael Shurtleff (1920-2007) and famed acting teacher Sanford Meisner (1905-97).  Of Meisner, Hines notes that the director of the Neighborhood Playhouse School of Theatre’s book Sanford Meisner on Acting (Meisner and Dennis Longwell; Vintage Books, 1987) contains “many passages that make for great advice for the improviser” as well as the actor.  (He also mentions Shurtleff’s Audition [Walker and Co., 1978].)  Hines says in his own professional life, in fact, he recognizes the significance of dramatic acting as an asset.  Having had no performing or acting background before beginning improv, he took an acting class (a monologue workshop) in 2001.  But if Hines (and, I would presume, other improvisers) find some actor training useful in the practice of their art form, dramatic actors will conversely find some of the facilities of improvisation that Hines inculcates beneficial in their work in scripted plays.

Among the skills Hines posits a performer will learn from doing improv or taking an improv class, he lists those below, to which I’ve added my own remarks about the applicability to scripted acting:
·   “Listening.  Deeper, fuller, more actively.  Time will slow down during conversations and you will be able to hear them more accurately.  This absolutely will happen to everyone who takes improv classes for any decent length of time.”  There’s almost nothing more important to an actor than to listen to what her scene partners are saying—even if she’s memorized their lines—no matter how many times she’s heard them.  It’s an important way to assure being connected to the scene.  In his instructions to his acting students, Aaron Frankel (b. 1921), one of my teachers, stressed that at rehearsals, actors should look at and listen to the others in their scenes.  (References to Frankel’s teaching are more fully discussed in “An Actor’s Homework,” posted on ROT on 19, 22, 25, and 28 April 2010.)
·   “Brevity.  Improv rewards succinct, direct talk.  You’ll learn to do it because the audience laughs and listens to you more when you get to the point.”  Obviously, an actor has no control over the length or brevity of his lines—but he can control the expression of such techniques as his objective,  character action, and inner monologue, which should always be as concise and direct as he can make them.  Loquacity gets in the way and muddles the playing of these actors’ tools.
·   “Empathy.  You will more easily be able to see things from other people’s points of view.  You will be able to argue the other side of an argument better.”  In Greatest Improviser, Hines speaks of empathy for the character with which the improviser’s been endowed, particularly if it’s a popularly unsympathetic one (Hines used Hitler as an example).  Frankel would admonish his students that Hitler, Iago, Richard III, Fagin, Lady Macbeth, Joan Crawford, and all other stage villains don’t see themselves as bad guys or gals.  It’s incumbent on the actor to find the empathy for his or her character in order to play him or her without coming off like a villain out of a 19th-century melodrama.
·   “Acting.  Improv is acting and writing but it’s more acting.  You become more reactive and emotive just through the sheer reps of playing make-believe in front of others.”  I think this one speaks for itself  and needs no further comment.
·   “Clearer opinions.  You have opinions all the time but very often you don’t pay attention to them as they’re forming.  Not the big ones, but the little ones.  You see someone on the street eating an ice cream and lots of tiny versions of superiority, jealousy, gluttony will flit through your brain, and then vanish.  Improv makes you notice and then hold onto those opinions because in a scene you might need them.”  My first thought on this facility is for the actors’ habit of observing real people they encounter in their daily lives because they never know when they’ll have to play some character who reminds them of the stranger, friend, or family member.  But the truth is that actors need to approach the other characters in their plays the same way.  One of the techniques Frankel teaches is for the actor to determine what he calls the “main character action” (what Stanislavsky-based teachers often call the “superobjective”)—but Frankel goes on to require his students to devise a version of their MCA as it’s directed toward each other character with whom they come in contact in the play.  He also teaches that actors must glean what he calls “hearsay” by going over what the other characters say about them and make judgments about whether statements are right/true or wrong/false.  None of these applications will work efficiently or usefully unless the opinions are succinct and clear.
·   “Patterns.  Patterns are funny, and you will learn to see them early and often.”  In Michael Kirby’s theatrical structural system (see “Theatrical Structure,” 15 and 18 February 2011), Patterns are a significant connective device in all aspects of a production, including dialogue and acting—both of which are the purview of actors.  Kirby (1931-97) identifies several other structural devices related to Patterns, such as Themes and Echoes, which are useful for the actor to spot and capitalize on, so becoming tuned into these phenomena, whether generated by the playwright, director, designers, or other actors, is beneficial.
·   “Knowledge.  You’ll learn more since you’ll run across so many scenes where someone mentions something you don’t know.  You’ll find out what they were saying and remember it.”  Actors, especially young ones who started focusing on theater training in high school and then majored in theater in college and maybe went on to an MFA in acting, develop tunnel vision, knowing about little more than their own field.  Hines calls this “a deficit of life experiences to draw from.”  Actors who know something about the world create deeper, more interesting characters and bring more to the play than those with limited scopes.  (I once advised a high school actress who’d decided to drop out of a trip to Paris with her French class in favor of staying home to do a community theater production that she was making a foolish choice.  There would always be another community play for her—she was pretty talented—but that the trip to Paris, her first visit abroad, would benefit her in ways she couldn’t even predict, both as an actor and as a person.  The young woman rejected my advice, unfortunately; I don’t know if she ever regretted it—but my first trip to Paris, at just about her age, had been life-changing.)   I can’t begin to count the number of times some obscure piece of knowledge about the world and the way it works has come into play in a role I was doing or a production I was directing (see my posts, “Liberal Arts in the Real World,” 24 July 2010, and “The Relation of Theater to Other Disciplines,” 21 July 2011); closing oneself off from those discoveries is limiting to an actor.  Or, as Hines advises: “[Y]ou should try to keep up with what’s going on in the world.”
·   “Bravery.  You will be more comfortable to have people see you and watch you.”  Believe it or not, there are actors, especially novices, who are drawn to the stage but are uncomfortable in the spotlight.  If working on improv can help solve this dilemma, it’d be an excellent asset.  Just as I’ve known lawyers and priests who’ve taken acting classes to help them appear before audiences (of jurors or congregants in their cases), actors taking improv classes or performing improv to learn to put themselves out there would be beneficial for acting in plays.
·   “Being Present.  You’ll worry less about the future, less about story, and more about what the moment feels like and what that implies.”  As I noted earlier, while improvisation is by definition spontaneous and in-the-moment, acting in plays is rehearsed, prepared, and planned—but has to seem as if it’s happening in real time.  Rehearsal is where the planning and preparing happens; by performance, the actor must appear to be living the circumstances as they’re happening.  Combating all that rehearsing isn’t easy, and if working in improv can develop that skill, so much the better for the actor.  (This is often the goal of doing improvisations in rehearsal, but not all directors use the technique, and additional practice is always good.)  Furthermore, as Hines writes, the improviser becomes “a Sherlock Holmes of observing the present instant.”  Granted, an improviser has “to figure out from context clues what [is] going on” in a scene that’s just starting up, something the playwright has given the straight actor; nevertheless, this skill will stand a dramatic actor in excellent stead for gleaning the “present circumstances” of a scene so that she can immerse herself in them.  (Uta Hagen devised an exercise about a character from a period play in a made-up scene—that is, one not in the play—outside the crisis of the drama, like Desdemona getting ready for a ball in Venice before she met Othello.  The point is to explore all the ordinary things a woman does and feels when she’s not the subject of a play.  The same examination is useful for contemporary characters, and the goal is to find the reality of their moment-to-moment lives.)

Arguably, the clearest convergence of improv and scripted acting is in the somewhat abstract and diffuse advice Hines gives to commit to the premise of the scene and the character with which the improviser has been endowed.  Accept the circumstances of the scene and go with it.  This is what’s called “yes-anding” in improv-speak: you say “yes” to the set-up and then you take it further.  Hines writes that the improviser needs “to stop thinking and to start watching and committing.”  He commands, “Get out of your head”!  Every acting teacher and director will tell students and cast members to commit to their choices and to the circumstances in the script, to make bold decisions for their characters—dramatic for dramas and comedic for comedies, but big.  As for getting out of their heads, Aaron Frankel had an expression that revealed what he thought about actors’ getting stuck in their heads and over-thinking or over-intellectualizing their roles: he called it “head-fucking.”  (I always thought this was an especially apt term: not only does it communicate the point that relying too much on left-brain analysis was counterproductive, the expression also connotes that the actor’s using the wrong body part for the function indicated.)

Part of committing to and immersing themselves in the scene requires improvisers to engage the creativity of their right brains.  When confronted with an "unfamiliar scenario,” Hines instructs the improviser, “Use an ‘as if,’” one of the most familiar tools among Stanislavsky-based actors and teachers.  Also known as the “magic if,” it’s “a lever to lift us out of everyday life onto the plane of imagination.”  According to Hagen, it ties the actor’s imagination to the given circumstances of the scene.  It’s an essential technique for both improvisers and actors in scripted plays, virtually a sine qua non, for, as Stanislavsky declares, if a would-be actor lacks imagination, “He must develop it . . . or else leave the theatre.”

Of course, even where there are parallels, the applications can be different, from just slightly to vastly.  Among the reasons for this is the development time for an improv scene and a play: improvs are fairly brief, several minutes on average, so the performers need to get to the meat of the scene—what Hines calls the “game of the scene,” the part that’s funny or “the unusual thing”—pretty quickly; the dramatic actor has anywhere from 10 to 15 minutes for a short one-act to two hours and up for a full-length play to build the arc of his character and his objective.

Another reason the function of similar skills can be different is the goal of improv, which is comedy, in contrast to dramatic acting, which can be funny, seriocomic, melodramatic, or tragic—or various combinations of any of these (“pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral”).  When faced with choices in a scene, straight actors select behavior that’s appropriate for their characters within the play, always taking into consideration the genre of script on which they’re working: actors in comedies pick funny actions, actors in tragedies pick tragic actions, actors in dramas pick dramatic actions.  Improvisers, however, are constrained to make comic choices.  In the chapter “Be Funny,” Hines warns: “to be good at improv, you have to be funny.”  That’s not a burden the conventional actor must bear; many an actor who can’t be funny on cue has had a perfectly successful career in dramas.

Being changeable, Hines insists, is “uniquely important” to improvising, but it, too, has a practical application to scripted acting.  Unlike improvs, plays may be rehearsed and “set,” but there are accidents, and actors also change what they’re doing.  If your scene partner does this without warning you (an ethical breach, granted, but it happens), you have to be ready to go with the new impulse—even if after the performance the stage manager comes back stage and says, “Take out the improvements.”  One of the facts about live performances is that they’re never the same from show to show—and actors have to be prepared to respond to changes, intentional or otherwise.

An aspect of changeability Hines identifies is switching from thinking “What is going to happen next?” to “What must have already happened?”  In other words, Hines says, “Stop thinking forward and start thinking about the moment before.”  Usually, a straight actor is oriented toward the future, pursuing his character’s objective, which is his goal in the play.  But Stanislavsky requires that the actor must never appear to anticipate his actions (because the character can’t know what’s going to happen next), and Hagen writes, “The fight to prevent anticipation, to prevent thinking and planning ahead . . . is a struggle that seems to go on and on . . . .”  To help establish “immediacy” (Hagen’s term for “being present”), she has exercises to guide actors to work on the “immediate preceding circumstances” of each of their scenes, each entrance they make so that they’re coming from a past in which they were doing something specific somewhere specific under specific conditions—a life before the scene starts or the entrance is made.  “While waiting for the entrance,” explains Hagen, “you have responded to an imagined immediately preceding event by a real doing which allows you to continue your assumed life on stage.”  Though the application of inventing what’s just happened is different for an actor in a play and an improviser (for whom, Hines instructs, the “future is not worth worrying about”), the task is analogous. 

To accomplish authenticity, to make their characters truthful, Hines tells improvisers “to simply be yourself.”  He asserts that great improvisers’ “real selves—their temperaments, their opinions, their reactions—are a huge part of every character they play.”  Now, obviously this advice can’t be applied directly to dramatic acting—every character an actor plays can’t be himself.  But acting teachers will all tell their students that when building a character, it’s always advisable to start with themselves—to use as much of their real personalities and lives as they can and build on that (with endowments, “as ifs,” substitutions, and so on) because, as Hines continues, “As an actor, you’ll never have more experience playing any character besides yourself.”  (In eight of Hagen’s ten Object Exercises, the actor uses himself as the “character”; the same is true of eight of the ten assignments in my own acting technique curriculum.)

Nevertheless, despite any appearance that improvisational theater and scripted acting are incompatible performance forms, there are cross-overs.  The fact that Hines sought out an acting class in his early training and refers to theater figures like acting teacher Sandy Meisner and theatrical casting director Michael Shurtleff, whose books he obviously studied, demonstrates that he finds parallels.  In fact, Hines considers himself an actor and has said that improv classes are “more like acting classes” than exercises in silly fun.  When I was an acting student and, later, when I was trying to carve out a career on the stage,  it was clear that the fundamentals of improvisation were useful skills for a straight actors, too.  (I suppose that’s obvious considering how many acting teachers and directors use improvisation in their classes and rehearsals.)  So, how well does Hines press his case for improv—or, to be precise, his guidance for the improviser?

There are no professional reviews of Greatest Improviser of the kind that run in the New York Times Book Review or the arts pages of your local paper.  There are blurbs on the back cover of the book from improv pros and reader reviews on sites like Barnes & Noble and Amazon.  All of them are extremely positive and laudatory.  All of the reviewers I read seemed to be improvisers—which is the audience Hines is aiming at, so that makes sense.  But I do wonder what someone like me, someone in the performing arts or at least knowledgeable about the field but not an improviser, thinks about Hines’s book and his advice.

For instance, my friend Kirk Woodward, who, in addition to being the father of Heather Woodward, a member of UCB who’s quoted in the book, is an actor, director, and acting teacher himself, liked Hines’s book “a good deal, mostly because he seems to keep his chosen field in perspective.”  Indeed, the author points out, “Improv doesn’t doesn’t try to lead you anywhere.  It’s just something that attracts certain kinds of people.”  He acknowledges, further, “Improv is something you do because you like it, not for what it gives you” in terms of financial rewards or notoriety.  This is awfully close to Stanislavsky’s advice to actors: “Love art in yourself and not yourself in art.”  Hines warns that “commercial success is not the same as happiness.”

I had a serious and continuing problem with the scenes Hines presents as illustrations of his instructions, however.   Hines’s own definition of  improv is “making up comedy scenes” and he bluntly states in the book that ”to be good at improv, you have to be funny.”  Funny is kinda the point of the form.  But I was very disturbed to find that most of the scenes Hines describes in Greatest Improviser just aren’t funny.  (A couple even struck me as downright creepy.  One focusing on menstruation has a decided ick-factor!)  Now, maybe Hines’s readers are more in tune with improv than I am and I just don’t get it.  Maybe the scenes don’t seem funny on the page—after all, improv is not a literary form—but when performed live before an audience by improvisers using all their intuitive acting talents, it works.  I’m usually very good at visualizing a performance from a description, though.  When I read a play (or even a review), I “see” the performance.  

Alternatively, maybe the parts of the scenes Hines cites illustrate something instructive, but aren’t actually funny.  That could be true, but it seems counterproductive—especially when it’s operating nearly all through the book.  (Furthermore, most of Hines’s examples are whole scenes—or, at least, the game of the scene—the part that’s supposed to be funny.)  What were not talking about here is what in acting classes is called “studio acting” where the student actor is working on a specific acting problem, not trying to solve the scene.  This is particularly true in acting technique classes, but even in scene study classes the student isn’t focused on performance issues like pacing, timing, or even staging.  If a civilian watched an acting-class scene, she’d probably think it was awful—because it’s not a performance.  I’m sure there is similar classroom work in all the arts, whether it’s dance, singing, music, or improvisation.  This is not that; the scenes Hines cites are from actual performances.  Where spectators (presumably) laughed.

I broached this quandary with Kirk, who agreed that it’s “possible that some of this material doesn’t look funny on paper because it isn’t, but that it’s given life by the performers,” but went on to propose, “A lot of it seems to be of the ‘you had to be there’ quality.”  The difficulty here, though, is that if Hines is presenting these scenes as teaching points in a book, they should come off the page as funny so the reader, hopefully even a non-improviser like me, can see the culmination of the lesson Hines is trying to impart.  This strikes me as a serious deficiency for a how-to book.

This isn’t to say that the pointers Hines provides aren’t useful and even fundamental truths in improv.  I have to trust the dozens of readers who testified that Hines’s techniques have worked for them.  Hines’s reputation as a performer, and even more as a teacher and coach, leave me little choice, given my own lack of experience on which to base a judgment, but to believe the testimonials.  (Also, nothing Hines says in Greatest Improviser seems remotely illogical or unlikely.)  If Will Hines is the Uta Hagen of improv (I’m thinking Respect for Acting here) and I were an improviser, I might be out putting his lessons to the acid test on stage forthwith.  Except, how do I get around the impression that the product of his advice isn’t funny?  How’d you feel about a book on carpentry that presents instructions for building a chair that sound fine, but are illustrated by a photo of a chair that doesn’t look like it’ll stand straight or hold your weight? 

“I don’t think you can teach people to be funny,” Hines admits.  “But you can teach people how to maximize the funny that they have,” he continued. That’s what the UCB training, including the advice in Greatest Improviser, is all about.  As Kirk phrased it, “[T]he whole point of the UCB approach seems to be to set up something, if not permanent, at least more structured than just getting up there and being hilarious.”  It’s precisely the rationale for Stanislavsky’s development of his actor-training system (and for Hagen’s book and teaching philosophy—as with nearly all modern training for the stage): teach the student actors (or improvisers) how to marshal what innate talent and inspiration provide them so they can control it, use it, even call it up when needed, rather than wait around for it to show and just let it run wild and lead them by the nose.  “You can teach people to take the things they are amused at in the real world,” Hines explains, “and translate that to the stage.”

In the introduction to the UCB improvisation manual, the authors affirm, “In reality, no matter how much fun they are having onstage, great improvisers are working together while adhering to a set of clear guidelines.  Every improviser who starts a scene with another improviser is entering into a tacit agreement to use these guidelines to build a comedic scene with his or her scene partner.”  As Hines puts it, “Improv is a real art form that can be worked at and that takes preparation.”  That’s what UCB’s classes, the UCB manual, and How to be the Greatest Improviser on Earth all are about.