#artrecognizesart

“Why do you write like you’re running out of time?”

“I’m willing to wait for it.”

There’s plenty more line pairs in the musical Hamilton that reveal the fundamental opposition between the characters of Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr, but this pair might best encapsulate what distinguished them throughout their lives and led to such bitter conflict between them right until that final, fatal gunshot. It also seems fitting to begin this essay with a line referencing Hamilton’s writing ability, which both saved and doomed him at various points in his life, and which is also one of the attributes through which people compare him to the musical’s playwright and composer, Lin-Manuel Miranda. In truth, we are all “running out of time”—Hamilton (and Miranda) are just moved to act based on this truth.

I want to write about how this all relates to improv, which seems like at once a simple and impossible task. Simple, because the play’s hip-hop inspirations make it highly interested in the improvisatory nature of art-creation, and its protagonist’s “young, scrappy, and hungry” mentality made his acts in life often quite improvisatory. But impossible in that both the play and the narrative of Hamilton’s life involved so much deliberate and careful decision-making, such attention to detail, such concern for the quality of the finished product, whether that product be a musical or a man.

But the primary inspiration I have to connect improvisatory theatrical performance to Hamilton should work well if we accept two major assumptions about each. Namely:

That “improvisation” as a theatrical art is no longer simply “comedy,” nor should it be limited by previous assumptions and restrictions as to its form. People speak of “short form,” “long form,” “free form,” all form,” but all of these nod to a set of previous assumptions about the art that I would like to further shatter: that is needs be “comedic,” that it needs be “recognizable as improvisation” as such to an audience, that it needs be distinct from its theatrical cousin, the written play.

Hamilton is a play about the creation of characters, the creation of character. There is the backdrop of the American Revolution, yes, but at its core I see it as a show about what you’re born with, what you’re given, and how the one filters through the other to create the self, and how the self acts on the world to create history.

In the play, as in life, both Hamilton and Burr are effectively orphans, coming up during the pre-Revolution, both looking to leave their mark on the world. Their fundamental difference, however, is highlighted at every turn. Burr is cautious, judicious, he hedges, he watches, he waits. Hamilton, plucked out of a literal hurricane, is himself a force of nature—unabashed, unapologetic, brash, bold, and decisive. That Burr is the one who gets Hamilton with a shot to the gut in the end was something it was almost impossible for me to remember when I studied American history in school, so ironically out-of-character was the ending for both parties.

I’ve been saying for years in my improv instruction that “A French accent is not a character.” That “A limp is not a character.” We might well say here, then, that “Being an orphaned white male growing up in pre-Revolutionary America” is not a character. Neither is attending Princeton. Or being a lawyer. Because these are all traits shared by two of the most diametrically-opposed historical figures in American memory.

In other words, your circumstances are not your character.

Now, yes, there are some unique circumstances that speak to important differences in Burr and Hamilton—Burr’s wealthy upbringing versus Hamilton’s life of squalor in the Caribbean—but these circumstances, at least according to Mirada, merely reveal the men’s traits:

There would have been nothin’ left to do For someone less astute He woulda been dead or destitute Without a cent of restitution Started workin’, clerkin’ for his late mother’s landlord Tradin’ sugar cane and rum and all the things he can’t afford

Hamilton survived, according to Miranda, because of who he already was, and that identity was essential and undeniable.

Burr, on the other hand, can’t help himself but to wait on the sidelines hoping for a fortuitous break. The man switched political parties to win a contested New York Senate seat. “I changed parties to seize the opportunity I saw,” says Burr, something that would never even occur to Hamilton to be in the realm of possibility.

In the characters of Hamilton and Burr, then, we are presented with a powerful but tricky thesis: that identity is static and inevitable, acted on by circumstance but always with somewhat predictable results (e.g. in the face of adversity Hamilton will be aggressive and bold, Burr will wait it out), but also that identity itself, while static, is not a list of behaviors but a set of methods, a function, if you will, that filters the input of experience through the equation of personal traits to reach an outcome, which is the choice one makes. I happen to agree with this thesis, tricky as it is in terms of the implications it has regarding whether “true change” is possible for anyone to achieve in their lifetime. Without arguing too much about this, I’ll simply point out that while I agree with Miranda’s seeming claim that there is an essence to identity that is untouchably essential, it is also somewhat complex, and it is possible to have different circumstances reveal different aspects of the self, especially extreme circumstances (the way Burr, for all his seeming lack of conviction, is willing to go out on a limb—emotionally and legally—to be with the woman he loves who also happens to be the wife of a British officer, and the way Hamilton, for all his seeming impetuousness, responds to his son’s death with a newfound faith and a desire to retreat from public life).

And still, there is some essence of self to which one always returns. It’s either a comforting thought or a crippling notion, depending on how you look at it, and how at peace you are with who you are. But it doesn’t mean nothing changes. Because the circumstances of life are in constant flux, so too are our selves as they respond to new stimulus.

A detour into the specifics of the mathematical analogy might help explain how identity can be both fixed and moving:

What do I mean when I claim that identity is a function? Imagine the set of all possible selves as an enormous piece of graph paper. What if instead of imagining identity as a set of known points on the grid (I am “a mother”, “a democrat,” “a comedian,” “a teacher”), you imagine identity as a function that defines where the point will go by passing it through some equation? Remember functions from math class? A set of inputs and corresponding outputs represented by something like f(x) = 2x +1 or f(x) = x2 +3x + 1. Put in an “x” and get a corresponding f(x) value. You might remember how some of the graphs of these functions have names—parabola, hyperbola, sine, etc. In any of these cases, the important understanding for our purposes is this: the graph is defined by the relationship of input to output, not by any one static point. In fact, one static point will tell you precious little about the graph of a function. It is only in aggregate that the points (representative of all possible inputs and outputs) start to form a true picture of the function.

And so, when it comes to identity, it is the function we seek to define, not the points on the graph. “Orphan” could be a point on Burr and Hamilton’s graphs. So could “white,” “male,” “college student,” etc. But if we presume that identity is a function, those points will actually fall into different places on each man’s graph as they filter through each one’s fundamental identity—his values, natural affinities and habits, psychological needs, etc. Burr (through Miranda) speaks to this fundamental difference, despite their on-paper similarities, in his defining song, “Wait For it”:

Hamilton faces an endless uphill climb He has something to prove He has nothing to lose Hamilton’s pace is relentless He wastes no time What is it like in his shoes?

Hamilton doesn’t hesitate He exhibits no restraint He takes and he takes and he takes And he keeps winning anyway He changes the game He plays and he raises the stakes And if there’s a reason He seems to thrive when so few survive, then Goddamnit— I'm willing to wait for it

For all their similarities, Burr will never be “in Hamilton’s shoes,” and not because he didn’t watch his mother die on an island in a Caribbean. He will never be in Hamilton’s shoes because his identity function is fundamentally about hesitation and restraint. Both men “survive,” but it is the luck of Hamilton’s nature that causes him to “thrive,” and no amount of waiting will allow Burr to walk without hesitation in Hamilton’s shoes.

A very popular technique of creating an improvised character (and one that I use with students) is the “If This is True, What Else is True” method. You list traits, one by one, connecting each trait with all previous traits. “He likes D&D.” “He lives in his parents’ basement.” “He LARPs on the weekends. “ (And on the whole these exercises can yield something as stereotypical as this.) But given everything we’ve observed about the foils Burr and Hamilton, conducting a character-creation through this means seems like an error in the fundamental understanding of character. After all, one could build a character who “was orphaned as a child,” who “went to a competitive New England college to prove himself,” who “joined the American Revolution as a way to prove his valor and worth,” who “became a lawyer after the Revolution to further prove himself,” and still be describing Hamilton and Burr. Lin-Manuel Miranda spent years constructing a narrative that would rightly distinguish the underlying identities of these two men based on his extensive research into their lives. How is improvisation meant to create deeply distinct characters in real time in a matter of moments? Should we even try?

No doubt the result will not be the same in form or function as a fully-researched, fully-written play, but if we understand the methodology of creating and distinguishing characters through identity functions rather than a list of true but inessential traits, not only can we do it in real time, but the result might be something truly beautiful.

My current pet project, The White Rabbit Show, tells the story of one woman’s journey toward self-actualization. It is fully-improvised (a fact about which many audience members remain incredulous) but it does follow certain forms—it is a “Hero’s Journey” and as such follows Joseph Campbell’s basic outline of such a narrative. It is inspired by Alice in Wonderland, and as such carries some of the whimsical and dream-like nature of that piece. The opening sequence is a mirroring of physicality and statements across the cast that are meant to represent the internal monologue of the main character’s psyche. Then the cast stands around the main character and endows her with traits that seem to fit a pattern. For a while I’ve been cognizant that the traits named should be more “qualitative” in nature—that is, shouldn’t simply be a list of things she does or owns or likes, but should express something of her character—but thinking about Miranda’s overt and unapologetic codification of his protagonist’s and antagonist’s identity functions makes me think not only about the nature of identity itself, but about how to apply that nature to live character-creation in an authentic and satisfying way.

While my project is, by choice and nature, non-scripted, I’d like to think “art recognizes art,” and that there are some lessons in Hamilton for me.

There is no overture in Hamilton. The play begins with a song for its namesake:

How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a Forgotten spot in the Caribbean by providence Impoverished, in squalor Grow up to be a hero and a scholar?

The ten-dollar founding father without a father Got a lot farther by working a lot harder By being a lot smarter By being a self-starter By fourteen, they placed him in charge of a Trading charter

What is happening here is quite—and Miranda would and does shy away from this word—genius. We open with a list of true things about Hamilton—he is a bastard, and orphan, a son of a whore, a Scotsman. These are true things, important information, but worthless without what comes next.  He “works a lot harder” he “be’s a lot smarter,” he’s a “self-starter.” These are the traits that allow him to actually thrive in the face of poverty, isolation, a literal fucking hurricane.

It’s not that the details of his circumstance are unimportant—going back to the function, they are essential means to reveal his identity which otherwise would remain in a dormant state within his psyche—the x that determines the y. We are how we behave as our lives unfold before us. And that’s not a value judgment, either. Is Hamilton more admirable than Burr because he is an impetuous genius? Maybe. But maybe saying say would be akin to saying the cheetah is more admirable than the alligator because he moves faster. It’s certainly impressive to see a cheetah run, but it’s simply what the cheetah does.

Again, however, Hamilton is a scripted show about real people. How can we possibly create this effect of a consistent identity function in real time, collectively, when the only information we have is that which we create? But I believe that there are ways to take real and practicable lessons from Hamilton into my art. I was struck the first time I heard the opening song of Hamilton by how similarly this opening functions to how I’ve structured my own improvised play in terms of character-creation. And that emboldened me to consider the practical lessons contained within it for my own work. And so, here are a few actual, practical, actionable ways I’m imagining applying the lessons of Hamilton to The White Rabbit Show (and it’s essential to remember that all of this is predicated on my original assumption that improvisation need not be “comedy” or adhere to previous assumptions about its presentation or form. Improvisation, instead, should simply be looked at as an alternative form of art creation, with all its attending strengths and shortcomings):

“Invoking” the Character: Just as with the original Del Close Invocation where we describe an object physically, then relationally, then anthropomorphically, and finally symbolically, we can attempt to create structures for creating truly full characters as well. Miranda’s opening of Hamilton might well be the template for this: State superficial facts about the person that are important but not essential in the true meaning of the word (not “of his essence”), then begin to reveal the character’s underlying and static personal traits, the “essence” of the person, then begin to merge these circumstances with the traits to reveal how his choices result from the combination of the two. At some point move into scenes that reveal more information and test the character’s identity. In this way we can watch the character come into relief in real time while having both sets of external and internal identity data with which to play as the show develops.

The Function Mantra: Just as we’re taught to “name the game of the scene” as a shorthand to getting on the same page with our scene partner, why not, as with a scripted play, name those character motifs. In improv I find that people are so worried about seeming “hack” or “obvious” and so quite often don’t say the simple truth in front of them. Whereas in a scripted play, and especially in a musical, naming motifs (through both language and music) is both encouraged and rewarded by audiences. Burr’s anthem is literally called “Wait For It.” And he says it over and over and over in the song. Wonder if any of us are confused by what motivates the man? Similarly, Hamilton’s first repeated refrain is “I am not throwing away my shot.” And he says it over and over and over. Is it boring? No. It’s reinforcing, exciting, propulsive. What if in an improv show where deep and authentic character-creation were essential we felt free to employ the same kind of mantra-repetition as with a scripted play? The cast of The White Rabbit Show actually began to do this organically when we started working on the character-creation opening, latching onto a word or phrase that resonated with what they knew of the character and collectively repeating it over and over with variations throughout the opening. This helped the protagonist realize that this statement was not simply another aspect of her character, but revealing something essential that could be used throughout the performance as circumstances changed and unfolded.

Those are a few tools. I know there are others. Many others. And even just with those as an example, one might start to consider how an improvised performance that builds characters in real-time (and borrows tools from its artistic cousins to make that process more dynamic, real, and meaningful) could provide a kind of recognition and satisfaction that even a scripted show cannot, beholden as it is to a pre-existing script and plot arc. If we could create truly real-feeling characters, we could perhaps simulate the actual experience of living even more vibrantly than a script ever could, because the character would be truly responding in real time to her life as it unfolds. Yes, it would be limited by the information we can present on a stage in the course of an hour or two, but what it might lose in detail it could gain in urgency and vitality.

In the last performance of The White Rabbit Show, it was revealed halfway through the show that the protagonist’s father was an alcoholic and she and her mother had been enabling him their whole lives. This move fit with our knowledge of the protagonist (she was obsessed with succeeding at her job, she had a boyfriend who kept leaving and coming back and who she looked to for stability despite their incompatibility, and—a detail that emerged serendipitously but took on deep meaning as the show unfolded—her father and the boyfriend shared a name). But it was still a shock—to both the audience and the performers—when it turned out that this was the issue. It was simultaneously felt as a “What?!” and an “Of course!” by everyone in the room. If I had written that out as a play, I know I would have offered up, at least through hints, the fact of the father’s alcoholism far earlier in the show. I wouldn’t have been able to help it, so essential it would have seemed to clarifying who this character was in the world. Instead, the cast took everything that was true up to that point and rooted around for why it was all true, and came out with that. That reveal reframed everything we knew about the protagonist and made what she had to do clear—distance herself from the relationship with both her father and her boyfriend and succeed on her own terms, rather than for others.

I don’t know if scripting this show could have been as good or maybe better in some respects. I do know plenty of audience members thought I had written it, which felt good but also frustrating, like when you have an awesome spontaneous one-liner and someone asks you where it’s from assuming you’re quoting a movie or something (Does this happen to anyone else a lot? Or am I just the only one who gets indignant about it? “I made that up just now from my brain! Give me credit!”). In the end, though, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is whether I believe that improvisation can do something scripted theater can’t, and I’m pretty much banking my artistic life on the belief that it can.

The more we as improv directors and show-creators take inspiration from other types of theatrical performance, the more we’ll begin to crack open our own art form and reveal the unique tools and capabilities hidden inside. Because improv, like any person, like any art, has its own identity function. And if we’re willing to test and challenge that function by passing it through various forms, circumstances, and experiences, we just might reveal its essence.