Recently Sean London had a long, thoughtful conversation with Matt Besser about improv. Over the corse of the conversation, Sean mentioned he did not frequent Harold Night at UCB; in fact, he had only seen it twice. But he did regularly attend Shitty Jobs and Cage Match. This is what Matt Besser had to say:
“You’d get way more value from going to Harolds than you would going to Shitty Jobs and Cagematch, I think. Shitty Jobs should just be entertainment for you. [You’re going to get more] out of watching people closer to you, doing what you’re trying to do. And you might say, ‘Well, I’m not trying to get into Harolds. I want to jump right to Shitty Jobs.’ And my response to that would be, ‘You’re not good enough for Shitty Jobs.’ I think you should prove yourself doing a Harold first.
That’s why when you go to art school, you can go, ‘I just want to be an abstract painter.’ Well, the teachers aren’t going to do that. ‘You’re going to do figure drawings in my class. Once you can do a perfect figure drawing, then go do an abstract drawing of a figure.’
I guess that’s the way we feel too. Yeah, you should all want to do Asssscat. It’s the easiest. It’s so easy. But it’s the least impressive. So why do you want to do the least impressive? You should aim to want to do the most impressive. That’s the way I feel.
If you can do a Harold, you can do anything. If you can do Asssscat, you can’t necessarily do anything. If you can do Shitty Jobs, I don’t think you can necessarily do anything…”
First let me say, I understand and agree with the principle belief that if you can do a Harold, you can do anything. In the UCB curriculum, so much emphasis is put on performing Harolds, and it’s easy to see why. It’s an excellent training tool to master pulling premises, second beats, making callbacks and group games. Even sticking to a rigid structure helps players discover creative ways to play and fosters good improv habits.
I also understand the Harold is the showcase form at UCB, and the entry point for anyone who wants to perform at the theater. Hundreds of people each year audition to get on a Harold team, and for many, this is the pot of gold at the end of the improv rainbow. For others, it’s the launching pad to other possibilities - acting, writing, performing, touring. Turn on your TV and you’ll see Harold Team faces featured in commercials, TV shows, movies, and writing credits. A purist might try to pretend getting on a Harold team is the end-all, be-all to enlightenment. But the reality is, we’re all out here in LA pursuing lofty, absurd, and utterly ill-advisable dreams. All passion and reverence be damned.
So this leads me to a matter of values. For fledgling improvisers passionate about UCB and in love (okay, obsessed) with improv, what shows are valuable to watch? What shows should inspire you and what is merely, as Besser puts it, “entertainment?”
What criteria determines value? Why is watching Harold Night considered New York Strip steak, while watching Shitty Jobs is akin to eating peanut butter out of a jar?
And lastly: what makes the Harold the most impressive thing you can do, and who decides that? Other improvisers? Ticket sales? The audience reception?
The first show I saw at the Upright Citizens’ Brigade was Shitty Jobs, and it changed my life. I remember one of the first scenes where Dominic Dierkes stepped out with Sean Clements and initiated: “I’m sorry to hear about your mom.”
With his hands folded between his legs, Sean slouched in his chair and muttered, “Yeah well, she’s a stupid idiot.”
Immediately, DC Pierson tagged them out and approached an invisible podium. “We here at the Holocaust Remembrance Museum would like to introduce our next guest speaker, Sean Clements. Thank you for being here, Sean.”
Without hesitation, Sean stepped out. He cleared his throat.
“Thank you for having me. What can be said, that hasn’t already been said, about 6 million stupid idiots?”
In this moment, the entire room erupted. It was one of the strangest, most irreverent things you could say and yet it somehow felt completely earned. Watching the speed and trust these performers shared was nothing short of pure magic. It was as if they could read each others’ minds and anticipate what the other person wanted. Even going off as little a premise as “my dead mother is a stupid idiot for being dead.”
I have no romantic notions these players arrived at this kind of chemistry over night or without performing many, many Harolds. But the idea that what I watched that fateful night was less valuable, inspiring or impressive is patently untrue. The sold-out audience in that room was AWE STRUCK. You couldn’t quell the energy in that room with carbon monoxide.
This leads me to think about the first time I saw Harold Night.
In the first scene of the first Harold I ever saw, the suggestion was “dog.” Everyone on the stage huddled together and started barking. The barking led to other strange noises and body postures. As I watched this unfold, with no concept of what an organic opening was, I turned to my husband who looked equally uncomfortable. What… is… this?
The first few minutes of that Harold were so alienating, I don’t think I ever quite recovered. All I could think was this had to be some kind of arthouse, in-joke theatre bullshit I wanted no part of. It made no sense at all, and I didn’t get it. I later learned this first Harold experience was not unique to me. In fact, many improvisers shared similar stories of feeling awkward or turned off at first. It wasn’t until they learned what it was and took classes that they grew an appreciation for it. I’d also like to point out Matt Besser himself has admitted to having a bad first Harold experience.
If the point of improv is not to perform for other improvisers, it must be said that Harold Night is not always accessible to first-time audiences. If an audience doesn’t understand what they’re watching - be it a group of people barking or a pattern game - it’s difficult to connect, let alone, be impressed by what’s going on.
This is not to say that every Harold is insular and alienating. Obviously not the case. This is also not to say that a Harold can’t be pure bliss and just as magical as seeing Shitty Jobs for the first time. But how can you lose yourself in the throes of hilarity when you don’t have a basic understanding of what’s going on? In Shitty Jobs, all the audience has to understand is: “We’re making this up as go along.” Simple. When you don’t know the rules, a Harold can look like seven people shouting disparate words at you.
Will watching Harolds make you a better improviser? Maybe. Will performing Harolds make you a better improviser? Surely.
Will watching Harold Night make you want to take improv classes in the first place? In my case, absolutely not.
Something unique I have noticed about the crowd who frequents Shitty Jobs is that I rarely recognize any fellow improvisers or classmates in attendance. Because it’s not one of the free-with-your-ID shows, it doesn’t attract a large number of currently enrolled students. I point this out because it means every person in the audience has paid to be there, and they’ve sold out every week for almost 3 years. I was introduced to Shitty Jobs by a distant, super religious half-Uncle, who I barely ever see or talk to. It couldn’t be farther from the insular improv-for-improvisers at Harold Night.
The idea that Shitty Jobs is just “entertainment” implies that there is less virtue in entertaining. I’m not sure what the value of improv would be if not to entertain. The fact that their core audience is made of non-improvisers speaks to just how accessible and successful their show is. I realize they break the rules. They play fast. They’ll break commitment to make a joke. Most every set has a transaction scene. They’ll even shoehorn an unusual thing instead of organically finding it.
But IT WORKS.
If the rules are there to teach “good improv,” then Shitty Jobs proves that playing by the rules will only get you so far. I agree with Besser you should know the rules before you attempt to break them. But I would also contend that Shitty Jobs’ success is rewriting improv law in real-time. I firmly believe this team is the next generation of modern long-form, and any beginning improviser would be remiss to not learn from them. It’s important to remember that improv is NEW in the grand scheme of things. Del Close and Charna Halpern were teaching modern legends in the early ’90s. There is still so much unchartered territory when it comes to this art form, and I would challenge any improviser who subscribes to only one school of thought (even if that school is pretty kick ass).
Watch Harold Night. Watch Shitty Jobs. Watch anything that opens your mind to the possibilities improv has to offer. And don’t forget: you’re a part of something extraordinary.
