By New Times
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Katrina Montgomery
By Kathleen Vanesian
By Monica Alonzo
By Benjamin Leatherman
By Robrt L. Pela
By Katrina Montgomery
I'm standing out front of the Torch Theatre — an improv space in downtown Phoenix — on a recent Saturday night, asking the performers how improv has impacted their lives. I feel like I'm getting two shows for the price of one. The first was the one I just watched inside the theater, where a single audience suggestion — "George Michael" — resulted in an entire show about a man too fearful of change to throw away his M.C. Hammer pants.
The second show is this one. All around me, improv teams are gathered, some riding a high from the show they just finished, and others playing a game in the alley in which they chant "Bunny Bunny."
The funny thing is, while longform improv requires performers to fearlessly go on stage before a live audience and spontaneously create multiple characters in a variety of scenarios, these people look and act nothing like stars.
4721 N. Central Ave.
Phoenix, AZ 85012
Category: Performing Arts Venues
Region: Central Phoenix
For one thing, this is not a bunch of good-looking show-offs. Most of them are regular people, with real-world jobs, who step onto the stage each week and pretend to be petulant teenagers and Supreme Court justices and gator wrestlers. Very few of them could be described as seriously attractive — this is a motley crew of balding heads, eyeglasses, and bulging bellies — and yet after a full night of watching them drag compelling characters up from their subconscious, I'll have a performer crush on more than one of them.
The founders of the Torch Theatre are adamant: The Torch Theatre is not a place, it's people. To be clear, it is a place, a tiny storefront with "Welcome Home" in foot-high black letters in the front window at 4721 North Central Avenue, half a block south of Camelback, along the light-rail line, in the shadow of Saint Frances Xavier's dome, and downstairs from the A Tender Touch massage parlor.
But it's mainly the people.
Shane Carey is one of those people. Tonight, he's volunteering to run the lights. Last week, we met to discuss how his improv practice has impacted his life. His face splits with an enormous smile that never reaches his eyes when he tells me, "I was very depressed. I had been for 25 years. A few years back, I began isolating myself, becoming more critical of myself every day. I quit doing improv. And this one bad weekend in May of last year I thought, 'I can't be me anymore. I hate this guy. I want to be dead.' I immediately checked myself into the hospital. When the admissions person asked me if I had a friend or family member they could contact, Bill Binder's name sprang to mind and I burst into tears trying to speak it."
Bill Binder is another one of those people. Binder, who always manages to look like he just pulled an all-nighter at Mission Control successfully landing a rover on Mars, has been improvising since 1994, when a woman came out of the woods "like a witch," as he describes it, and lured him and his engineering classmates to improv. Binder — along with Jacque Arend, Mack Duncan, Jose Gonzalez, Stacey Hanlon, Tommy Schaeffer, and Shane Shannon — is one of the founders of the Torch Theatre.
The Torch Theatre has been doing its thing since 2007 when a group of like-minded improvisers came together to form the improv collective and training center. Along the way, they have been instrumental in the success of the long-running Phoenix Improv Festival; they've managed to lease and remodel their very own venue, which they opened in 2011; and they've taught hundreds of people how to improvise. I am one of those people.
I've been a playwright and performer for more than 20 years, but until very recently, I had never seriously tried improv. I was attracted to longform improv because I was certain I would be able to deepen my understanding of story structure by looking at it from a different perspective. Also, writing a play takes years, and I was hoping to enjoy a little immediate gratification for a change. Plus, as a writing teacher, I was hoping to steal some ideas that I could share with my really resistant students.
My classes at the Torch delivered all that plus some unexpected lessons on the way I relate to the world in my day-to-day life. It occurred to me that if improv changed me like that, perhaps it changes everyone. Curious, I decided to find out.
Most of the Torch's success comes from its enormous community of volunteers, teachers, and students. Jose Gonzales, an exceptionally intuitive person (and — full disclosure — a New Times contributor) who mumbles endearingly and strokes his unruly beard, tells me there are "about 25 to 35 people that are heavily involved in running The Torch, plus, there are around 200 people that self-identify as members of the community. We've probably taught way more people than that, altogether."
The Torch's training program is at the heart of the community. There are six eight-week sessions designed to teach every aspect of longform improv, from the most basic elements of listening and saying "yes" to "the gifts" your scene partner gives to the wildly complex art of editing and structure. Plus, there are breakout classes on musical improv and character development. There's even a free drop-in class on the first Saturday of every month for people who want to try improv before they commit to a full course.