Yes, and
The non-human touch
Everyone knew the fourth member of their improv troupe was an alien. It was on all the social-media ads and even up on the marquee. At first it helped sales: everybody wanted to find out what improv was like when part of the group was a different species from a different planet.
Once they’d found it out, they mostly didn’t come back. There was a limit to how funny random disconnection and incomprehension was to most people without any structural lift to it. Svvibiblan, the alien, could only say, “Here is an orange”, or “I have brought you this arachnid”, so many times before audiences stopped finding it funny and started finding it tedious, no matter what structure their teammates tried to build around it. They were like a five-foot-tall grey wrecking ball through the principles of improv. There were a few truly hard-core surrealists who loved it. Everyone else went off to see the next new thing.
Bex, Mickey and Trav thought they were going to get to do something else — “Back to real improv,” said Mick. “Or maybe stand-up,” said Trav. But the house was never all the way empty, always half-full — and curiously dead.
“I know it wasn’t funny when Svvibiblan asked what a bobwhite is, but we did manage to build up that sequence with the tyres,” said Bex backstage between sets. “And nothing. I’ve never seen such a cold audience.”
Trav couldn’t stop pacing. “That’s the thing with improv, if one thing doesn’t hit you try another thing. But tonight? Nothing. I am running dry, people.”
Mickey contemplated the problem. “Games are usually such a good idea, and Svvibiblan really got into the Stand–Sit–Lie Down variant. And still no response from this audience.” If Stand–Sit–Sploosh wouldn’t get them, Mickey thought, what would?
Svvibiblan spoke from the alcove they compressed in between sets. “I agree, the colleagues were unusually unresponsive. We must hope for more engagement from crowds in future.”
“Not colleagues, Svvibiblan,” said Bex, hitting the double v perfectly. “Audience.”
“Yes,” they said. “Colleague audience. It is good to study each other.”
Trav rolled his eyes, but Mickey cocked their head. “Who’s in our audience, Svvibiblan?”
“My fellow anthropologists,” said Svvibiblan. “Xenologists, I suppose — if they’re studying me, I’m the only anthropologist in the room. But they probably started out as anthropologists, given the timing of my arrival. It is close enough to be considered colleagues.”
Trav whistled. “Holy crap. We’re the hot ticket for the anthropology crowd?”
“Yeah,” grumbled Bex, “and they’re not here to have a good time.”
Mickey pursed their lips. “Well. We’ll see if we can fix that. Even anthropologists have to laugh at something.”
This turned out to be less true than they had hoped. They upped their rehearsal time. They watched more footage of successful improv troupes, looking for elements Svvibiblan connected to most. They learnt the scratching noise of Arcturan laughter at a song improvisation game.
“You like this one?” Trav asked, wincing at the prospect of having to sing.
“It is funny because they’re hominins,” said Svvibiblan.
“I — no,” said Mick. “That’s not why.”
“I think it is, though,” said Bex.
They tried the song game with the anthropologists in the audience, Trav’s misgivings notwithstanding. No one wanted to shout bands or topics to get them started. The darkness of the auditorium was filled with the glow of screens as the anthropologists took notes.
“One of the main principles of improv is that you’re supposed to take what you’re given and build on it,” said Bex after. “Yes, and. We all know that. Usually that’s taking what the other performers give you. But the audience is part of that too. What we’ve been given is an audience full of anthropologists. What if we just go with that?”
Trav looked sceptical. “Anthropology-themed scenes?”
“And letting Svvibiblan do a warm-up set of anthropology jokes. Yeah. They can study us all they want, but I want them laughing as they do it.”
“It’s our job to get them laughing as they do it,” said Mickey. “I think you’re right.”
“How about you, Svvibiblan?” said Trav. “How do you feel about doing a warm-up set like that?”
They looked thoughtful. “‘Yes-and’ is one of the main principles of this structure. I feel Bex has analysed it well. We will try this. And if not —” The air whistled across their humidifying section. “We will try something else.”
“That’s the spirit, Svvibiblan,” said Bex.
The alien did not want their human fellow troupe members to see their stand-up in advance, which made all of them distinctly nervous. They all clustered in the wings, holding their breaths for the first joke. Svvibiblan glided up to the microphone.
“What’s the difference between humanity and yogurt? It doesn’t take millennia for yogurt to develop a culture.”
There was a pause as the anthropologists realized what was happening, and then snorts, chuckles, some actual laughter, a few ooohs. The troupe nudged each other and waited for the alien to go on, holding their breaths in anticipation. Svvibiblan waited longer than a human would have and then said, “An anthropologist walks into a bar and asks: why is this joke funny?” The audience roared, and they said, “Excellent, any of you may meet with me after the show to explain.”
“I think they’ve warmed up our audience,” said Bex softly. “Now it’s up to us to play to their cues.”
“I’ve been working up some relativism references,” said Mick.
Trav nodded. “I hear Franz Boas always gets a laugh. Let’s see if the alien can do an impression of him. Even if it’s ridiculous, it’ll be kind of great.”
The story behind the story
Marissa Lingen reveals the inspiration behind Yes, and.
Every family has its own ways of showing affection. My family has fully embraced ‘learning each other’s nerd ways’ as one of ours — and my 21-year-old godson has fallen in love with anthropology. What else is a science-fiction writer to do, but to write a story with aliens and anthropologist jokes?
I’ve actually been fascinated with improv as a locus for science fiction, because of the fluid nature of it. I can’t see any reason why we’d stop doing it — but the inputs will change in interesting ways. If the performers shout “I need an object”, ‘typewriter’ is still on the list, but so is ‘cell phone’, so are ‘earbuds’, any number of other things. The act of performing improv remains, the content of the improv shifts. Maybe the partners we perform it with can shift, too.
doi: https://doi.org/10.1038/d41586-023-02643-0
This story originally appeared on: Nature - Author:Marissa Lingen
