Ah, Misbehavior...

In Maestro, players are encouraged to misbehave. It's part of the show.

This is elimination-style improv. There are about 12 players who take turns improvising scenes, and at the end of each one the audience scores the scene by applause on a scale of 1-5. Players in the scene win that score, and we progressively eliminate the lowest-scoring players until there is just one left: the Maestro.


The players all wear numbers, which is how the directors always address them.

"Stand up, Number 3," a director might say. Or, "Tell us your secret fear, Number 9." The directors are the ones who set up the scenes, drawing numbers out of a bucket to get however many players they need.

But an improviser who's not officially in a particular scene might enter anyway. Sometimes it's to support, like playing a background restaurant patron if it's clear we're in a cafe.

But sometimes it's to misbehave -- like entering as someone or something that really won't move the story forward. It'll just get a quick laugh and then stagnate what's happening onstage.

Still, the misbehavior does get that initial laugh. So if you do it good-naturedly, it's worth coming out. Because the director will always send you back, and the scene can go on and develop into a good story -- as opposed to a series of gags that seem entertaining, but are ultimately unsatisfying.

So, if you enter with a one-liner, you'll probably hear, "Thank you, Number 5," from the director as he waves you back offstage. You got your laugh, you were acknowledged, you were sent back. And the story goes on.

It's really a lovely thing, this misbehavior. It can make the show when it's done right -- when there's trust between the directors and the players. Players can take risks because they know the directors have their backs and won't let the scene go awry. And directors are grateful to the misbehavers for bringing color to the show.

I think of emotions that way a lot. As soon as I feel jealously or attachment creep up, I give it its due head-nod. "Thank you, Jealously," I say to myself, waving it back into the wings of my mind-proscenium. I'm grateful for the color, and then life goes on.

So long as I can remember to wave it back -- and to laugh.