It’s Saturday night and I’m standing alone at the back of a north London pub when a befuddled-looking couple in matching anoraks come up and ask if this is the queue for the show. My heart sinks. I’d come to This Doesn’t Leave the Room, a night of improvised comedy hosted by the Free Association, with a theory: that improv – that most ridiculed of comedic forms – is finally becoming cool, thanks to a slew of millennial sitcom star practitioners and a stream of trendily branded shows. But as I trudge up a staircase into a room full of empty seats – me on one side, the confused couple on the other – I realise I may have been mistaken.
But then, all of a sudden, the atmosphere changes. People start flooding in with a sense of anticipation – rambunctious groups of friends, twentysomethings on dates, a trio of glammed-up girls warming up for a big night out (one of them is wearing a corset and waving a bottle of wine) – until there’s barely room to breathe. Finally, I relax: improv really might be the hottest ticket in town.
Relaxation might not be your first instinct when faced with improv, a branch of comedy that involves a team of performers inventing all their material on the spot. Tonight, the tension is palpable; the room is small enough for me to see the performers’ hands shaking. My nerves shift direction: what if there are no good ideas? What if it simply isn’t funny?
“What if you don’t think of anything? What will happen?!” is what Kiell Smith-Bynoe’s friends say when the Ghosts and Stath Lets Flats star invites them to his hit improv show Kool Story Bro. “I’m like: let me worry about that.” Does he worry? “Never!” Ambika Mod, star of Netflix smash One Day and dedicated improviser, admits the risk is real. “When it goes badly – and no matter who you are or how long you’ve been doing improv, it’s still possible to do a bad show – it’s obviously a hellscape from which there’s no fleeing.”
For most Brits, improv will bring to mind five words and one question: Whose Line Is It Anyway?. Hosted by Clive Anderson, the Channel 4 programme brought improv to the masses in the 1990s, yet since then it has been almost entirely absent from the zeitgeist – and its reputation is in the doldrums. Compared with sketch and standup, improv is seen as “the ugly stepchild in the comedy family”, says the Free Association’s co-founder Graham Dickson. Sam Russell from improv troupe Shoot from the Hip also likens the form to an unwanted sibling: the “beaten little brother in the corner”.
It can also seem extremely nerdy. “You said it, not me!” laughs Smith-Bynoe. The anxiety-fuelled nature of watching improv combined with that insular geekiness can be off-putting – and improv’s sidelining has led to a vicious cycle, says Russell. “When you see a bad standup, you go: that’s a bad standup, not standup comedy is bad. But most people haven’t seen a lot of improv. So if you see some and it happens to be bad, you go: I hate improv comedy. It just needs that exposure.”
Finally, it’s getting it. And Kool Story Bro – which is about to set off on a 15-date nationwide tour – is leading the charge. The show riffs on audience members’ weird anecdotes – a university student finding a snake in a kitchen cupboard; someone’s dad hiding his baldness from his family for 40 years – making it impossible to rely on any rehearsed material or established gags. This Doesn’t Leave the Room has a similar premise, with improvisers building scenes around an embarrassing story told live by a special guest such as Made in Chelsea’s Jamie Laing or Paul from The Traitors.
These shows may provide a cliche-dodging twist on the standard improv setup, but such recognisable names are clearly the real draw: Kool Story Bro features three members of the Starstruck cast (Lola-Rose Maxwell, Nic Sampson and Emma Sidi), plus big-name guest hosts including Lily Allen and Mo Gilligan. Mod’s improv shows – such as 3, which will see her perform alongside Maxwell and Dickson later this month – are now sellouts. The sense of legitimacy and sprinkling of stardust these TV regulars provide is single-handedly rescuing improv’s reputation.
In the US, this connection between improv and screen talent is deep-seated but inverted: the improv establishment churns out the stars of tomorrow. As a teenager, Mod had “this weird fantasy about running off to Chicago in my 20s and studying improv”, having realised how many actors and comedians from her favourite sitcoms had followed that very path. Troupes including LA’s the Groundlings, Chicago’s Second City and its Amy Poehler-founded spin-off Upright Citizens Brigade have long produced comedy’s brightest stars, including John Belushi, Will Ferrell, Lisa Kudrow, Tina Fey, Kristen Wiig, Ayo Edebiri and many more.
In the US, improv institutions often double as drama schools, while “we have a really strong theatre training tradition in this country”, says Shoot from the Hip’s Luke Manning. But thanks to the Free Association, that’s also changing. After graduating from Durham university, Mod signed up for classes there and “became obsessed. It was almost like my drama school. Improv teaches you connection, listening, groundedness, building character and how to make bold, interesting yet logical choices. Whenever anyone asks me how to get into acting or wants advice, I always tell them: go and learn improv.”
This is exactly what Dickson – who also performs with period drama-spoofing improv troupe Austentatious as well as Kool Story Bro – hoped to bring to the UK when he set up the Free Association a decade ago. While studying in the US, he fell in love with “Chicago-style long-form”: distinct from both the competitive game-based improv of Whose Line Is It Anyway? and more theatrical “narrative” improv – and hoped to continue after returning to the UK. But the scene was “a wasteland. Like meeting with four or five other people, none of whom are professional actors, in a room above a school, and then doing a show to literally two people.”
Yet this is precisely what some people are looking for: a significant chunk of improvisers are hobbyists. The Free Association offers classes to wannabe performers as well as members of the public looking to step outside their comfort zone or as team-building exercises for businesses. But this association with inclusivity and amateurism can repel paying customers and cultural gatekeepers. As such “it’s been what feels like a personal crusade at times to get improv to be more respected”, says Dickson.
Still, the sense that improv is as much for the gratification of the performers as the punters persists even in the professional sphere. This Doesn’t Leave the Room did make me laugh, but I became so sweatily invested in the improvisers’ success that I mostly felt delighted for them when they landed on a great joke.
Mod describes improv as “fucking fun”, as well as a way to ground herself; while her TV success means elements of her life now feel “very cushy and detached from the real world”, improv remains “so exposing. There’s nothing to hide behind on stage. I can never get complacent.” For Smith-Bynoe – who was 13 when he joined improv troupe Junior Blaggers (a youth offshoot of Blaggers, which featured Black comedy circuit stalwarts Richard Blackwood and Curtis Walker) – it scratches another itch. “[Improvisers] are all attention-seeking show-offs. Being an actor is one thing, but being like: ‘I’m not waiting for a script, I’m gonna act now’; that’s attention-seeking.” Dickson describes improv as “the greatest love of my life”, and he and Mod single out the sense of community it provides as of particular value (“people get really addicted to that in a really nice way”).
This surplus of genuine human connection means live improv offers a respite from the sort of overly polished comedy often encountered on social media: it is ephemeral, visceral and unrepeatable. At the same time, these qualities make it perfect TikTok fodder. Shoot from the Hip began filming their shows after the pandemic and within months were amassing 100,000s of views (they now have 1.8 million followers on TikTok). Manning believes the popularity is linked to a sense of authenticity: “you can tell it’s really live and in the moment.” Crowd work – where comedians converse off-the-cuff with the audience – is big on social media, points out Smith-Bynoe. “People are like: oh my gosh I can’t believe they thought of that on the spot – and that’s our whole show.” And while standups can’t post jokes from their current shows online as it would ruin the surprise for live audiences, that’s never an issue with improv.
Despite their online success, Shoot from the Hip are focused on getting improv back to its old haunt: TV. “That’s something we hope to achieve in the next year or two,” says Manning. Smith-Bynoe thinks improv “needs” to be on TV in order to broaden its audience and recruit the next generation of performers. But also so it can finally escape the shadow of a certain 1990s cultural artefact. When he mentions improv, “people are still like: oh, like Whose Line Is It Anyway?” he says with total exasperation. “Like, that finished 20 years ago!”
Kool Story Bro is touring 10 April to 22 May. 3 is at Soho theatre, London, 29 March. Shoot from the Hip are appearing at various UK venues this spring.
