Article 21: Sympathy for Spectators
Sympathy for Spectators
Lee Benzaquin - Round Table Member #010
I would like to introduce a potentially groundbreaking notion to you; consider the possibility that there are absolutely no bad spectators, and the only negative interactions you’ve seen with spectators were a result of the magician choosing to act in opposition to a spectator who wasn’t having it.
A lot of my magic performance is informed by my history with improv. When new improvisers make up a scene together, they’ll tend to play two characters with opposing viewpoints. This is totally understandable, because most of the good in life comes from balance; any basic interior design blog will tell you to contrast styles, any good cookbook will tell you to balance the salty with sweet. And it’s true that any improv scene with two diametrically opposite characters will start off with an interesting contrast of opinions and personality. But, as any improviser who sticks with it long enough will tell you, eventually these scenes turn to boring, predictable sameness. That’s because two diametrically opposing viewpoints tend to lack depth, and art without depth isn’t interesting once you get the gist of it.
Let’s imagine an improvised scene. Two roommates sit in their apartment living room. One says, “Geez, it’s hot in here, did you turn up the heat?” The other roommate responds with, “Yeah, and I like it this way. You like the cold too much! I need warmth!” This is certainly a funny premise, sort of a The Odd Couple setup. We’ll get to see two dopes argue about the state of their apartment. What else do they not share in common? We’re about to find out over the next few minutes of the scene, at it could make for some fun. But my issue is… where does this scene go, once we’ve exhausted every point of contention in the apartment? We’re either going to watch the performers invent inane things to be upset about (“The baseboards are too clean!”), or we’ll watch one of them give in for some reason (“You’re right, I’ll turn the heat down.”), which will feel counter to the character trait that we’ve come to enjoy.
What if, instead, the second character had responded differently? What if they had said, “You’re right, it’s sweltering. I think the thermostat is broken.” This response is definitely less immediately funny than the previous example, but consider where it leads us; now we have two characters feeling the same emotions together, and the conflict is between them and whatever powers control the heat in the apartment. It’s two against one, instead of one against one; it’s as if we added a new character to the story! This is so much more interesting and unpredictable, with room for comedy that surprises us instead of meeting our expectations.
Whenever a magician interacts with an audience member, the rest of the audience is witnessing a scene between two people. And in this scene, we could have two characters disagreeing and arguing, and it absolutely could be funny, provided at least one of them (hopefully the magician) has a sense of humor. But think about all the times you’ve seen a magician with a spectator who’s somehow wasting the show’s time; the magician probably did one of those eye roll things, or cut them off, or acted exasperated. And I’m not saying this is bad; if delivered with a polite smile, an exasperated sigh can be very funny and clearly communicate to both the audience and the bothersome spectator that it’s time to move on. It can be done without making yourself an enemy, and it keeps you on track. But one thing it doesn’t do is champion the spectator, and it certainly won’t surprise the audience.
Remember that anyone who is willing to join you on stage should exit the stage a hero. Think about it at its most basic level; you’re getting paid to be up there, while they’re giving you free assistance. Negating the attitude or energy of anyone who’s willing to give you free help while you get paid is incredibly rude. But it’s also just not that interesting. Is anyone actually surprised when the magician says a little quip about how the person on stage must have been hittin’ the sauce before they came up on stage, or are they just relieved someone else mentioned what they already knew?
What if, instead, the magician matched the energy of the person their new assistant? It happens easiest in close-up and strolling magic, where the magic itself is already a conversation. Next time you perform for someone, ask yourself what their defining characteristic is. Are they excited and giggly about the magic? Are they squinting and skeptical? Do they seem afraid of magic, or unimpressed? Once you’ve got it, try to match their energy. It’s not hard, and you rarely have to change anything about the lines you’ve already planned out. When I perform for someone who can’t wait to see the magic, then neither can I. But when I perform for someone who suspects that magic might be stupid, then so do I. I look them in the eyes, say, “I know, I think this stuff’s ridiculous, too,” and sigh through the first moments of the trick. Some magicians tell us to never disrespect magic by putting it down like this. But that’s not what I’m doing; I make it very clear that this is still my job, and a thing that I care about. I simply use my tone to make it clear that I hear where they’re coming from, and understand their point of view. And you know what? I have converted more skeptics that way, getting them to open up after the first trick and say, “Okay, I want more. Show me more.”
Here’s something that happened at a recent show of mine; I was in the middle of a little mind-reading routine, attempting to divine something my spectator is planning on purchasing in the near future. Having written down my guess, holding it against my chest I asked her to first say what it is. Instead of just saying, “a black camisole,” she got very excited, raised both her hands and closed her eyes, and said, “Okay, so…”
She took the next minute to waft around the stage and describe in great detail this dress thing that she wants to buy, in way more words than necessary. I was performing this effect for the first time, so I was nervous that her dancing was getting in the way of the momentum of the effect. I smiled, interrupted her, and said, “Like a black camisole?” and revealed what I had written. It was… a fine ending. She was surprised I got it correct, didn’t feel insulted that I had cut her off, and the trick ended well. But I continued to think about it, and I realized that I had missed an opportunity to really surprise in that moment. Not a surprise with magic, but with my performance. You see, I have a noticeable speed and brevity to my magic; I often cut myself off on purpose, and stack sentences on top of one another. So I felt that even in this moment, her speech patterns were unlike my own and therefor a problem. But if instead, I had switched my energy to match hers, we would have seen a side of me nobody had seen yet. What if I had gasped and danced around the stage too, asking more about it, miming wearing it? We already have one person who’s excited about this imaginary camisole, why not get both people excited about it? What if I had paid better attention and noticed this character trait of hers even before I wrote down my prediction, and when I did write it I started to match her from the get-go? I could have pretended to really “get in her head” and dance around the way she already had been.
This all comes down to paying close attention to your spectators, and then choosing to honor their current state of mind. The wonderful (and most challenging) thing about magic is that it runs so much deeper than any spectator is aware of, and that means that there are ways to surprise them on levels deeper than just “magic.” We can surprise an audience with our jokes, our movement, our choice of props, and a thousand other things. Why not try to surprise them by paying attention and acknowledging their value?