Crowley '03 catches comic moments while they're hot

For someone who is so self-assured on stage, Tom Crowley is strangely at a loss for words. Head bent to block out the surrounding din of Café Vivian, the senior member of Quipfire tries hard to offer an example of his favorite memory from performing with the improvisational comedy group.

"Well, there was one time when we did a piece about a guy — a very cold, analytical type of guy — and we gave him this huge big head" (he gestures with his hands, as if holding a large, imaginary beach-ball), "and it was like he could kill people with this head, just by looking at them" (he glares across the table). "So you see this great big head, pulsing away . . . but then this other guy comes along, and we gave him a really big heart" (he Tarzan-thumps his chest, illustratively), "and this guy kind of defeats the bighead guy and everyone was like, 'Yeah, this is great.'"

Perhaps there is great comedic value embodied in a face-off between freakishly disproportionate men. Still, one can't help feeling that even Crowley's animated self-mimicry would leave few wondering why the genre has not been mined further. Sensing this, he concludes the anecdote, somewhat apologetically, by acknowledging, "I guess you kind of had to be there to get it."

Improvisational comedy's uniquely ephemeral nature, says Crowley, is precisely what makes it so special.

"For each audience, it's as if we're saying, 'This is for you.' It's not going to be done again, like a scripted piece — a play or something — would be. We have a few pretty shaky recordings of some of the show . . . we're looking to expand on that."

But the spontaneity of improv as a form also limits the kind of subject matter the group can address. When asked about the group's stand on handling controversial topics on campus — such as, say, race relations or the treatment of homosexual students — Crowley answers, "We stay away from them; it's an unwritten rule. Sometimes, someone might try something out in practice and we'll say, 'No, better not do that kind of thing in a performance."

But isn't this shying away from anything more serious than bloated body parts a little timid? Surely it is the role of art — even transient performance art — to ask risky questions? And wouldn't humor provide a good way to temper a potentially volatile discussion, offering a frank and accessible setting for such discourse?

To be fair to Crowley and the crew, it is a lot to ask of split-second performance. "In scripted comedy, where you have time to write and rewrite, you could certainly come up with something that's both funny and insightful. It's a lot more difficult with improv. And also . . . our performances consist of a lot of games. And when you're playing a game like 'World's Worst Plumber,' the opportunities to discuss things like that don't always arise."

The current comedic climate doesn't help. "If you look at ["Saturday Night Live"] in the '70s, they were pretty edgy. Now, comparatively, they're kind of bland; they don't address those issues," said Crowley.

Still, Quipfire has made some effort in the past to spark debate and controversy on campus. "We have talked about how some of the eating clubs are . . . pretty homogeneous," Crowley says euphemistically.

For now, Quipfire concentrates on simply having fun. The group's performances often coincide with formals, providing comic relief to those who seek it. You can catch Crowley and the rest of Quipfire on Dec. 5th through the 7th at Theatre~Intime. Just leave those oversized organs at home.