David Razowsky - Part 1 - 2/15/07

David Razowsky is a veteran improviser, actor and teacher. In Chicago, he was a member of the second Improv Olympic Harold team, Grime and Punishment, and a long-time writer, actor and director for The Second City. He currently lives in Los Angeles where he is Artistic Director of The Second City, Los Angeles.


JF: Where were you born?

DR: I was born in Chicago, IL.


JF: What were some early influences on your sense of humor?

DR: My mom would take my brother and I to the Adelphi Theater in Chicago on Saturday afternoons, where they would show cartoons and Laurel and Hardy shorts. Every Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve my Mom would stay home and we’d watch the Marx Brothers. So, that was the beginning right there: Charlie Chaplin, The Marx Brothers, Laurel and Hardy. As time went on, we’d watch Monty Python on television. That blew my mind. I couldn’t believe that things that were that ridiculous could be funny. I think that totally influenced a generation. Some of these students don’t know Laurel and Hardy well, certainly don’t know the Marx Brothers well. I’m not making a judgment call on that. That’s just the way things are, but I think it would benefit anybody to watch those films, so they can see how ensemble works, how dynamics work between high status and low status works, physical comedy, and all that kind of stuff. You can learn all that kind of stuff certainly from the Marx Brothers.


JF: So, have you been aware ‘Oh, I saw Laurel and Hardy or the Marx Brothers doing this’ when you’re doing some of your own comedy?

DR: Absolutely, certainly Charlie Chaplin, the silent stuff. I’ve always been a very physical improviser, and aware of my space, and slowness, and low status characters, and the joy of playing low status characters, and connecting with the audience with a way where you’re not attacking them. Instead, you’re saying ‘Why don’t you come on my side? It’s really fun. Look how adorable I am.’ I use that a lot.


JF: When did you know that you wanted to be a performer?

DR: In fourth grade, my family moved to a new house in Chicago. We moved from one place in Chicago to another place in Chicago. My father said ‘Why don’t you take this drama class?’ I didn’t know what drama was. I took Drama for Kids at the Bernard Horwich J.C.C. in Chicago, the Jewish Community Center. I took classes there, and the teacher of the class was also a director of many of the projects there, which had all adults in the show. She said ‘Why don’t you audition for the show?’ I did. I had one line and it was ‘Look at the bird! The bird!’ I was in a panic right until we got onstage. My friend’s mother, Devida Hodges, I’m crying stage right and she clutches me to her breast and says ‘It’s all going to be ok.’ I thought ‘Wow, I don’t even know this lady.’ There was something sexual that went on there [laughs], and I said ‘I wonder if I could do this again.’ So, that’s where that came from. At that moment I said ‘more of this,’ because I’m getting attention and I’m getting attention from a woman, although I was only eight. But I thought ‘I think I know what I want to do.’

I remember driving in a car with my Dad, and I said ‘I want to be an actor.’ And I really belief my Dad said this, although he doesn’t remember saying it. He said ‘Peter Falk is an MD. You might want to do both.’ I don’t think Peter Falk’s an MD. I remember him saying that. That was around the same time, 4th or 5th grade.


JF: He just made that up out of the blue?

DR: I don’t know where it came from. In my head, I remember him saying Peter Falk. I clearly remember where we were driving, around Rockwell and Morris in Chicago. I just remember it so well. Shit like that you can’t make up.


JF: Did you continue acting or doing theater in your teens?

DR: I’ve been solidly working since 4th grade. I don’t mean working in huge productions or anything. I don’t mean being on camera. I took five years of when I was in college. I got a degree in photojournalism from Northern Illinois University. I really fell in love with that. I became the photo editor of the newspaper there. That was a blast to do.

Then I said ‘I want to go back to acting.’ I just happened to want to get back into acting at the exact same time Chicago theater was exploding. I went to Improv Olympic back when it was on Wilton and Belmont, not that this means anything to you, but in their first space. And I took classes from Del. It was just the genesis of Chicago as a theater Mecca, because it really is.

I auditioned for one show and didn’t make it. The director of that show gave my name to John Bergman, a director from Geese Theater Company that performed in prisons. I auditioned into that. That was non-comedic improvisation. I got into that and I toured prisons for a year doing theater in prisons. We were doing mask work and very structured improv in correctional facilities across the United States. I left that after a year and started taking classes at Improv Olympic from Del, directly from Del. I didn’t take classes from Charna at all. I was on the second Harold team after Barron’s Barricudas. We were called Grime and Punishment. It was Mick Napier, Tim Meadows, Richard Label, Madeline Long and myself. That’s who I remember being on that team.

From that Mick and I and a couple other people, Mick started Splatter Theater, which was the first Metraoform show. Metraform became The Annoyance. Mick and I were looking at spaces together where we would open up the new theater. That’s when I got cast in the Touring Company of Second City. So, I said ‘This is where I’m going now. You go that way. I’ll go this way.’


JF: But it was amicable between you guys?

DR: Oh my gosh yes, yes, yes, yes. I think at the time there was Improv Olympic. There was Second City Player’s Workshop, and I think that was it for improv. It was Joe Bill, Susan Messing, Mark Sutton, Ellen Stoneking, Mick, Jennifer Eslin, Mick’s partner. We all started a company called Metraform. We were like ‘We can make an improv structure out of anything’ like ‘queen for a day,’ or ‘I won the lottery,’ structures that weren’t being done at the time. We had a bunch of people at IO working on that thing. Mick wanted to start his own company with all these great people. It was a really amazing time. They started the Annoyance. I did The Real Life Brady Bunch with those guys. I was in New York when then were in New York. I was in L.A. when they were in L.A. The people that came out of that were really good. Faith Soloway and Jill Soloway came out of that show. They went on to do Six Feet Under, to write on it. Jill and Faith were the people behind the Real Live Brady Bunch, which changed everything for The Annoyance. It changed a lot for The Annoyance, that and Coed Prison Sluts.


JF: What were those forms that you were talking about, ‘Queen for a day’ or ‘I Won the Lottery?’

DR: We would get an occupation from somebody. We would see a person have that occupation, then somehow, sometimes through a telegram or something [laughs] they would be alerted that they are now King or Queen. We see all their interactions with the people they work with or their family. It was a long-form. Those are the two I remember.


JF: I’m really curious about that first experience you had out of college with working in prisons with dramatic improv. How was that experience for you, especially with dramatic improv? How did you find it? And how would you compare it with comedic improv?

DR: The experience was amazing. It was very hard. I was twenty five years old. I’m forty seven now. I remember John Bergman, the director, saying ‘We have to beat the fucking Method out of you.’ I had to respond quicker. I became a very physical actor, like I said it was mask work. It was furious. It was visceral. It was connected. It was raw. You’re dealing with things like prison rape. You’re dealing with relationships. You’re going to prison and you’re getting the shit beat out of you by your cell mate, or getting raped by your cellmate. We would deal with that onstage. When we didn’t know what to do, we lift our masks up, ask the guys, women or kids in the audience what do we do at this point. They would tell us. We would put the masks back on and we would play the scene that way. It was intense.

When I left that and went to Chicago and there were piddly little theaters going doing things that I didn’t find very challenging, it made me want more out of theater, and it made me want more out of the work that I do. I was very cynical about profession performances. I was very into guerilla theater, hitting the street, connecting with people. What happened was, I had to let that go, because I’m not a very cynical person. I had to realize this is all a journey, and the journey is about me finding what my voice is and going into that.

I worked with the Steppenwolf theater last year, teaching with them up at California State University, Fresno at the Summer Arts Festival. That changed my life, because it made me realize everything we do is about emotions and connections, and how easy it is for us to watch you emote the yoke of the joke of the scene. It’s the same sort of scene, but it’s deeper. When I see somebody on stage doing some sort of farce, like ‘Hide in the closet my husband’s coming,’ that bullshit, it’s not interesting to me, because I want to see the truth of the scene. What’s the truth of the scene? Humor always comes from you are in a sacred space where you can say whatever the fuck you want to in front of people. This is your opportunity to say it. Do you want to dance around? Do you want to do theater games? Parlor games? I’m not good at that stuff. I’ve auditioned for it, and I’m not good at it. I really respect the people who are good at it, but to me isn’t there more to a fire than that? As Peggy Lee says ‘Isn’t there more to a fire?’

My work is all about challenging myself. This is something I learned out here in L.A.: the only person I’m in competition with is myself. When I say competition with, I don’t mean beating the fuck out of myself. I mean I did this thing yesterday, or I did this thing in a performance, I don’t ever want to do it again. Not saying it’s bad, just saying I did it. Let’s move on. It’s a work in progress my life. That’s what I realized from doing all this stuff.

I have a really blessed life. I get to perform. I get to teach. I get to be the Artistic Director of the Second City out here. I’m respected and I respect people. I just want to see people grow, because I want to grow. If anybody’s going to stop me from growing, I’m going to go ‘Fuck off. I’m out of here.’ Luckily, I don’t have to. Does that answer your question?


JF: Yeah, very much. I have another question about your training up until that point. You said you were a method actor. How did they want to change you and did that change ultimately help you as an improviser?

DR: I never realized what method meant at that point. I’ve hadn’t taken an acting class in my life. I still really haven’t, except for the classes at Second City, which is an acting school but in a different way. So, I kind of new what the guy meant, but what I think he meant was stop thinking and just be. The director would have us just go, go, go. He would have us do something called Biomechanics. It’s a series of physical exercises over and over again to break your body, to move yourself forward, then we would start doing character. He would say ‘Transform,’ and we’d have to transform the character, and transform and transform and transform. That just got you the fuck out of your head. Once you’re out of your head and realize anything could happen, then the world was open to you. It was about getting out of your way. Get the fuck out of your way. Once you get out of your way you can move forward. You can only move forward when you get out of the way. That’s what I learned there.


JF: So, what specifically got you involved in Improv Olympic, and how were the classes when you started there?

DR: I have no idea how I found out about it. I keep trying to think who told me about it, or how do I know about it, because it wasn’t that well-known at the time.

What I got out of it was, well, I had just gotten off of working with John Bergman, who’s just a megalomaniacal task master, but a genius. This guy’s mind worked really, really quick. I kind of picked up on how his mind worked and I really appreciated it, but he was really mean and that was one of the reasons that I left. I probably deserved to be treated that way in a certain respect. I was just a curious kid who didn’t know, and I was probably a pest.

When I went to take classes, again I skipped Charna and went right to Del, what I learned there was the importance of knowing as much as you can know about everything you can know, and the importance of ensemble. I learned about working with people. I learned about not making jokes. Charna kicked me off a team because I was making a joke. I had never been kicked off a team. She kicked me off the team. I was kicked off a team!

I remember the moment, thinking ‘Oh, that was a fucked up thing.’ We were doing a Harold and the topic was Cherry Coke. I found myself on my knees snorting cherry cocaine. I thought ‘Oh man, what the fuck is that?’ Right after that she said ‘I don’t know what happened to you. You used to be really great. Now you’re making jokes out of desperation, so I’m going to kick you off the team.’ I thought ‘Ok, cool. That’s fine,’ then I took a class with a Second City teacher who was teaching at Improv Olympic named Donny DePollo. Donny said ‘If there’s a problem, there’s a solution,’ and worked with me on those things. That was life-changing right there. That class was life-changing.

I pass that on: if there’s a problem there’s a solution. I always look at every student and say ‘I know what you’re problem is, and I’m here to help you, because I’ve gone through every damn thing that every improviser has gone through. I feel like I’ve gotten through it, and have overcome it.’

Then this guy Martin DeMaat at Second City who was a mentor for Mick and many wonderful improvisers, Susan Messing, so many improvisers and actors and artists. He was just so giving and open and kind. We take that and pass it on. He died about six years ago.


JF: Was it difficult for you to adjust to comedic improv? It sounds like you might have lost some of the footing in drama or acting that you had before.

DR: I never considered myself a comedian. I never considered myself a comedic actor. I knew my family is very funny, and I was told I was funny. I never really had a plan. I just kind of have been going where the wind has been taking me, and it’s seemed to have worked out. Yeah, the drama did get in the way. Well, the drama didn’t get in the way. It was just different.

The difference between dramatic improvisation and comedic improvisation is how far do you take it, how absurd to you take it, how seriously do you take what’s going on, because the more seriously you take it the funnier it’s going to be, the deeper it’s going to be, the more shocking turns it’s going to take. What I got out of that, when I kept heightening and heightening and heightening, I realized ‘Oh, that’s the difference between dramatic and comedic improvisation.’

I don’t think I answered your question. I gave you words, so…


JF: [laughs] Yeah, that’s good enough. What were the early shows like at Improv Olympic, and what year did you start performing there?

DR: Lets see, I graduated the Second City Conservatory in 1987, so maybe 1984, 85. I’m thinking in my head that Harolds were forty minutes long. I don’t know why I think that, but I think they were a lot longer than they are now. The people who I looked up to were Barron’s Barricudas, who were the first Harold team. What was wonderful about them was they really worked with Del extensively, so their reference levels were so high, and they were so confident, and they were really good actors, and they knew who they were. These were young people, twenty-two, twenty-three years old. I’m sure I’m romanticizing it a bit, but there were some shows I remember looking at it and thinking ‘I don’t know anything!’ And I don’t mean about improvisation. I mean about life. I mean about history. The shows were really smart.

I believe the difference between people doing Harolds now [and back then] is when I was starting out there weren’t many improv schools. So, people were coming out of say theater school, or …Dave Pasquesi has a degree in philosophy. They had a different background. Their source material for their work was theater. People’s source material for their inspiration now is other improvisers or improvisation. So, what used to be grounded in theater, legitimate theater, is now grounded in comedy. Because it’s grounded in comedy now, there’s a different sensibility. Back then it seemed to be smarter. Whether it was funnier or not, I don’t know. I’m not saying there was a good quality or a bad quality to it. I say it was different.


JF: Do you have a preference between the two? Back then or most of the improv today?

DR: Mmmm, if I see another scene where someone says ‘By the way I fucked your wife’ just to get a laugh, I’m going to shoot myself. I mean, I’m in the trenches. I teach eighteen hours of class a week, and I see what’s going on here. To me, what I appreciate and love, I have a student now who graduated DePaul with a degree in theater, and she’s an improviser. She doesn’t have to tell me she has a degree in theater. I’m looking at her and she has the synthesis of a funny, smart woman, and a good actor. So, my point is that they’re not mutually exclusive. I tell people ‘Take a fucking acting class. Learn upstage from downstage. Go to see plays.’ I think a lot of improvisers don’t go to see plays. They’re not connected.

There’s a problem. The problem I see right now is that the word improviser is like eh, it’s cheap. It’s like the difference between Nordstrom’s and Walmart. People are looking at it that way, and I don’t believe that. If you are an improviser, you are an actor first and an improviser second. You play in a theater. You don’t play in an Improvizanium. You know what I’m saying? You don’t play in an Improvistory, or whatever the fucking word is. You play in a theater. Because you play in a theater, there is an understanding that goes back thousands of years, that you are a fucking actor. So act! Don’t give me phony bullshit, farce-y kind of crap! And I know when you’re not telling the truth.