Back when it premiered in the middle of Lockdown Summer 2020, “Ted Lasso” felt like something more than a welcome distraction. Its unapologetic, earnest, insistent optimism seemed important somehow, like buying into its sunny view of the world was an act of resistance in dark times.
Now it’s five years later, that much farther down the dark path. And my wife’s unapologetic, earnest, insistent optimism delivered its own little act of resistance. “It’s a Love Story,” her improvised romantic comedy, was the second production by our friend Willem Van Den Brink (my own show, “As Seen on TV,” was the first). Like mine, “It’s a Love Story” was a full-length unscripted genre play, or “narrative longform” in improv lingo. Unlike mine, it was a big cuddly hug from first rehearsal to final bow.
This show was Kiki’s directorial debut, a shocking thing to say about someone with 20 standout years in the field. This wasn’t merely a rom-com, but a rom-com with a laserlike focus on positivity. The romantic couple would always fall in love at first sight, always break up tragically, and of course reunite for a happy ending. The soundtrack would be entirely Taylor Swift.
I was super happy when Kiki asked me to join her cast, and a bit surprised. That’s not false humility, I swear! I could list you my strengths in improv, and grounded emotional connection (this show’s primary focus) would not be near the top. But the director had faith in me to work on that weaker muscle while bench-pressing the stuff I’m already good at (side support, driving stories, funny characters).
So I found myself among an all-star cast who clicked from the start. Our pocket aces were the crew: all-world talent Emil Struijker-Boudier in the tech booth and Amanda Tse providing live violin accompaniment. It was a supergroup in the making, and we all knew it. At the end of the first rehearsal, Benjamin meant to say “weeks” when he said “I’m excited to spend the next eight years with you.” We erupted in cheers.
To say Kiki poured herself into the show is an understatement. This was her literal labor of love. She baked sweet treats for every single rehearsal, sending the cast WhatsApp polls about what she should make next. (The lemon poppy seed loaf was my personal favorite.) She decided to make a friendship bracelet1 for every single member of the audience. No small project: Kiki estimates each bracelet took an average of six minutes, and she made 200 of them. As if all that wasn’t enough, Kiki decided the audience should have free popcorn, too. So she and her AD Niharika ordered movie-theater cartons and twelve kilos of the stuff, approximately twice as much as needed.
Yes, I married Leslie Knope.
Throughout all of this, there was the format itself to practice. Every Wednesday night we drilled on meet-cutes, romantic montages, and emotional vulnerability. The directors emphasized safety onstage, which is de rigueur these days, but was more intensive than I’ve yet experienced. Our AD Niharika was also our intimacy coordinator and helped us get physically comfortable: “Will you hold my hand?” “Can I kiss your cheek?” Like any habit, the repetition brought comfort. By the end of the process, we trusted each other implicitly.
In short, over 50% of Kiki’s directorial energy was spent making her cast and crew feel safe as kittens, so we could play like kittens. It was a bold and smart move—like most directors, I was too wrapped up in the complexities of my own show format (read: up my own butt) to prioritize things like “Is the cast having a good time?”
It all worked. Some aspects of the show came to us naturally, like creating the “wacky best friends.” Others were genuine puzzles, like how to break up the couple in such a way that they could happily reunite at the end. And the defining nature of improv is that you just don’t know how these things are gonna play onstage until you do them. So we brought plenty of nervous energy to the stage at Mike’s Badhuistheater on Friday night, which Kiki and Niharika had decorated with an adorable arc of rose petals. (Again: Leslie Knope.)
Reader, we delivered.
Our first of three shows told the story of Jane, the copywriter who moonlit as a DJ, and Bea, the office drone with dreams of teaching astronomy. It included a lengthy subplot in Marfa, Texas, which most of the room didn’t even know was a real place. I got to line-dance, badly.
Opening night went so goddamn well that when we convened on Saturday to prep for our second and third shows, Kiki’s primary advice was not to try to match it. Well, imagine our surprise and delight when show 2 (Anna the D&D player; Jans the doctor) went just as well. That night we played our final show to an utterly packed house, forcing us to deploy an extra row of chairs. It was what we call a “hot crowd,” and we went out with a bang (Hugo the guitar maker; Brendan the business analyst). When the audience jumped to its feat to give us a standing ovation, I was flattered, but I also thought: “You’re damn right.”
It’s such a strange thing we do, planning and rehearsing for months so we can deliver only a few performances for the audience members lucky enough to be there. There’s often talk of extensions and sequels, and as early as the bar hangout after the show, we were already blabbing about future performances like they’re a foregone conclusion. (Improvised Hallmark Christmas romcom, anyone?) Sometimes these dreams come to pass; sometimes they don’t. Stay tuned.
In the days after the show, Kiki found reasons to keep working. She baked more cakes and banana breads. She made additional friendship bracelets for show attendees with special requests. She wasn’t ready for the show to be done.
And can you blame her? Neither was I. We made a happy little bubble together, and I’m just so lucky to have been a part of it.
