Periodic reminder that the Hideout Theatre is continuing to raise funds to move to its new home: if you haven’t, or haven’t in awhile, donate a few bucks here.

Improv marathons are nothing new; many theaters around the world have them in various incarnations.¹ The Hideout’s annual version, running since 2010 or so, features eight top-notch improvisers (some local, some visitors) who are invited/dared to perform 48 shows in a row—50 minutes onstage, a 10-minute break, and repeat—from Friday afternoon to Sunday afternoon. Each hour features a different guest troupe bringing a new improv format, ranging from the mundane to the insane, sometimes specifically calculated to mess with the marathoners’ sleep-deprived brains. (Imagine being awake for 30 hours and then asked to perform improv in the dark. Imagine doing improvised Shakespeare in hour 47.)

I was never invited to be a marathoner, and I’m more than okay with that, for two reasons. First, there always were and always will be better choices. Second, just as importantly: if I were ever asked, I would say yes. And I’ve been too old for that shit since some time in my late 20s.

Anyway, watching this thing is more than entertaining enough. Over time I probably accumulated 48 hours in the Hideout Marathon audience. For a few years, my habit was to wake up stupid-early on Sunday and attend the final 10ish hours (my own mini-marathon) so I could see the players at their absolute weirdest. Thanks to the magic of streaming, I can still join in from all the way over here, and the time-zone difference lets me enjoy witching-hour improv with my morning smoothie!

Like in any marathon, some players manage it better than others. There are many stories of marathoners losing all sense of time and space—someone once told me they hallucinated a third theater. One year, John Ratliff completely lost his voice and was given a small whiteboard to convey snippets of dialogue. I would guess some have dropped out entirely, though I’m not aware of any (I do recall Halyn stealing micro-naps backstage, as is her God-given right). When I think of the average marathoner, I think of Patrick Creamer: an absolute zombie on the sidelines who sprang to life, cheerful and energetic, the moment he was needed onstage. They’re positively inspirational. 

On the basis of many a marathon viewing, I’ve long said that improv would be twice as good overall if the players weren’t allowed to sleep for 24 hours in advance. We’re constantly battling our “smart brains” onstage, me more than most, as we struggle to be spontaneous and inventive after a lifetime of carefully planning every other part of our lives. Like a party drug, sleep deprivation shuts your smart brain down; you physically lose your ability to give a shit. It’s a marvelous place to be, and a marvelous thing to witness.

Of course I was part of the visiting guest act many times, often at inconvenient hours. Much like with Maestro, it’s a struggle to recall favorite individual moments when the marathon lives in my brain as a Technicolor Dreamcoat of silly improv memories. But I’m especially proud of the “A Thousand Miles” audience singalong that concluded my History Under the Influence set one year, the audio of which was somehow recorded by my phone.

I shouldn’t fail to mention that the marathon is not only a weekend of silliness but a fundraiser for the Hideout Youth Program, which teaches improv to neurodivergent and at-risk kids. I’m unqualified to write about it, but someone else should. This program is one of the Hideout’s most important contributions to the Austin community—and, by extension, to other communities where other theaters have been inspired to start their own.

My favorite hour was always the last one, when players were at their loopiest but managed one last burst of adrenaline for the home stretch. For whatever reason a line from Roy Janik lives rent-free in my head, while he was playing a mad genius whose army of killer beanstalks was coming to life: “Yesss… all the advantages of plants… and… all the disadvantages of NOTHING!!” Try coming up with a line like that while in full control of your faculties. You can’t.

At some point, the final hour became a sort of victory lap where the players sat onstage and took turns bursting into tears while heaping love upon each other, the audience, and the theater. It was very sweet, but if I can offer a criticism (permission granted!), I always found it a bit self-indulgent. I’d prefer they returned the final hour to its raison d’etre and go back to the reason we’re all there: watching these half-mad, utterly brilliant performers do the thing they’re uniquely qualified to do.

(Photos, as usual, by Hideout historian Steve Rogers.)

1. Friend of the blog Chris Mead coincidentally just reminisced about the 2010 London Improvathon in his always-excellent newsletter.