In which Our Hero misquotes Shakespeare.
“This above all: to thine own game be true.” —Hamlet, Act 1 Scene 3.
It’s very easy to forget the game.
But the game is the most important thing.
Some performance is only game. Tennis, for instance, is only game: and look how much money that earns.
The Rehearsal
My scene partner and I rehearsed today. We lacked pleasure because we had forgotten the game.
The original game was simple: I make my partner lick a thing. Like when children find a bug and dare each other to eat it.
It wasn’t fun anymore. We knew it was coming. We knew he would do it. There was no tension, no conflict.
So we changed it.
Now, we begin with a eulogy for a piece of the space: “We are gathered here today to say goodbye to the power outlet.”
Then we play rock-paper-scissors.
The loser, as a ritual of farewell, must lick it.
As the scene escalates, so do the lickables. The floor. The bottom of a shoe. The teacher.
We didn’t have a game. Now we have a game.
The game? Rock-paper-scissors.
But with stakes!
The Farce
In Improv class, I realized the rule applies to everything.
We played a farce: a train compartment. One person enters, perfectly normal except for one grotesque tic. They repeat it. Then a second person enters, takes pleasure from that game, and — after a long time enjoying their tic (longer than you think) — adds their own tic, heightening the first. Then a third person. Then a fourth.
The game is simple: take the game from the person before you, heighten it through your play, and pass it on.
Simple is nice.
Simple is hard.
You have to feel the scene. Is it falling down? Are you talking over the game with “train compartment” nonsense? Are you heightening or dominating or smothering?
When everyone played the game, the farce appeared by itself.
When someone forgot, everything froze.
The game makes the show. Always has. Always will.
The Handstand
This morning, I flipped upside-down.
My first handstand (wall-assisted), then onto a peer’s back, who rolled me forward, turning us both into a ball.
A new game: gravity as partner.
I’d forgotten the joy of inversion.
The Father
My father arrived in Étampes today. He wants more than anything to see a class.
I’d love to have him: to share my play space. The school forbids it.
No visitors, no cameras, no phones. We even sign a “no recording” oath, like monks taking vows.
Why so strict?
Because clowning is vulnerable.
I’ve seen people bare grief. I’ve seen them make absolute fools of themselves (and not the good kind).
Once, a student scraped his false teeth along the floor before popping them back in. The room gasped. Disgust and horror.
Once, I yelled at the teacher. Their instruction felt like trash; maybe provoking me was the point.
This isn’t for YouTube. This is for us.
The school protects its game.
It keeps the outside world out, so the play inside can live.
The Lesson
The game is everything: the lick, the tic, the flip, the secret room.
When you forget the game, everything dies.
When you play it, life appears.
Protect the space so you can play the game.
Then find the game.
Release all else.
Play the game.
And when you lose it, start again.
That’s what makes it a play.
Julian Wise 