In Hunter X Hunter, Nen is “life energy”. It is emitted by all living things, but only trained experts can harness its power. Characters use Nen to punch harder, jump higher, shoot magic missiles, move objects without touching them, and write haikus that set people on fire. In a fight, Nen is a finite resource. The more you can generate, the stronger you are, and if you run out, you’re done for.
In improv, “Yen” is attention. It is emitted by all living things, but only trained improvisers can harness its power. Improvisers use Yen to become different people, create objects from nothing, communicate seemingly telepathically, and get big laughs. In an improv show, Yen is a finite resource. The more you can generate, by listening closely and keeping ideas in the air, the funnier and more interesting your shows can be. But if you run out, you’re done for.
The first time I saw an improv show was when, in elementary school, the whole grade was gathered in the library to see some special guests, two members of an improv troupe called “Laughing Matters”. I laughed the whole time. They told a word-at-a-time story about “Bob the one-eyed fish” that had the whole room rolling on the floor and I left wondering, how on earth did they do that?
In college, I joined Georgia Tech’s resident improve troupe “Let’s Try This!” and started to uncover improv’s secrets, only to be confronted with indecipherable magic again and again at theaters like Dad’s Garage, in shows like “Improvised Shakespeare” in Chicago, on YouTube recordings of old UCB Cagematches, and in an embarrassing number of podcasts.
When most people encounter improv, they think, “That’s so funny! I could never do that.” But there’s a few people in every audience who think, “That’s so funny. I have to know how they did that.”
To some of us, the first time we see improv, it feels like magic. Yen is a theory of improv that honors that feeling.
After doing improv for a while, abstract concepts like “suggestions” and “beats” and “games” start to feel very tangible, as if they are an unseen object or magnetic field that shares the stage with the improvisers. The Harold is named in service of this phenomenon– it’s as if there’s this other person, Harold, on stage with you.
In Yen, the forces in improv that feel real are real. And things that are real must be made of something, and that something must be finite.
Think about all of the spinning plates in improv. You have to think about acting, stagecraft, premises, theme, pacing, editing, the audience, your scene partners. When you start out, it’s impossible! You simply cannot pay attention to everything at once.
In improv we talk a lot about getting things “into your bones”. Maybe you had to think a lot about facing the audience when you started out, but it eventually became second-nature.
We commonly explain this change with psychology. The human brain can only pay attention to so much at once. You build habits, so you can do many things onstage subconsciously. This frees up your fixed amount of attention to focus on something else. But there are phenomena that this fails to explain…
You are seated in a black-box theater. A veteran improviser takes the stage. They approach the audience. Are they going to ask for a suggestion? No– they– they’re just looking at us! They haven’t started a scene. They haven’t made a single move. So what is this… overwhelming… presence! This aura you feel! Like a wave of pressure crashing over you. Washing away the anxiety you always feel before an improv show. Quelling all of your fears that something cringe might happen. How?? How is this possible??
Somewhere in the workaday practice of learning to cheat out and listen closely, these little habits add up to something more: Stage presence.
In Yen, we aren’t “offloading habits onto our subconscious.” We’re training our Yen. Each day, we’re learning to pay MORE attention than the day before. And attention is Yen. And our Yen is our aura. Our life force. We’re training to pay attention so powerfully, the whole audience can feel it when we enter the room.
You don’t need to think about it to cheat out? That’s because you’re always paying attention to the stage picture. You project instinctively depending on the size of the venue? You’re always paying attention to the acoustics and to your breath. You’re paying attention to a thousand things. Things the audience cannot see. Things they have never even considered. And they don’t know how, or why, but they can feel your attention, your Yen, all around them.
Attention is real. Attention is Yen. Yen is Magic. Magic is real.
And we’re here to hit the magic gym.
Part of the fun of this approach is picturing improv scenes like they’re an anime battle.
Picture raw Yen as a glob of golden light. If you’ve ever done a “pass the ball”-type improv warmup, Yen is what the ball is made of. When you play a rich fancy man, your Yen flows from you to form a cane in your hand, and a top hat on your head.
Suppose your scene partner makes a move behind your character, and you, the improviser, catch it out of the corner of your eye so as to react to it appropriately. Imagine that the stage is encapsulated by a shimmering dome of energy emitted from your body, linked to you such that if even a single button on a flannel shirt were to slip loose, you would sense it instantly.
And imagine that idea from the beginning of the show, that throwaway line, like a mote of light floating around the stage like a firefly. Imperceptible to the audience, but you see it very clearly. You see it growing, shining brighter, as it feeds on the residual Yen energy being volleyed across the stage from scene to scene, until it shines like the sun. Imagine grabbing that blindingly bright nexus of energy. It engulfs your body. Your next words are suffused with its power, sending a Yen shockwave radiating through the audience, causing them to laugh uncontrollably. That’s a callback.
I’ve been doing improv for ten years. I started in college, I was in a theater company, I won a competition (flex). I’ve been in dozens of classes, hundreds of coached practices, and hundreds of shows. I even did pandemic shows over Zoom (pain).
It’s the longest I’ve done anything. Well, anything besides use the computer. And I still love it! I love it so much. It’s the bedrock of my longest-standing friendships, it’s how I build community, it’s where I find excitement, and it’s how I relax.
But in the middle of it all, it can be hard to feel like I’m making progress, or know what to focus on. Even since my Yen awakening, I’ll attend classes and practices with no real intention for myself besides “this is what I do.” That’s not how I want to be. This is my favorite thing to do– I want to be hype.
And you know what gets me hype? Hunter X Hunter. It’s got that unstoppable animé protagonist who will do anything to get stronger, and when I watch him do a good punch, it makes me want to hit the gym. It’s got a bomb-ass magic system, and when the smart character breaks down a ten-second fight with a twenty-minute monologue, it makes me want to deconstruct my problems like a calculating genius.
In Hunter X Hunter, Nen training is decomposed into four basic techniques, seven advanced techniques, and six specializations. And you better believe I’ve got improv analogues for ALL OF THEM.
When I’m feeling stuck in my improv, or like I don’t know why I’m going to that next practice, I think about the Yen techniques. Which ones haven’t I practiced in a while? How can I BECOME STRONGER?
When I’m struggling with a scene partner, and I don’t know how to make them look good onstage, I think about the Yen specializations. Does one fit them? What does that say about their strengths and weaknesses? What does that make me excited to try, the next time we do a scene together?
And it works. I get hype. I lean in in practice, and in shows.
I don’t think about Yen during shows, there’s no time. I use it to stay motivated, and to have yet one more way to talk on and on about the thing I love.
Thank you for sharing it with me!