Dark Champions
(Sun., Jan. 11, midnight)

Angeliki George: Denise, I know you’re afraid of the water, but I’m going to take you out on the lake. Come on, get in the dinghy. Get in the boat. Come on, give me your hand.

Risa Sang-urai: I’m sorry. A boy just hasn’t touched me, ever.

George: Well, I’m not going to do it to you. We’re just going to row around on the lake. Alright, you ready? We’re fine. It’s made out of wood, it floats, it’s all good. (rowing) Relax a little. Sit back.

Risa: It was so nice of you to ask—ask—ask me. I brought some poetry. I write a little during algebra. I’m actually supposed to be in pre-calc., but my mom says that people would make fun of me if I’m too advanced.

George: Oh, you shouldn’t be ashamed.

Risa: Oh, it’s not shame. It’s just —it’s my mom’s shame. My poem’s called “The Wind in the Willows,” but it has nothing to do with the book. (reading) “The Wind in the Willows. I never read that book. Boy, is he cute.”

George: I’m just going to kiss you on the cheek.

Risa: (blushing) I’m going to fall over the boat.

George: All right, can I kiss you on the hand?

Risa: OK. (being kissed) Is this like a bunt?

George: It definitely ain’t a homer, but at least we’re both at bat.


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Laugh It Up, continued
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Risa Sang-urai:
“A Different Show Every Time”

We’re meeting at Java ’n’ Jazz, near Union Square in the Village. Risa Sang-urai is about 10 minutes late, but that’s OK, as it gives me time to finally wrangle a table for our interview. I also chat with De La Vega, an Afro-wig-wearing artist, who’s selling T-shirts with confounding messages like “Become Your Dream.” As I scan the bustling coffee-shop crowd, the artist asks me what the girl looks like. Up to this point, the only thing I’ve heard about Risa is that, “pound for pound, she’s the funniest girl you’ll ever meet.”

Moments later, a diminutive Asian woman enters, armed with a gargantuan bag of fast food, and wearing thick eyeglasses and a woolen driver’s cap. As has become my routine, I call out Risa’s name and, unlike the past dozen women, this one actually flashes a smile my way.

Risa warns me, at the start of the interview, that she’s famished. She begins unpacking a Family Size meal from Boston Market, a seemingly endless supply of mashed potatoes and mac ’n’ cheese. “It’s what I crave,” she says. In between bites, during her improbable, incongruous display of consumption, she mentions that this always happens to her after rehearsal.

Dark Champions (www.darkchampions.com) was formed when Risa and six other friends banded together in April 2002. They were all classmates at the Upright Citizens Brigade (UCB), the multi-faceted nexus of New York’s improv comedy scene. Like other troupes, UCB grew out of an established organization—Chicago’s Improv Olympics. UCB found its niche in the 1990s with a unique brand of improv, a form called “the Harold.”

In short, the Harold consists of three sets, each with three skits. The idea is that the themes established in the first set become through-lines for next two. Though every skit is completely spur-of-the-moment, UCB found success because the segments, however disparate, seemed to tie together by show’s end. Comedy Central gave the performers a television show, and by February 1999, UCB had its own theater in New York’s Chelsea neighborhood. Suddenly, the group’s innovative “long-form” improv had become a comedic standard.

In the late 1990s, UCB began teaching a tiered workshop series, with Level Three graduates soon forming their own groups. Dark Champions has already established itself as one of the darlings of the UCB litter. By January of this year, they’d earned a performance slot in their parent group’s theater, an honor that almost all UCB grads aspire to.

As Risa recounts her group’s history, basketball metaphors abound. She compares Dark Champions’ free-form style to a pick-up game; she says she was recruited and drafted onto the team; they call the group’s director “coach.” Her brand of improv comedy is like a sport—competitive, satisfying and, apparently, hunger-inducing. “I feel spent after rehearsals,” she says. “There’s so much thinking on your feet.”

With this prompting, I have a loaded question: “How exactly do you rehearse improvisation?” She grins impishly and explains. The rehearsal is like a workout, with emotional drills, reaction drills—anything to heighten the senses. On stage, there are typically only two or three people performing, but the others need to be constantly aware, looking to join into the action, or else “edit” the scene and start a new one. “Anyone who looks like they’re resting really isn’t,” she says. “If they are, they’re not doing their job.”

One of Risa’s favorite on-stage tactics is bucking typecasts, a habit she picked up while performing in Without a Net at Penn. “For women in improv, there’s this misconception that they’ll play damsels, stereotypes,” she says. “If given the opportunity, I prefer to play any role as a man. It shows my range, and it jolts the scene from where it might have gone.” Sometimes this makes things a little uncomfortable—as was the case when she chose to be a bearded lady having an abortion on stage—but it’s all in the interest of pushing the envelope.

Now, with a sell-out at the UCB theater checked off the “to-do” list, Risa says Dark Champions is hoping to branch out. “It opened doors for shows at other improv venues throughout the city, like the People’s Improv Theater.” In addition, she’d like to be selected for a Harold team, as one of the groups that compete head-to-head on Thursdays in the UCB’s prestigious “Harold Nights.”

Like most aspiring comedians, Risa has a day job. Hers is interning on the Charlie Rose Show. “It’s tough to survive on improv,” she says. Still, her dream is to follow in the footsteps of past UCB members, like Amy Poehler, who went on to write for and perform in TV shows and is now in the cast of Saturday Night Live. “UCB carries prestige in comedy circles, but it’s usually considered a stepping stone to something else.” Whether or not the elusive SNL job ever materializes, “I will always continue to do improv, in some capacity,” says Risa. “It’s a rush to have a different show every time we perform, and it will always be a part of me.”

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