Minneapolis improv comedy kings bow down to 'Harold'

"Chia Pets!"

The voice rang out above dozens of others as the near-sellout crowd at Huge Improv Theater scrambled to suggest something nostalgic.

Then members of an improv comedy team stepped up to relate anecdotes and associations the phrase brought to mind — like how the shoulder-pad fashion trend of the 1980s made every woman look like a linebacker.

Ten minutes later, the team and the audience were in the thick of three off-kilter narratives, following a quintet of musically inclined fur trappers; a father intent on watching bizarre VHS tapes with his son; and a quest for the secret of Rob Lowe's eternal youth. By the end of a half-hour, all of those seemingly unrelated stories managed to dovetail into something resembling a satisfying conclusion.

Welcome to the Harold. Or at least, one interpretation of the Harold. It's all part of Huge's "Harold Turns 50" celebration of what's arguably the most important cornerstone of long-form improv.

So what exactly is a Harold? Basically, it's a set of guidelines that help an improv team develop a scene. "The simplest explanation is just three story lines, each visited three times," said Huge co-founder Butch Roy.

You can pick out the familiar beats of the Harold in just about every TV sitcom.

"A group of performers will take an audience suggestion and build on that idea in ways that are unpredictable even to the performers," said Molly Chase, director of House of Whimsy, one of three teams that are performing at Huge every Saturday through the end of October. "There will likely be moments of poignancy and humor, and the whole room — audience and improvisers — are in it together.

"It's immediate, it has never happened before, and will never happen again."

The first Harold was performed in 1967 by the Committee, a San Francisco-based comedy group known for experimenting with narrative structures that employed improv games and exercises.

When the group decided that it needed a name for its creation, one member reportedly cracked that "Harold" would be nice. The handle stuck, to the slight chagrin of generations of performers who have had to explain its origin.

Committee member Del Close dedicated much of his career to honing and teaching the Harold. In the 1994 book "Truth in Comedy," generally regarded as the improviser's bible, he and co-authors Charna Halpern and Kim "Howard" Johnson explain that "the Harold is like the space shuttle, incorporating all of the developments and discoveries that have gone before it into one new, superior design."

Close's efforts as an instructor and co-founder of Chicago's iO Theater became the foundation for much of American comedy as we know it.

No local venue feels that influence more acutely than Huge Theater. With "Harold Turns 50," Minnesota's most visible improv venue is paying homage to its roots and giving some of the Twin Cities' top improvisers a chance to get back to the basics.

"There are a lot of improv structures, but there's something magic about the Harold, the way you start with an opening and it brings out a truth," said Drew Kersten, director of the Kempt team.

Kempt assistant director John Gebretatose agreed that it's all about capturing those truths. "It's people playing with confidence … making comment on real-life things. Like women's shoulder pads in the '80s and how they had to look like football players just to get through life. For me, that's what makes it successful: a through-line or a narrative commenting on society."

One of the reasons improv remains a hard sell for some audiences is that it's the ultimate "had to be there" entertainment. It's difficult to explain how the shoulder pad observation might snowball into a scene about Jennifer Aniston devouring the life force of her young fans, but for those watching the performers feed off one another's energy and make connections, the evolution is electrifying.

Those hazy connections are very much by design, Kersten said. "If the opening is about Diet Coke, you don't want to see three scenes about Diet Coke. You want them spread out as far as possible, so when they start to come back together it brings a bit more of that magic."

The laughs in a Harold show seldom come from a standard setup/punchline delivery. In fact, one of the first rules laid out in "Truth in Comedy" is "Don't go for the jokes." Instead, the comedy in a long-form show comes largely from watching relatable situations spiral into unexpected directions.

"The least successful Harolds are when we let our 'I know where this needs to go' take over and steer things instead of discovering all the way through," Roy said. "Because if we know where it needs to go, so does the audience."

The form's flexibility is obvious watching the three teams of five performers in the "Harold Turns 50" showcase.

On opening night, the House of Whimsy team produced a trio of focused, slice-of-life vignettes about crumbling relationships, disillusioned carnival workers and spiteful chess players. While the scenes frequently veered into weirdness, they remained grounded in a way that drew laughs of recognition from the crowd.

The Speficicity team, on the other hand, dove deeper into surreality right off the bat with a scene about two buddies literally riding each other's good vibes like a surfboard. That story line soon intertwined with two bird-watchers who misplaced a baby, and a home brewer crafting a hugely popular beer that smelled of cat urine, all of it building into a crescendo of absurdity that had the audience roaring for very different reasons.

As much reverence as the local improv community has for the Harold, the form represents something different in the Twin Cities than it does in improv hotbeds such as New York, Chicago and Los Angeles, where making it onto a high-profile Harold team can be a major career steppingstone. Many performers move to those cities for that reason.

"In Minnesota it's a strong part of the tradition, but at Huge Theater, Harold is only one of the forms that gets done," Kersten said.

While Close did some work with Minnesota comedy godfather Dudley Riggs and his Brave New Workshop, Huge encourages experimentation and focuses more on building strong teams of performers, regardless of form.

"Team first, format second: That's what differentiates us from the coasts," Gebretatose said. "We're better anyway," he added with a laugh.

Ira Brooker is a St. Paul-based freelance writer and editor.

WASHINGTON — Rioters locked up for their roles in the Jan. 6 Capitol attack were released while judges began dismissing dozens of pending cases Tuesday after President Donald Trump's sweeping grant of clemency to all 1,500-plus people charged in the insurrection that shook the foundation of American democracy.

With the stroke of a pen on his first day back in the White House, Trump's order upended the largest prosecution in Justice Department history, freeing from prison people caught on camera viciously attacking police as well as leaders of far-right extremist groups convicted of orchestrating violent plots to stop the peaceful transfer of power after his 2020 election loss.

The federal Bureau of Prisons by Tuesday morning had released all of the more than 200 people in its custody for Jan. 6 crimes, officials told The Associated Press.

The pardons and commutations cement Trump's efforts to downplay the violence that left more than 100 police officers injured as the mob fueled by his lies about the 2020 election stormed the Capitol and halted the certification of President Joe Biden's victory.

Trump's decision to grant clemency to even rioters who assaulted police — whom his own vice president recently said ''obviously'' shouldn't be pardoned — underscores how Trump has returned to power emboldened to take actions once believed politically unthinkable. And it shows how Trump plans to radically overhaul the Justice Department that also brought criminal charges against him in two cases he contends were politically motivated.

''The implications are clear,'' said Julian Zelizer, a Princeton University historian. ''Trump will go to great lengths to protect those who act in his name. This is the culmination of his effort to rewrite Jan 6, in this case using his presidential muscle to free those who were part of a violent assault on the Capitol.''

As defendants celebrated their release outside lockups across the country, the federal prosecutor's office in Washington that spent the last four years charging rioters filed a flurry of motions to dismiss cases that have yet to go to trial. The motions were marked with the name of the man Trump has named to lead, at least temporarily, the capital's U.S. attorney's office — Ed Martin, a board member of a group called the Patriot Freedom Project, which portrays the Jan. 6 defendants as victims of political persecution.

Trump defended the pardons Tuesday, saying the defendants had ''already served years in prison'' in conditions the president described as ''disgusting'' and ''inhumane.''

The former leaders of the Oath Keepers and Proud Boys, who were convicted of seditious conspiracy in the most serious cases brought by the Justice Department, were both released from prison hours after Trump signed the clemency order. Stewart Rhodes, of Granbury, Texas, was serving an 18-year prison sentence, and Enrique Tarrio, of Miami, was serving a 22-year sentence.

After their release from federal custody, Rhodes and some other Jan. 6 defendants gathered in frigid temperatures outside the District of Columbia jail, where a handful of defendants remained behind bars as of Tuesday afternoon. Some supporters of Capitol rioters danced while songs like ''Jailbreak'' by Thin Lizzy played on a loudspeaker.

Outside the jail, Rhodes continued to push the lie that the 2020 election was stolen from Trump, and he claimed Capitol riot defendants couldn't get a fair trial in Washington. Rhodes said he had ''full faith'' all along that Trump was going to offer clemency to the Jan. 6 defendants.

Another Jan. 6 defendant, Kevin Loftus, traveled to the jail in Washington after his release from another lockup. Loftus was sentenced in December to six months behind bars for violating the terms of his probation after trying to fly overseas to join the Russian military and fight against Ukraine. He said he was going to have the pardon from Trump framed.

''I'm just a working man, dude. People like us don't get presidential pardons,'' Loftus said.

John Pierce, an attorney who has represented several Jan. 6 defendants, said he was ''pleasantly surprised'' that Trump's pardons went as far as they did, considering Vance's recent comments that suggested only nonviolent offenders would receive relief. Trump's pick for attorney general, Pam Bondi, also indicated that she did not believe violent rioters should be pardoned, telling lawmakers at her confirmation hearing that she condemned violence against police.

"He did not have to do this. He had a lot of opposition within his own party," Pierce said. ''I do think it showed a lot of courage by President Trump to pardon everybody, so we are obviously grateful for that.'' Pierce said clemency for all the defendants was justified because, he contends, they couldn't get a fair jury in the nation's heavily Democratic capital.

The federal courthouse in Washington, which has been jammed with Jan. 6 cases over the last four years, was quiet Tuesday as proceedings were abruptly canceled. Hallways that would have been teeming with prospective jurors were empty. Judges who would have been hearing cases were not on the bench.

U.S. District Judge Colleen Kollar-Kotelly made a brief appearance in her sixth-floor courtroom to formally dismiss a Jan. 6 case against a father and son from Minnesota whose trial started last week. The court had notified jurors that they didn't need to return this week.

''The parties are excused,'' the judge said, without commenting on Trump's clemency order.

The son, 22-year-old Caleb Fuller, hugged his attorney and then his mother, Amanda, who wore a sequined jacket with an American flag on the front and the words ''Proud American'' emblazoned on the back.

Those pardoned include more than 250 people who were convicted of assault charges, some having attacked police with makeshift weapons such as flagpoles, a hockey stick and a crutch. Many of the attacks were captured on surveillance or body camera footage that showed rioters engaging in hand-to-hand combat with police as officers desperately fought to beat back the angry crowd.

One man was sentenced to seven years in prison for trying to smash a widow with a metal tomahawk and hurling makeshift weapons at police officers guarding the building. Another man received 20 years behind bars for swinging poles at officers defending a tunnel, striking an officer in the head with a metal crutch and attacking police with pepper spray and broken pieces of furniture.

A Trump supporter, Ashli Babbitt, was fatally shot by police while trying to climb through the broken window of a barricaded Capitol doorway. Authorities cleared the officer of any wrongdoing after an investigation. Three other people in the crowd died of medical emergencies.

At least four officers who were at the Capitol later died by suicide. Capitol Police officer Brian Sicknick collapsed and died after engaging with the protesters. A medical examiner later determined he died of natural causes.

___

Associated Press journalists Chris Megerian and Nathan Ellgren contributed to this report.