‘RADICAL’ FUTURE OF LAUGHS
AFTER SEEING IMPROV INSTITUTIONS’ STRUGGLES, LOCAL PERFORMERS TRY SOCIALISM WITH THE COMEDY CO-OP
H I S I S R I C K , ” says comedian Jessica Zepeda, holding up a plastic tree. ¶ Rick is a cheap Christmas decoration repurposed as a sort of talking animatronic puppet that Zepeda liked to use in pre-pandemic shows. In seconds they’re giving a dissertation on how puppets should behave. ¶ “I don’t think they should cuss,” says Zepeda. “But I love cussing. But I like puppets to be pure.” ¶ Ten minutes later Zepeda has swapped Rick, a swear-free but self-deprecating tree, for a pair of books detailing the benefits of communal governance. Their ultimate goal? To build a better comedy scene. ¶ More than a year and a half into the pandemic, we’ve come to expect the unexpected. Perhaps
the socialist revolution can start in an improv community?
Enter the Comedy Co-op, a planned theater in the works by more than 30 local comedians.
“It’s radical,” says Zepeda, who once ran a diversity show at Upright Citizens Brigade and has become one of the new group’s largest proponents of sociocracy, which utilizes a series of committees to diffuse a hierarchal set-up.
“It is asking comedians to do something that we have never traditionally done, which is think beyond yourselves.”
And it’s speaking to a charged political moment of social reckoning, when institutions large and small are being re-evaluated on their diversity, equity and workplace harassment policies.
Born out of the pandemic, when a number of prominent theaters were singled out for a lack of diversity and spiraled into financial insecurity, the Comedy Co-op is an acknowledgment that improv and stand-up constitute a low-margin world serving those with the flexibility to spend thousands of dollars on classes. Participants also say the co-op fills an overdue need in shifting a robust community away from brandname theaters like Upright Citizens Brigade, Second City, iO and Groundlings into one owned and governed by the community.
If comedy theaters aren’t a path to getting rich or famous, perhaps one can show the Los Angeles performance world that there’s power in socialism? It’s a model based less on propping up local celebs and more about supporting a theater because of its perceived morals and ethics.
“During the pandemic, I had a lot of time to engage with my socialist sensibilities,” says actor-comedian James Mastraieni, who kickstarted the Comedy Co-op, where everyone who works or performs is a part-owner. “I sent an email to about 150 comedians I’ve known over the years, and explained what this is. I said, ‘If this existed, could you see yourself supporting it?’ At the time I was in this headspace of wondering if I was the only one feeling really insecure about my place in a community I’ve been in for so long. It was cathartic to get responses back, and that was my motivation to dig deeper.” Part of it.
In the wake of nationwide George Floyd protests against police brutality and systemic racism plus pandemic fears, practically no industry, including comedy, was spared from having its shortcomings on diversity aired in public. A number of local stages were downsized before the pandemic, including geek culture hub Meltdown and iO West.
In July of last year, more than a dozen local comics told The
Times that Los Angeles stages were plagued with problems of institutionalized racism, driven by a white-led power structure that marginalized diverse voices. Grievances on social media and petitions were sent to theaters such as Groundlings, Upright Citizens Brigade and Chicago’s now-shuttered iO. Things got bleak. Upright Citizens Brigade, which began in Chicago before expanding to New York and eventually becoming the nexus of the L.A. scene, is down to just one stage after shutting its East Coast spaces. Those once credited for creating modern improv were questioned over the kind of scene they created, or if it even existed anymore.
While UCB has pledged to work closely with the community as it re-imagines itself as a leaner nonprofit, iO co-founder and comedy matriarch Charna Halpern said the same before confessing that the Chicago institution was money-less and she’d be forced to find a buyer.
“Did I just invest over a decade in a place that’s not coming back?” says actress and co-op member Ruha Taslimi of watching theaters contract and close during the pandemic.
But out of a sense of abandonment came a realization: One’s identity isn’t tied to a business. Or, as Taslimi says, “No. That investment was in myself.” Veteran writer-performer Alex Fernie says those in the co-op feel a “recommitment” to the comedy scene.
“This is not just people showing up for the fun part. This is people working to ensure there’s long-term viability for this,” he says. And if they can fight the power of capitalistic structures along the way, great.
“It feels very in line with the political uproar that’s happened,” actress and comedian Paige Elson says. “There’s socialists now. Anti-hierarchy, capitalism. I was like, ‘Yeah, that sounds good to me.’ ”
CENSORSHIP? PUH-LEASE
These days, Mastraieni is just as likely to discuss politics as he is comedy theory. Doing interviews, he’s met those who don’t believe a membership-based, socialist-inspired method is possible. “I had expressed that I was a socialist,” says Mastraieni of a recent interview, “and they were like, ‘Will you have a committee for censorship and canceling comedians?’ What? No. There’s a misinformed idea that when people hear socialist or worker cooperative they think censorship.”
But the Comedy Co-op even has a plan for that.
“What’s important to me is to be solution-orientated,” Zepeda says. “If someone [screws] up onstage, we’re not going to kick them out. There’s going to be accountability. We tell people to act better, and give them no tools. We need to have sensitivity training.”
The Comedy Co-op wants the community to know that if it won’t always have the answers, it’s working its way through the questions. Membership tiers are being drawn by a 30-plus steering committee currently broken up into intimate groups of four to seven to focus on branches of running a cooperative business. Multiple people are in multiple committees, creating communal links to ensure — hopefully — no decision is made in a vacuum.
Two benefit shows — one stand-up and one improv at nonprofit Glendale performance space Junior High — have been set for Sunday. The improv gig, which will be live-streamed, has already sold out.
A crowdfunding campaign on Indiegogo will launch soon afterward, with the long-term goal of establishing a new L.A.area theater. In the meantime, the do-it-yourself ethos of the Comedy Co-op has thrust a lot of improvisers into unsuspecting roles.
“I was at one of the early meetings, and James asked what 2% of $2,000 was and I threw the number out,” says actor and comedian Artoun Nazareth. “‘Oh, it’s $40.’ He’s like, ‘God, you’re good with numbers. You should be on the money committee.’
“So I ended up there. I’ve done a ton of research into tax law, and learned what the difference is between an LLC and a cooperative corporation,” Nazareth continues. “I didn’t know any of that was coming my way.”
But if the group is hopeful, it’s not delusional.
“We’re hoping to make enough to pay the performers and keep the lights on, and that’s it,” says Nazareth, adding all forms of alternate income will be looked at, from grants to finding a venue that could double as a filming location or allow alcohol sales.
And then, of course, there’s just the nature of any community with egos equally big and fragile.
“So many problems at so many places I’ve been involved with have stemmed from people not knowing what’s going on,” Fernie says. “It’s always going to be personal if a show doesn’t work or if a show gets ended because we put ourselves into them. But it’s worse when there’s mystery.
“On the money side, we want to be open. Here’s what’s coming in. You can see if we’re in trouble this month. I believe that transparency crosses off a lot of problems,” Fernie says.
That mind-set, says Zepeda, is among the group’s core mission statements.
“Anyone can complain,” says Zepeda. “Not everyone can problem-solve. That’s what sets us apart. I understand hesitancy. But what other option is there? All the systems around us we have watched crumble and fall to the ground. We should be excited by ‘what if?’ ”
NOT A REBELLION
Everyone involved in the Comedy Co-op stressed they want to see the likes of UCB return as better-run organizations. “It’s like your family,” Elson says. “You love them. And sometimes you hate them. But it brought us together.”
If anything, the pandemic heightened generational discussions and concerns already bubbling under the surface.
“At some point Second City was the rebellion,” says actor and comedian David Theune. “And then maybe iO becomes the rebellion to Second City. At some point, the rebellion becomes the king and they’ve got to get taken down in some ways. That’s the way it goes.”
Grievances with the established system aren’t hard to come by. Just prior to the pandemic, PJ McCormick landed a spot on one of UCB’s coveted Harold teams. McCormick, who once dreamed of being a pro wrestler, says the predominantly white L.A. comedy scene didn’t make his journey easy.
“You don’t want to be judged purely based on your stereotype of, you know, of your culture or your ethnicity,” says McCormick, who is half-Filipino and half-British. “So what tends to happen, as a diverse performer, you look up [at an audition panel], you see all the white faces, and you feel like, ‘Well, I’m not comfortable bringing my experience as a Filipino person to this stage, because they may not understand the references.’ And then you are not being authentic to yourself, and you’re probably going to ruin your