I Can Probably Make That

Every community theater company has a list of unspoken hazards. Eating someone else’s labeled rehearsal snack. Asking the director if you can leave early. Telling the costumer you don’t like the color of your gown. But few things inspire equal parts excitement and alarm in a production meeting quite like five innocent words: “I can probably make that.”

It usually starts with something in the script that sounds perfectly reasonable until someone has to figure out how to do it. A china cabinet full of plates and glasses that break and reassemble on cue. A cake that frosts itself (Mary Poppins). Birds that arrive, sort lentils, and fly away (Into the Woods). A peasant outfit that transforms into a ball gown in front of the audience (Cinderella). The budget is, as always, roughly $14 and a half-empty box of donuts. Then a brave volunteer leans forward, takes a sip of room-temperature coffee, and says the words, “I can probably make that.”  Everyone turns to look …and just like that, we have a project.

The Director’s Wish List vs. the Laws of Physics

It often starts with the director’s dream. We directors can picture the finished effect beautifully. The details of how to accomplish it are sometimes a little less clear.

“What if the fireplace turns into a flower box?” (Cinderella)

“Can we make it rain onstage but keep the floor dry?” (Singin’ in the Rain)

“We need a six-foot tank of piranhas that tear a fish apart in full view of the audience.” (Disaster!)

“Can she turn from a frumpy beggar woman into a glowing, winged, silver unicorn? Onstage. While everyone watches.” (A Wrinkle in Time)

These are actual things we have asked people to figure out. And instead of laughing us out of the room, someone tilts their head and says, “Well…”

That “well” is where it starts. You can practically hear the gears turning. They’re thinking about hinges, fishing line, hidden compartments, and that odd thing in the scene shop that nobody has thrown away because it might come in handy someday. And apparently, someday has arrived.

The Hardware Store Odyssey

Once “I can probably make that” leaves your mouth, your relationship with the hardware store changes. You’re no longer shopping for home repairs. You’re looking for something that can become something else. You spend forty-five minutes in the plumbing aisle fitting pieces together. You ask whether a particular paint might look like aged brass under stage lights. You examine a perfectly ordinary hinge with an intensity usually reserved for medical diagnoses. Your cart contains chicken wire, expanding foam, zip ties, and a pool noodle. At home, this combination would raise concerns. At the theater, someone says, “Oh, good. I was hoping you could find one of those.”

Eventually, the cashier asks what you’re making. “A trick moose head that shoots a poisoned dart for a musical murder mystery.” (Something’s Afoot) There is a pause. You consider explaining, but there are people waiting behind you. “Community theater,” you add with a shrug and a little laugh. This may or may not help.

What It Used to Be

One of my favorite things about community theater is knowing what things used to be. The audience sees an ancient stone cave. We see the hand-carved Styrofoam, spackle, and coffee grounds that gave it texture (The Pirates of Penzance).

The audience sees an Amazonian bustier. We know it started as Tupperware (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum).

The audience sees a royal scepter. We remember when it was a broken vacuum attachment, before the gold leaf and dollar-store jewels (Shrek Jr.).

Once you’ve seen enough of these transformations, it becomes very difficult to throw anything away. You hold up a broken household object and think, “There’s probably a show in this.” This is how scene shops happen. Of course, the finished piece rarely appears on the first try. There are experiments. There are adjustments. There is the moment when something works beautifully on the workbench and then refuses to cooperate onstage.

Back it goes. Someone moves a magnet, changes a hinge, adds a little weight, or announces that they have had a better idea. Eventually, the cake frosts itself. The fireplace transforms. The moose does its deeply questionable job. And a room full of adults cheers for an object.

“How Did They Do That?”

On opening night, the person who built the thing may be watching a slightly different show from everyone else. The audience is following the story. The builder is watching the hinges. Will it open? Will it turn? Will the mechanism work exactly when it’s supposed to? Will the lead’s costume remain free of gold paint? Then the moment arrives. It works. The audience gasps, laughs, or applauds, and somewhere in the house, a volunteer finally exhales. Later, in the lobby, someone asks, “How did they DO that?” That question is its own little round of applause. Because behind the effect were hours of puzzling, building, testing, and trying again. Someone saw a possibility in a pile of unlikely materials and kept working until the rest of us could see it, too. And it all started with: “I can probably make that.” Which, around here, is how perfectly sensible people end up teaching a moose to shoot darts.

Act Natural: The Art of the Save

 Ask an audience member what makes live theater thrilling, and they might mention the soaring notes, the dramatic reveals, or the magic of watching a story come to life. Ask an actor or crew member, and you may get a slightly different answer: The adrenaline rush of narrowly avoiding disaster while pretending everything is going exactly as planned.

From the audience, you see a world where the parlor door opens, the letter is delivered, and the hero makes his entrance right on cue. But behind the curtain, and inside the brains of everyone onstage, a completely different show may be happening. Props disappear. Zippers split. Entrances don’t happen. A line you have delivered correctly thirty-seven times suddenly vanishes from your brain, leaving no forwarding address. And somehow, the scene has to keep going. This is The Save: the fine art of thinking fast, trusting your people, and making a very unexpected situation look (reasonably) intentional.

1. The Natural Detour: When Lines Evaporate

Every actor knows the terror of the sudden brain-blank. You turn to your scene partner, open your mouth, and discover that the next line no longer exists in the universe. In a movie, someone can yell, “Cut!” In live theater, your scene partner is looking at you, the audience is looking at you, and nobody is cutting anything. This is where trust earns its keep. A good scene partner recognizes that particular look in your eyes. They rephrase a question, offer a little reminder disguised as dialogue, or invent a line that helps steer you back into the scene.

Sometimes, though, the problem is considerably bigger than one missing line. In a recent Hamilton Players production, an actor got distracted backstage and missed an entrance, leaving six actors onstage to improvise their way through an important scene until the missing person arrived. And that wasn’t even the end of it. Once the actor finally entered, the others had to keep improvising for another ninety seconds while their newly arrived castmate figured out where the scene had gone, what information had already been covered, and how to move forward without starting the whole thing over. Ninety seconds doesn’t sound very long. Try spending it inventing dialogue in character while six brains frantically attempt to agree on where the story is going. It was one of the most impressive onstage saves I’ve ever seen. I suspect everyone involved needed a little sit-down afterward.

2. Ghost Props: When the Essential Object Vanishes

There is a very special feeling that comes from reaching into your pocket for the crucial letter, key, or proposal ring and finding absolutely nothing. You have about two seconds to decide how much trouble you’re in. Can you say you left the telegram upstairs? Can you “remember” what it said? Can someone else produce the missing object? Does the entire next scene depend on the fact that you are supposed to be holding it RIGHT NOW? Whatever you decide, everyone else onstage has to catch on and come along for the ride. Of course, sometimes the prop is right where it belongs. It just refuses to do its job.

During one Hamilton Players production, the hero was supposed to shoot the villain in full view of the audience. The prop gun misfired. Then it misfired again. And again. Thankfully, it was a comedy. After a few agonizing seconds that felt like at least ten minutes, the hero pointed the gun a fourth time and said, “BANG!” The villain dropped dead. The audience went wild. Was it the scene we rehearsed? Absolutely not. Did it work? Beautifully.

3. Wardrobe Malfunctions and Fast Fingers

Costumes are marvels held together by careful stitching, quick-change fasteners, safety pins, and hope. Or, in the case of she-who-must-not-be-named, hot glue and iron-on seam tape. But sometimes the hope gives out. A skirt catches on a doorway. A seam splits mid-dance. A hat takes a flying leap into the audience. A zipper decides it has participated enough for one evening. The first order of business is to keep the actor covered and safe. After that, the goal is to work the problem into the action as smoothly as possible. An alert castmate offers a shawl. Someone retrieves the fallen hat with a flourish. A costume piece gets carried off as though that was always the plan.

One particularly memorable Hamilton Players save involved a leading lady making a grand entrance down a staircase in a plantation scene. She paused dramatically halfway down. Her hoop and overskirt, which had come untied without her realizing it, continued the journey without her. There she stood in her lace bloomers, with the rest of her costume at her feet. In a moment of sheer theatrical brilliance, she stepped out of the fallen skirt, gathered the whole thing under her arm, and continued the scene. The character had somewhere to be. Apparently, her skirt would now be traveling as luggage. That is commitment.

4. Quick Thinking in the Wings: Crew to the Rescue

Actors aren’t the only ones making saves. The crew is doing plenty of thinking on its feet, often in the dark, while trying very hard not to make a sound. An actor reaches for a prop and finds a crew member already holding it out. A costume problem gets spotted and fixed before the next entrance. A failed doorbell cue becomes a knock from backstage, giving the people onstage what they need to continue.

These fixes depend on knowing the show well enough to recognize what’s missing and what can help. They also require judgment. Sometimes you need to act immediately. Sometimes the actors have already found a way forward, and the most helpful thing you can do is let them keep going. The audience may never know any of it happened. Backstage, however, there may be a very relieved exchange of looks and some enthusiastic whispering once everyone is safely out of earshot.

One particularly clever save involved a missing letter that was about to become the turning point of the entire show. The actor checked their pockets. Then checked again. Still no letter. Thankfully, the stage manager was standing in the wings, waving it. The actor caught their eye and announced, “I had it a moment ago. I must have dropped it.” Taking the hint, the stage manager quietly lowered the letter to the floor at the edge of the backstage flat. “Oh, there it is!” the actor said, walking over and reaching just behind the flat to retrieve it. The scene continued as planned. The audience had no idea that a major plot point had just been delivered by floor mail. Stage manager for the win!

Keeping the Story Going

Most of us would happily skip the panic and have everything work as rehearsed, thank you very much. But when something does go wrong, there is a particular joy in watching people take care of each other and find a way through it. Someone gives you the line you need. Someone fixes your costume. Someone realizes that, for tonight, the villain is going to have to accept a firmly spoken “BANG!” as sufficient cause of death. You keep going together.

Some saves are so smooth the audience never notices. Others get a laugh and become stories we tell for years. Either way, they reveal something wonderful about live theater: a room full of people paying attention, thinking fast, and helping one another tell a story. And afterward, once everyone’s heart rate returns to normal, someone inevitably says: “Well. THAT was new.”

Your turn! Have you ever made, witnessed, or benefited from a great theater save, at Hamilton Players or anywhere else? Share your story in the comments. Whether the audience never knew or laughed right along with you, we’d love to hear it!

The Ghost Towns we Build

There is a particular kind of quiet that comes after closing night. Your dressing room station, which a few hours ago was a jumble of water bottles, safety pins, throat-coat tea, and double-sided tape, is suddenly just a counter. You pack your tote bag, check under the chair for the shoe you always seem to lose, and hug people you’ve grown used to seeing several nights a week. Somebody is crying. Somebody is still quoting the line that went hilariously wrong three performances ago. Somebody says, “We HAVE to get together next week,” and everyone agrees.

Then you walk out the theater door.

For the first day or two, having your evenings back feels wonderful. You can eat dinner sitting down. Your laundry might finally make it from the basket into a drawer. You no longer have to arrange your entire day around getting to rehearsal on time. And then, around the time you would normally be heading to the theater, you find yourself wondering what to do. For eight weeks, you always knew where you were supposed to be. You had lines to learn, choreography to practice, and people expecting you. Now all that space in your calendar is yours again, and it feels strangely empty. You wanted a night off. You just weren’t quite ready for all of them.

Eight weeks doesn’t sound like much. But inside a show, you can build a whole little life in that time. It starts with the first read-through: a room full of people in ordinary clothes, introducing themselves and trying to remember everyone’s names. Some are old friends. Some are familiar faces. Some are complete strangers who will soon know far more about your undergarments than you ever intended.

At first, everyone is reasonably polite and mostly normal. That rarely lasts. Soon you’re singing together, trying to remember which direction to turn, and discovering that the perfectly sensible line you delivered at home has vanished from your brain the moment someone gives you a cue. You’re making mistakes in front of each other, laughing about them, and trying again. Little by little, the room gets more comfortable. You stop worrying quite so much about looking foolish. Someone else has already beaten you to it, and their version was SPECTACULAR!

The friendships grow in the middle of all that doing. You chat while waiting for your scene. You help someone work through a tricky bit of music. You celebrate when the dance finally clicks. You find out who always has snacks, who can fix a zipper, and who will make you laugh at the exact moment you need it. (You also learn who makes you laugh at the exact moment you absolutely cannot laugh. This is a different skill, and theater people are alarmingly good at it.) By the time the show opens, you have a collection of inside jokes that would take longer to explain than they are worth. A single word can set off an entire dressing room. A look across the wings can be dangerous.

There’s plenty of work in those eight weeks. There are tired evenings, frustrating rehearsals, and moments when everyone could use a little more patience. But there is also the ridiculous pleasure of getting to play together. You get to sing loudly, wear something outrageous, become someone else, and help make a room full of strangers laugh. And you get to do it with people who understand why that matters.

Somewhere along the way, the theater becomes its own little town. There are familiar places, familiar routines, and familiar people. You know who will be at the makeup mirror when you arrive. You know which corner someone retreats to before an entrance. You know whose “Good show!” comes with a hug and whose comes with a fist bump. For a few weeks, it feels perfectly normal to spend your evenings in this world. But then comes closing night.

You notice the lasts. The last warmup. The last entrance. The last time you hear a favorite line from the wings. Something you have done over and over suddenly feels worth paying attention to. The final curtain call is joyful, and a little hard to get through. Then somebody hands you a screwdriver. Because this is community theater, and apparently we process our feelings while taking apart a staircase.

Strike can be its own kind of fun. There is music, teasing, misplaced tools, and the satisfaction of watching everyone pitch in. But it’s strange, too. The room you spent weeks bringing to life disappears in a matter of hours. Costumes go back on hangers. Props return to shelves. Your dressing room station gets wiped clean and everyone crawls around picking up bobby pins that have magically multiplied in the carpet.

The little town you built together becomes a ghost town. You helped empty it, which doesn’t stop you from missing it. By Monday, everyone is returning to the rest of their lives. There are families, jobs, appointments, and all the things that have been patiently, or impatiently, waiting for the show to end. The group chat slows down. You don’t get to hear how someone’s day went while putting on your shoes. There’s no rehearsal where you can say, “Oh! I meant to tell you…”

That sudden change can be surprisingly sad. You may miss people you hadn’t even met two months ago. You may miss someone you never spent time with outside the theater, but whose presence became part of your day. You may even miss a routine you complained about while you were doing it. It can be tempting to dismiss those friendships because some of them don’t continue in the same way after the show. But the laughter was real. So was the encouragement, the trust, and the pleasure of being together.

Some friendships will grow beyond the production. Others will pick up at the next audition as though no time has passed. A few may belong mostly to that particular show. They still count. We don’t have to keep seeing each other four nights a week for those eight weeks to have mattered. And when we look back, we rarely remember only the performance. We remember the person who helped us through a quick change. The snack someone brought. The backstage dance that never appeared in the choreography. The moment we looked around and thought, “I really love these people.” That’s what makes the quiet afterward feel so big. There was a lot of joy in that room.

So go home. Enjoy your dinner. Get some sleep. Feel a little sad when rehearsal time rolls around and you have nowhere to be. Send someone the ridiculous photo you found on your phone. And if you meant it when you said you wanted to get together next week, make a plan. The show is over, but you get to keep what it gave you. And eventually, you’ll walk back into the theater for another first read-through. There will be ordinary clothes, introductions, and people trying to act reasonably normal. You’ll know better this time. We’re about to build another little town.

Just Add Audience

There isn’t a specific, well-worn adage about the relationship between the audience and the actors/production. But there should be. I am going to vote for, “It takes an actor to make a performance, but it takes an audience to make a show.” The audience is the oft-overlooked, uncredited featured performer that can transform a show. And they, YOU, deserve acknowledgement!

The show you see on opening night, or any night for that matter, is not the same show that the director saw at the last rehearsal. Everything else can be the same: actors, costumes, lights, scenery, sound, orchestra, crew. They can rehearse the entire thing perfectly. But there is one element of live theater that literally cannot be rehearsed: the relationship between this cast and this audience, on this particular night. And because the audience changes every night, the show changes every night. A Friday audience may laugh in completely different places from Saturday’s audience. One crowd catches every tiny joke. Another responds emotionally to moments nobody expected. One audience teaches the actors to hold a pause longer. Another makes the comic timing crackle. Occasionally an audience laughs somewhere the cast never dreamed there was a laugh, and suddenly that moment works differently for the rest of the run. That’s not incidental to live theater. That’s the thing that makes it live and why we talk about the magic of live theater.

Actors are amazing creatures that slip into another persona as effectively as any chameleon or octopus can mimic its surroundings. Actors cry, laugh, shiver, hate, fear, LOVE at rehearsal on command of the script and then go out and have a beer with you after the show as if they hadn’t just died agonizingly on stage 30 minutes ago! BUT add an audience? Suddenly it’s the difference between looking at a picture of Niagara Falls and stepping through the picture to stand at the edge of the falls and feel the cold spray hit your face!

This effect isn’t entirely anecdotal. There’s science behind it. Researchers in psychology, neuroscience, and sociology have all kinds of names for pieces of what’s happening: social facilitation, emotional contagion, interpersonal synchrony, collective effervescence. I’m not going to drag you through the science. The important part is that humans really do respond differently when we’re doing something together.

The audience brings with them an energy that doesn’t exist at rehearsals. Rehearsals are hard work. Fun, but hard work nevertheless. And tech week is exhausting. By the time opening night arrives, actors have spent weeks pouring energy into rehearsal. Tech week in particular can leave everyone running on fumes. And then we add an audience. Suddenly, the pitcher the actors have been draining every night starts being filled in real time. The more the audience “gives” in attention, focus, interest, and response, the more the actors give back.

Consider this: there’s always that one performance where little things go wrong one after the other. You know how it is. We all have those days. For a show, it can have a magnified effect because it seems contagious throughout the cast. A costume change goes sideways. A prop is forgotten. Someone misses an entrance. Nothing catastrophic, just one of those nights when tiny mistakes begin multiplying. A fully engaged audience can actually interrupt that spiral. The shared energy doesn’t let the cast sag, lag, or subconsciously kick themselves over what just happened. When the pitcher is full, resilience is high. The show will go on either way, and the actors will do their best, but an engaged audience can help keep a few little mistakes from turning into one of those nights.

Now, I’m not saying you’re obligated to manufacture enthusiasm so the poor actors can perform properly. Not at all. Some audiences are naturally quiet. Some are roaring. Some are deeply engaged but barely make a sound. I just want you to know that actors can tell when an audience is engaged in the story, and that reciprocity fuels them. Sometimes engagement sounds like belly laughs, applause, gasps, murmurs, or spontaneous cheers. Sometimes it sounds like absolutely nothing because 168 people are collectively holding their breath. I’m sure you know the difference: there’s a restless, “they’re bored” silence, and then there’s a “you could hear a pin drop because we have every single person in this room is on the edge of their seat” silence. Actors know the difference. They can feel you listening.

So, when you buy a ticket, you aren’t just coming to watch the show. You’re bringing the final thing we couldn’t put into it without you. Actors get bios. Directors get program notes. Designers and crew get their names in the program. Everyone involved gets a credit. The audience doesn’t. Yet you’re the ones who complete the circuit. So consider this your program credit: Audience: final cast member, energy source, co-conspirator, and absolutely essential participant in every performance. Bravo. And thank you for being part of the show.

Building a Bigger Stage: Some Thoughts on Representation, Casting, and the Stories We Can't Tell Yet

This is a different kind of Backstage Pass post. Usually, I come here with something I want to explain, a story I want to tell, or an opinion I've had enough time to wrestle into submission. This isn't one of those posts. This one is a question. It's a question I have thought about a lot as a director and as the Executive Director of a small community theater in a predominantly white rural county: How do we genuinely work toward greater racial and cultural diversity on our stage when the diversity we would like to see isn't reflected in our current audition pool? I don't have a great answer.

I do know what I don't want to do. I don't want an actor to ever wonder whether we cast them for what they bring to a role or simply because we needed someone who looks like them. I don't want to ask one or two performers to carry the burden of making our theater look diverse. I don't want to select a culturally specific show that we have no reasonable expectation of casting appropriately and simply hope the right people appear at auditions. And I certainly don't want our programming choices to send the message that stories centered on people who don't look like most of our current actors aren't welcome on our stage. Somewhere among all of those competing concerns is a better path forward. I just haven't found it yet.

So, this isn't a post about what Hamilton Players has figured out. It's a rumination on something we haven't, why it's more complicated than it might initially appear, and some of the ways I think we might begin trying to do better.

Ravalli County is not a particularly racially diverse place. According to current U.S. Census estimates, our population is approximately 48,600 people, 90% of whom identify as white and not Hispanic or Latino. That demographic reality affects the potential pool from which our actors come, but it doesn't fully explain our audition pool, nor would we necessarily expect our audition pool to mirror county demographics exactly. Our reality? In an average year, roughly 50 to 100 actors audition for Hamilton Players productions, and typically only one to three are people of color.

Even "people of color" is an imperfect shorthand in this conversation because culturally specific casting isn't interchangeable. Increasing the overall racial diversity of our audition pool would be wonderful, but it wouldn't necessarily make a particular show castable. A show may include characters of a specific racial, ethnic, or cultural background, and one identity can't simply be substituted for another.

I don't know why the racial and cultural diversity that does exist in Ravalli County isn't proportionately reflected in our audition pool. Maybe there are barriers I don't see, including some that extend well beyond Hamilton Players. Maybe we aren't reaching people effectively. Maybe people don't see themselves represented and therefore don't see Hamilton Players as a place for them. Maybe community theater simply isn't of interest to some of the communities we're failing to reach. Most likely, it's some complicated combination of factors I haven't identified yet. So how does a small rural theater work toward greater representation without engaging in tokenism, compromising responsible casting, or choosing productions it has no reasonable expectation of being able to cast? I DON'T KNOW. But I want to, and I don't know where to start.

I have identified several challenges that frame the issue for us. Our first hurdle is figuring out why our audition pool doesn't reflect even the limited diversity that exists in our broader community, and what we can do differently to reach people who aren't currently coming through our doors. While that isn't easy, or we'd be doing it already, it may actually be the easiest of the bunch. It gets trickier from there.

Show selection may be part of the issue. Perhaps people of color or people from different cultural backgrounds don't audition because they don't see themselves represented by the material. Could we just program more culturally diverse shows and hope that attracts more diverse actors? We've considered it. But choosing a show we have no reasonable expectation of casting creates its own problems. It potentially sets the production up to fail, and it can put enormous pressure on the few actors of color who do audition.

Our Play Reading Committee gets to be aspirational, and I want them to be. We should be reading shows that challenge, inspire, educate, and expand our idea of what belongs on our stage. But eventually aspiration has to meet production reality. When someone falls in love with The King and I, In the Heights, Kinky Boots, or Hairspray, part of my job is to ask the less exciting question: "From whom, specifically, do we reasonably expect to cast these roles?" I'm not opposed to the show or its representation. I'm responsible for helping make sure that when we choose a story to tell, we have a reasonable expectation that we can tell it responsibly.

So, what about choosing a show that requires only one or two culturally specific roles? Suppose we select a show with a character written specifically as Black and our licensing agreement requires that the role be cast accordingly. One Black actor auditions. But the role also requires a demanding vocal range, significant dance ability, or the experience to carry a major dramatic role, and that particular actor isn't yet ready for those demands. Being right for a character's identity is one part of casting. It isn't the only part. A performer may be right for a character's racial, ethnic, cultural, age, or other identity and still not yet meet the specific acting, vocal, dance, or technical demands of the role. That's true of every actor who auditions. So, what does responsible inclusion require of us?

Automatically casting someone because of their racial identity rather than because they're right for the role doesn't feel like genuine inclusion. Violating the requirements of the script or our licensing agreement simply to get the show cast isn't an option either. Canceling the production despite having a willing actor could look terrible from the outside and, more importantly, what message might that send to a new performer who took the risk of walking through our doors? Yet putting an actor into a role they aren't ready for isn't fair to the rest of the cast, the audience, or arguably even that performer. There isn't a magic fourth option that suddenly makes that particular production castable.

But maybe there is something we can do about the next production. If an actor isn't ready for a particular role today, how do we help them become ready for opportunities tomorrow? Can we provide classes, workshops, smaller roles, Readers Theatre, ensemble opportunities, mentorship, or other places to develop skills and confidence? We don't have to lower the requirements of a role in order to lower the barriers to developing the skills necessary to play it. That should be true for every actor who comes through our doors.

And there's another side of this equation that I can't answer from my own experience: What does it feel like to be one of the only people of color walking into our audition room? Does being the only one create pressure I don't recognize? Does it feel welcoming, or isolating? Are there things about our theater culture that tell people they belong here, or things we don't even notice that tell them otherwise? And if someone does take that risk, auditions, and isn't cast, do they understand why? Or does it confirm a fear that this wasn't really a place for them after all? Those aren't questions I can answer for someone else. They're questions I need to be willing to ask and then listen to the answers.

For now, I will continue to recommend against productions I don't believe we have a reasonable expectation of casting responsibly. But I refuse to believe that our current casting limitations simply have to remain this way forever. Our goal isn't to make our casts look inclusive. Our goal is to make our theater a genuinely welcoming place where more people feel invited to participate while continuing to cast actors according to the requirements of the work. Those two responsibilities sometimes create difficult choices but abandoning either one isn't the answer.

I don't know what the answer is yet. But I do know that simply wishing for a more diverse audition pool won't create one. I know that choosing shows we cannot responsibly cast and hoping the right people materialize isn't a strategy. I know that casting someone primarily because of their racial identity isn't the kind of inclusion I want us to practice. And I know that avoiding the issue altogether guarantees that nothing will change. So maybe, for now, the answer isn't a particular show or a particular casting policy. Maybe it's curiosity, outreach, relationship-building, training, and listening. Maybe it's looking honestly at who is coming through our doors, who isn't, and asking why.

How do we lower barriers to participation and create more welcoming entry points for people who don't already see themselves here? How do we build relationships with people and communities who aren't currently represented in our theater? And most importantly, how do we listen without beginning the conversation with something we want from them? What might our theater look and feel like from the doorway to someone who doesn't see many people like themselves already inside?

I'd love to reach a point where our community of actors is broader and more representative, not because we need certain people to make a particular show possible, but because more people genuinely see Hamilton Players as their theater, too. I don't know exactly how we get there, but I think it's a question worth asking out loud and then listening to the answers.

 

The Show Must Go On, but Maybe YOU Shouldn’t

It’s October, which means cold and flu season has officially arrived. For Hamilton Players, it also means we segue into our seasonal “contagion safety” protocols. During cold and flu season, we step up disinfection of high-touch public surfaces like doorknobs, counters, and bathroom fixtures. We run our air purifiers more regularly and in more areas of the building. From October through May, we require casts to wash their hands when they arrive for rehearsals and performances, although we certainly encourage that year-round. We also restrict shared foods like dips and salsas. There are plenty of reasons for all these precautions, with everyone's health and safety obviously at the top of the list.

But there's another very practical reason: We don't have understudies. One eensy-weensy virus can work its way through a cast remarkably quickly. One sick actor becomes three sick actors. Three become seven. Pretty soon, half the cast is coughing, the director is reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment, and an entire production may be in jeopardy. It can happen. It has happened.

So, beyond the precautions we take at the theater, there are some things actors can do to protect themselves, their castmates, and ultimately the show.

Wash your hands.

Handwashing is one of the simplest tools we have for reducing the spread of illness. And that means washing them more than once when you arrive at rehearsal. Wash them throughout the day. Wash them after using the bathroom, before eating, after blowing your nose, and whenever you've been touching things that approximately 847 other people have also touched. You never really know who touched what after touching who knows what. Nobody wants to discover they've achieved Patient Zero status in the cast.

Don't share.

We're taught from an early age to share and share alike. When it comes to theatrical preventative medicine, however, a little selfishness can be a virtue. Don't share water bottles, makeup, lip products, utensils, towels, or other personal items. Avoid sharing microphones whenever practical, or clean them appropriately between users. A good rule is that if something touches your mouth, nose, eyes, or bodily fluids, it probably doesn't need to become a community resource. There are several jokes available to me here. I'm going to demonstrate admirable restraint and move on.

Get some sleep.

Rehearsal schedules are exhausting. You're working all day, rehearsing all evening, practicing at home, learning lines, doing choreography, and still somehow expected to accomplish mundane tasks like laundry and feeding yourself. But sleep matters. Adequate sleep supports normal immune function, while chronic sleep deprivation can make us more susceptible to illness. It also affects concentration, memory, reaction time, and mood, none of which are particularly helpful things to sacrifice during a production. So when you're tempted to stay up until 1:00 a.m. running lines one more time, consider whether sleep might actually be the more productive rehearsal choice.

Create some distance from sick people at home.

If someone in your household gets sick, this is an excellent time to temporarily reconsider your usual domestic arrangements. Sleep separately if you reasonably can. Don't share drinks, utensils, towels, or pillows. Improve ventilation. Clean high-touch surfaces. Give the sick person some space. Yes, this may mean temporarily banishing your beloved to the couch. Or volunteering for couch duty yourself. Think of it not as rejection, but as an exciting short-term theatrical residency in the living room. Once they're improving and have been fever-free without fever-reducing medication for at least 24 hours, you can begin easing back toward normal life while still taking some extra precautions. Romance will survive. And if it doesn't, at least you made it to opening night.  

Be sensible about your health routine.

Some people swear by hot tea with lemon and honey. Others love saline rinses, zinc lozenges, vitamins, ginger, garlic, or whatever mysterious concoction their grandmother has been recommending since 1974. We're theater people, not doctors, so we're not going to prescribe your cold-and-flu regimen. Follow the health practices that are safe and appropriate for you. Eat. Hydrate. Sleep. Take care of yourself. Talk to your healthcare provider when you need actual medical advice. And perhaps most importantly, pay attention when your body tells you something isn't right.

When the Sniffle Becomes Something More

Not every sniffle means you need to miss rehearsal. Allergies exist. Lingering coughs exist. Minor symptoms exist. If you're dealing with something mild and otherwise feel well enough to participate, think about what you can do to protect the people around you. Wear a well-fitting mask if appropriate. Keep some physical distance when you can. Wash your hands frequently. Don't share personal items. Let your director know what's going on. And maybe skip the stage kissing for the evening.

Yes, masks can inspire strong opinions. But when you're recovering from a respiratory illness, they're one useful tool for reducing what you spread into the air around other people. They also have the very practical theatrical benefit of broadcasting: I HAVE THE CRUD. KEEP YOUR DISTANCE. Plus, again: stage-kissing roadblock.

But if you're genuinely sick, one of the most important things I can tell you is this:

Sometimes the most responsible thing you can do for a production is stay home.

There is a weird culture in theater around the show must go on that can very easily turn into I must go on no matter what. Those are not the same thing. Coming to rehearsal contagious because you don't want to let down the cast may ultimately be the very thing that does let down the cast. Directors have some responsibility here, too. We need to create rehearsal environments where legitimate illness is treated differently from unreliability. Actors need to know that they can say, "I'm sick." If the culture is How dare you miss rehearsal?, people will drag themselves through the door with influenza because they're afraid of being considered difficult or undedicated. And that doesn't help anyone. In fact, if you're sick enough that you shouldn't be there, we'd much rather know sooner rather than later. Give your director as much notice as possible. That gives us time to adjust the rehearsal schedule, work different scenes, review choreography, rehearse other actors, or find another productive use of the evening. Missing one rehearsal is inconvenient. Taking out half the cast is considerably more inconvenient.

Let's Retire the Sick-Day Heroics

There's also a slightly uncomfortable theater tradition worth talking about: we love a good war story. "I had a 102-degree fever and I STILL DID THE SHOW!" "I was throwing up between scenes!" "I had pneumonia, three broken ribs, and possibly scurvy, but I went on!" These stories are usually told as evidence of extraordinary dedication. And sometimes circumstances genuinely do leave very few options, particularly once performances have begun and there is no understudy waiting in the wings. But maybe we shouldn't automatically celebrate exposing thirty other people to an infectious illness as evidence of professionalism. Sometimes professionalism looks heroic. Sometimes professionalism looks like sweatpants, chicken soup, and texting your director, "I'm really sorry, but I need to stay home tonight." There should also be some obvious hard stops. Significant fever, repeated vomiting or diarrhea, symptoms severe enough that you can't safely perform, or an illness for which a healthcare provider has told you to stay home are not push through it situations. And yes, for the record, projectile vomiting is definitely a hard stop. We feel comfortable drawing that line.

Take Care of the Show by Taking Care of Each Other

"The show must go on" has never meant that every individual person must go on at all costs. It means we take care of the production. Sometimes that means showing up when you're tired, pushing through the awkward rehearsal where nothing seems to work, and honoring the commitment you made to your cast. And sometimes it means recognizing that your absence today may be the thing that protects everyone else's ability to be there tomorrow.

Staying home Tuesday when you're genuinely sick may be precisely what gets you healthy enough to perform Friday. It may also keep the person playing opposite you healthy enough to perform Friday. So wash your hands. Get some sleep. Keep your water bottle to yourself. Take care of your body. Tell your director when you're sick. And when necessary, stay home. Because sometimes the best way to make sure the show goes on is to recognize when you shouldn't.

 

How to be a Good Backstage Roommate

Congratulations! You've been cast in a show. You have also just agreed to spend the next several weeks sharing a very small space with a dozen or more people, their costumes, shoes, hairspray, emotional-support water bottles, nervous digestive systems, and wildly incompatible musical tastes. Welcome to backstage. There are a few things about being part of this particular little community that nobody necessarily tells you, but everyone should know.

Manage Your Personal Ecosystem

Casts and crews are often forced into very tight quarters backstage. Bodies are bodies, and along with them come certain, shall we say, smells. A good castmate does what they can to minimize their contribution to the collective backstage atmosphere. And I'm not just talking about the gnarly odors. The perfumey ones count, too. Imagine the combined bouquet of Roy's stinky shoes, Shirley's perfume, backstage hairspray, BO, Axe body spray, latex, spirit gum, Febreze, and whatever burger joint Dan visited before rehearsal. It's a lot. Anything you can do to eliminate a layer of that olfactory lasagna puts you one step closer to sainthood. So, in the interest of everyone's respiratory well-being:

• Shower regularly and reapply deodorant before rehearsal or getting into costume.
• Avoid heavy perfumes and body sprays.
• Brush your teeth before rehearsals and shows, and maybe keep some breath mints handy. Your scene partner will thank you.
• Don't wear the stinky shoes. Everyone has that one pair that just reeks. Maybe those aren't the shoes to leave backstage in a small room with fifteen other people.

And it should go without saying, but I'm saying it anyway: wear clean undergarments. The impact of your end-of-day funk is multiplied when you add hot stage lights, physical activity, and costumes that may not be laundered after every performance. Your castmates will appreciate you. Your costumer will appreciate you. Civilization itself may depend upon you.

Plan Your Meals Ahead

Right before a show is probably not the time to indulge in black bean chili topped with onions. Nor is tech week the ideal moment to begin your new "I Love Cruciferous Vegetables" diet. No green room is big enough to accommodate that sulfurous miasma. I'm not saying don't eat broccoli. I'm just saying that perhaps you don't eat all the broccoli immediately before spending three hours in a poorly ventilated backstage area with twenty other people. Likewise, if tonight's dinner contains enough garlic to ward off Dracula, maybe add some breath mints to your theater bag. Again, it's all about the ecosystem.

Poop at Home

There. I said it. Poop happens. And as the children's book has been assuring us for decades, everybody poops. But when you are sharing a small backstage space with limited bathrooms and even more limited ventilation, it is a kindness to practice a little bathroom diplomacy. Obviously, we don't always have control over our digestive processes. Bathrooms are there for a reason, so please, use them when you need them. Nobody wants you suffering through Act II because you're trying to earn some sort of gastrointestinal Good Castmate Award. But if you can handle your business at home before coming to the theater, backstage will be a friendlier place for everyone. And remember: Leave. The. Fan. On.

Respect Everyone Else's Process

You may love loud '80s hair bands and find them a fantastic pre-show energy boost. But not everybody wants to listen to Pour Some Sugar on Me while they're getting ready. Some people want quiet. Some review their lines. Some do vocal warmups. Some need a few minutes to get into character. Some apparently enjoy elevator music. It takes all kinds. Fortunately, we live in the miraculous age of headphones and earbuds. You can do you without infringing on everyone else's aural space.

The same principle applies to conversation. If someone is clearly trying to review lines, focus, or mentally prepare for the show, let them. They aren't necessarily being antisocial. They may simply be trying to do the job they came to the theater to do. Give your castmates room for whatever process helps them walk onstage ready to perform.

Remember That Changing Clothes Changes the Rules

Community theater dressing rooms can include people of wildly different ages, backgrounds, bodies, comfort levels, and expectations about privacy. And shows sometimes require costume changes in places that aren't particularly private. Quick changes may happen backstage, in the wings, behind a curtain, or wherever we can carve out three square feet and thirty seconds. That doesn't mean normal boundaries disappear. Don't stare. Don't comment on other people's bodies. Don't take photographs of people changing. Give people whatever privacy the space allows. And don't assume that because you're perfectly comfortable changing clothes in front of everyone, everybody else should be. When circumstances require people to be physically vulnerable around one another, being respectful isn't just good theater etiquette. It's part of making backstage a place where everyone can feel safe and comfortable.

Clean Up After Yourself

Your mother doesn't work here, and the stage manager and costumers are not your maids. It is your job to pick up after yourself, hang up your costumes, return things where they belong, and keep your personal clutter reasonably contained. Backstage spaces usually contain more people, costumes, props, equipment, and assorted theatrical debris than they were ever designed to accommodate. Clutter doesn't just make the space unpleasant. It can become dangerous. A purse strap left across the floor becomes a tripping hazard in the dark. So does a pile of discarded clothing. A cluttered makeup station can become a costume disaster waiting to happen. Have you ever tried to get mascara or lipstick out of a white costume thirty seconds before an entrance? Trust me. It's a stage manager's nightmare. So hang up the costume. Put away the makeup. Pick up your shoes. Contain your stuff. Your backstage footprint should not require its own zip code.

Remember the Golden Rule

There isn't a super-secret theater handbook that requires a special decoder ring to understand. Most of these "rules" aren't really theater rules at all. They're roommate rules. Being a good castmate isn't about memorizing a list of obscure theatrical etiquette. It's about recognizing that your experience isn't the only experience happening in the room. Your music is someone else's noise. Your perfume is someone else's headache. Your clutter is someone else's tripping hazard. Your conversation may be interrupting someone else's concentration. Your comfort level isn't necessarily someone else's comfort level. Backstage is a shared space, and for a few weeks, it's also a strange little temporary home. You don't have to become best friends with everyone who lives there. You just have to be a good roommate and “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”