Theater Etiquette (Part 1 of 2)

One of my favorite things about community theater is seeing new faces walk through our doors. New audience members, new volunteers, new actors, and sometimes people experiencing live theater for the very first time. So every once in a while, it seems worth revisiting a subject that isn't terribly exciting, but really does make a difference: theater etiquette.

Going to a live performance is a little different from going to the movies. At a movie, the performance has already happened. The actors can't hear your phone ring, notice you getting up, or see the glow from your screen. Their work has been captured through multiple takes, camera angles, editing, and all sorts of movie magic.

Live theater is different.

The people onstage are performing right in front of you, in real time. There is no rewind button and no second take. Every performance happens once, with that particular group of actors and that particular audience, and then it is gone. That's part of what makes theater so wonderful. It also means that the audience is part of the experience. Your laughter, applause, gasps, and even that wonderful silence when everyone is completely absorbed in a scene can affect the energy in the room. Actors feel it. Other audience members feel it. So, how can we all help make that shared experience a great one?

Give yourself a little extra time.

Nobody plans to be late. Parking happens. Babysitters happen. The person in front of you decides that this is the moment to drive 12 miles under the speed limit. But once a performance begins, seating late arrivals can be tricky. Depending on the theater and the production, you may need to wait for an appropriate break in the action before being seated. In some theaters, late seating isn't possible at all until intermission. It isn't meant as a punishment. Opening a door, walking through a darkened theater, searching for seats, and asking an entire row to stand can pull dozens of people out of the world the actors have just worked to create. Give yourself enough time to park, pick up your tickets, visit the restroom, grab something from concessions, find your seat, and settle in. It's a much nicer way to begin the evening anyway.

Let your phone enjoy the show quietly, too.

This is probably the biggest change in theater etiquette since I first started writing about the subject. Our phones have become such a constant part of our lives that we sometimes don't even notice how often we look at them. Inside a dark theater, though, everyone notices. A ringing phone is obviously distracting, but so is a glowing screen. Even on silent, checking a text, scrolling through a notification, or answering a quick message can light up several rows around you. And unless the theater specifically tells you otherwise, please don't photograph or record the performance. Performance rights and licensing agreements frequently restrict photography and recording, and the rules vary by production. More importantly, holding up a phone can distract the performers and the people sitting around you. So before the lights go down, silence the phone, tuck it away, and give yourself permission to be unavailable for a couple of hours. The rest of the world will almost certainly survive.

Beware the surprisingly powerful cough-drop wrapper.

There is some mysterious law of acoustics that makes a tiny candy wrapper approximately 700 times louder inside a quiet theater. If you know you're going to want a cough drop or piece of candy during the performance, unwrap it beforehand. The people around you will silently thank you. And if you do need one unexpectedly, that's okay. Just try to open it as quietly as you can. We're theater people, not monsters.

React to the show. Just don't compete with it.

A good audience doesn't have to sit perfectly still and silently. Please laugh. Applaud. Gasp. Cry. Respond. That exchange of energy between the audience and the performers is one of the things that makes live theater special. Conversation, however, is another matter. Even whispered conversations can carry surprisingly well in a theater. If you need to say something that can wait, save it for intermission. And during musicals, resist the temptation to sing along unless the performers invite you to. We love that you know every word. We really do. But the person sitting beside you bought a ticket to hear the people onstage sing it. You can absolutely give your own Tony Award-winning performance in the car on the way home.

Remember the people behind you.

Sightlines can be tricky in any theater, especially a small one. Large hats, leaning far forward, or putting two heads together can unintentionally block someone's view. You don't need to sit at attention for two hours. Just occasionally remember that someone behind you is also trying to see the stage. It's one of those tiny courtesies that makes a big difference.

And because apparently this needs to be said: please keep your shoes on.

Yes. This one comes from experience. No further explanation should be necessary.

Mostly, just enjoy yourself.

Theater etiquette isn't really about a long list of rules. It's about remembering that live theater is something we experience together. The actors are aware of the audience. Audience members are aware of one another. Every person in the room contributes, in some small way, to what that particular performance feels like. That's actually one of my favorite things about theater. No two performances are exactly alike because no two audiences are exactly alike. One night the laughter is enormous. Another night you can practically feel the audience holding its breath. Sometimes the applause begins before the lights have even finished fading. For a couple of hours, a room full of strangers agrees to put away the outside world and enter another one together. So arrive with a little time to spare. Put away the phone. Unwrap the cough drop. Keep your shoes on. Then settle in, enjoy the show, and help us make a little magic together.

10 Things I've Learned from the Youth Theater Program

 I recently had the privilege of being the lunch speaker at a local Kiwanis Club meeting. When I was invited, the dear friend - educator, Kiwanian, and frequent collaborator - who invited me suggested I talk about Hamilton Players’ youth program. Now, I could spend HOURS talking about the theater and its various programs, so narrowing the topic to youth theater was helpful...but still waaayyy too broad.

As I thought about all the things I could share, I realized I kept coming back to a handful of stories that delivered the same message: Those kids were teaching me more than I could ever teach them. So, I decided to distill those lessons into an easy-to-digest list of ten things I’ve learned from the Hamilton Players’ Youth Program. And then I thought, why not share them with you, too?

10 Things I’ve Learned from the Hamilton Players’ Youth Theater Program

1. Bravery doesn’t mean not being scared.

I’ve noticed that as people get older, we often become more cautious about taking risks. I don’t mean the bungee-jumping/hip-breaking kind. I mean the make-new-friends, try-a-new-restaurant, visit-a-new-place kind. Comfort zones can get awfully comfortable. But kids remind me that courage isn’t the absence of fear. Courage is being terrified to audition, sing alone, try improv, or walk onto a stage…and doing it anyway. On the other side of that fear, they discover new friends, forge new paths, and make incredible memories simply because they chose action over fear.

2. Failure is much less important than adults think it is.

Adults can give failure far more weight than it deserves. We replay our mistakes, analyze them, agonize over them, and sometimes let the possibility of failing keep us from trying at all. Kids forget a line, miss an entrance, mess up choreography...and keep going. Five minutes later, they’re laughing. They remind me that mistakes are part of learning, not evidence that we shouldn’t have tried. Failure should be a stepping-stone or a detour not a roadblock.

3. Belonging can happen remarkably fast.

Making new friends as an adult can feel daunting. It takes time, vulnerability, and effort, and we can get remarkably good at talking ourselves out of it. Kids often skip right past all that self-restriction. Put a group of kids together who may not know one another on Monday, give them something to create together, and by Friday they have inside jokes, shared experiences, and a community. A year later, they may walk back through the theater doors and greet one another with hugs as if no time has passed. Kids remind me that sometimes friendship gets harder because we’ve learned to make it harder. We create rules and definitions instead of simply meeting people where they are.

4. Every kid needs a place where their particular kind of “weird” is useful.

As adults, we tend to compartmentalize our “weird” and only bring it out when we feel safe and seen. But theater thrives on weird. Theater has a place for the loud kid, the quiet observer, the kid who memorizes everything, the class clown, the artist, the musician, the organizer, and the kid with the wildly specific obsession who has been waiting their entire life for someone to ask what they know about medieval weaponry, yoyo-ing, or obscure Disney villains. There are a lot of ways to be valuable. Theater has a wonderful way of seeing and acknowledging them.

5. Kids are capable of much more than we sometimes expect of them.

This is a big one, and it never fails to amaze me. The fact that a group of 40 kids can learn the blocking, dialogue, music, and choreography for a 75-minute show in a ONE-WEEK CAMP absolutely blows my mind. I once gave a TEDx talk that I wrote myself and still had trouble memorizing it! But give kids real responsibility, clear expectations, good instruction, and somebody who genuinely believes they can do it, and they will often meet, and exceed, those expectations. In 16 years of teaching summer theater camps, I have yet to see a group fail to rise to the occasion.

6. Confidence is built through doing, not through being told to be confident.

Adults can get pretty bogged down in self-talk. Encouragement and visualization are helpful, but nothing quite replaces actually doing the thing. You can tell a child, “You can do this,” a hundred times. But there is something transformative about the moment they actually do the hard thing and realize: “I did that.” That accomplishment belongs to them. No one handed it to them. They earned it. And they own it forever. Every time they do something they weren’t sure they could do, they add another piece of evidence to the growing belief that maybe, just maybe, they are capable of more than they thought.

7. Play is serious work.

This is one that touches me on an almost daily basis. I have the extraordinary privilege of having a career built around the what-if of imagination. I am constantly creating worlds in my mind and helping bring them to life onstage, and it is one of the most fulfilling things I have ever done. Imagination, improvisation, pretending, experimenting, and being silly aren’t wasted time. Through play, kids practice creativity, communication, problem-solving, empathy, flexibility, and trust. Those abilities matter far beyond a stage. They matter in relationships, classrooms, workplaces, communities, and pretty much anywhere humans have to figure things out together. Which is...everywhere.

8. Being seen matters enormously.

As adults, we sometimes devalue recognition. We convince ourselves that it is altruistic, or maybe even morally superior, not to care whether anyone notices what we contribute. But acknowledgement matters. Being seen matters. And kids have reminded me of that. Not every child in our program is the lead. That doesn’t matter. Sometimes one of the most important things an adult can do is simply notice:

“I saw what you did there.”

“I saw you help that younger kid.”

“I saw you keep trying.”

“I saw how much work you put into that.”

Those are small sentences. But at the right moment, to the right person, they can mean an enormous amount. Kids have reminded me how powerful genuine recognition can be, and that maybe adults need it, too.

9. The goal isn’t to create professional actors.

I’ve learned not to get bogged down in perfection. Most of these kids won’t pursue theater professionally, and that’s not the point. We’re helping create adults who can speak in front of people, collaborate with others, accept feedback, solve problems, take risks, recover from mistakes, and appreciate the arts. We teach them to keep going when something is difficult. To give their best effort. To contribute to something larger than themselves. To find beauty and pride in accomplishment, whatever that accomplishment may be. If some of them grow up to be professional actors, wonderful. But if they grow up to be teachers, engineers, nurses, plumbers, scientists, business owners, parents, or community volunteers who are a little more confident, creative, empathetic, and willing to stand in front of a room and speak? That’s a pretty great outcome, too.

10. The impact often isn’t visible when you’re making it.

This might be the hardest lesson, but the longer I am in theater, the more I see evidence of it. I now have kids I taught when they were 10, 11, or 12 years old coming back with children of their own and telling me they want their kids to do theater because it changed their lives. The arts make an impact on kids. But you don’t always know which rehearsal, role, friendship, compliment, ridiculous improv game, or quiet moment backstage is going to stay with a child. Sometimes you don’t find out until years later. Kids have taught me that the small moments matter precisely because we don’t get to choose which ones become important. We just have to keep creating them.

Maybe the Teachers Aren’t Always the Teachers

We talk a lot about what arts education gives kids. But after doing this for years, I’m increasingly aware of what the kids give us. They remind us to be brave. To play. To risk looking foolish. To recover quickly when things go wrong. To make room for each other. To notice people. To try things we aren’t sure we’ll be good at. And to celebrate what we create together. We may be the instructors. But we are definitely not the only teachers in the room.

 

Guest Blog: Music Beyond the Musical

When people hear the words musical theater, they naturally think of unforgettable songs, lively choreography, and the thrill of a live orchestra. While musicals place music center stage, music still plays an important role in the many different stories we share at Hamilton Players. Whether we're presenting My Fair Lady, a straight play like Boeing-Boeing, a Reader's Theater performance of Macbeth, or one of our youth performances, music is one of the many elements that helps shape the audience's experience.

Music begins its work before the first line is spoken. In a musical, the overture sets the tone and draws us into the world of the story. From that moment on, the score becomes part of the storytelling, guiding our emotions and giving voice to thoughts that dialogue alone can't always express.

In a musical, songs celebrate triumphs, reveal fears, and deepen our understanding of the characters. The performers, musicians, director, and technical crew all become storytellers, creating an experience that can only happen in live theater.

Our non-musical productions take a different approach. The focus is on the actors, the script, and the power of the spoken word. When music is used, it's intentional—perhaps to establish a time or place, support a transition, or underscore a key moment. Just as meaningful are the times when there is no music at all. Silence can heighten tension, draw us closer to a character, and allow an important scene to unfold without distraction. Choosing when to use music—and when to let silence speak—is part of the art of theater.

At Hamilton Players, music also represents something larger than the notes on a page. It reminds us that theater is a collaborative art. Whether it's a pit orchestra rehearsing for a musical, a music director working with performers, or volunteers backstage preparing for opening night, each person contributes to the story. That spirit of collaboration has been part of Hamilton Players from the beginning. Built through the dedication of community volunteers, our theater continues to thrive because people share their talents, their time, and their love of the performing arts.

One of the strengths of a community theater season is its variety. Some productions fill the theater with music from beginning to end. Others rely almost entirely on dialogue. Both invite audiences to laugh, reflect, and connect with the stories unfolding on stage. 

As another season unfolds at Hamilton Players, I hope you'll notice the care that goes into every production. Sometimes you'll leave humming a favorite song. Other times you'll be thinking about a powerful conversation.. Whether through music, silence, or the spoken word, every artistic choice is made with one purpose in mind—to bring a story to life.

Guest Blogger Emily Athman is the Hamilton Players' Board Vice President and one of several Resident Music Directors who shape the sound of our musical productions.

Every Rule Has a Story (Usually an Expensive One)

One of my favorite things about community theater is that people are endlessly creative. Unfortunately, that creativity occasionally extends to finding new and exciting ways to accidentally create policies. Contrary to popular belief, the Hamilton Players staff does not gather once a month around a conference table asking, "How can we make life just a little more inconvenient?" Quite the opposite. Most of our rules exist because somewhere, sometime, somebody, with the best intentions, did something that made all of us collectively say, "Well...I guess we need a rule for that now." So today I thought I'd pull back the curtain and explain a few of the rules that tend to generate the most questions. Spoiler alert: none of them were created out of boredom or a power fetish.

Rule #1: No food in the House. 

At first glance, this one seems a little harsh. It's just popcorn. Or a cookie. Or half a granola bar… What's the worst that could happen? Well, allow me to introduce you to the unofficial stage crew of the Hamilton Playhouse. Mice. Pack rats. Squirrels. Birds. Wasps. Yellowjackets. Ants. Spiders. One skunk. And enough miscellaneous wildlife that I occasionally wonder if we're secretly operating a petting zoo.

Historic buildings are charming. Historic buildings are also full of tiny little places where tiny little creatures can decide they'd like to become paying tenants. Food crumbs are basically Zillow listings. One forgotten cookie under Row G becomes an engraved invitation. So when we say, "water only," we're not trying to deprive anyone of snacks. We're trying to keep your theater experience from including an unscheduled appearance by Mickey and friends.

Rule #2: Backstage food is weirdly specific. 

Our approved backstage snack list looks like it was written by someone's extremely cautious grandmother. Baby carrots. Mini pretzels. Red Vines. Hard candy (natural colors only). Oddly specific, right? There's a reason. Backstage isn't just backstage. It's also where several thousand dollars' worth of costumes are hanging.

Silk. Velvet. Satin. Fabric that seems to absorb chocolate from three zip codes away.

Actors also arrive well before the audience, often straight from work, and they may be at the theater for four hours before they head home. So yes, people need to eat. We just try to avoid foods that explode, melt, crumble, drip, smear, splatter, stain, or somehow migrate onto the only white costume in the show. It's less "No Fun Allowed,” and more "Let's not baptize Cinderella in nacho cheese."

Rule #3: No photography backstage.

This one isn't about secrecy. It's about dignity. Backstage doubles as our dressing room. That means costumes are changing. People are changing. Sometimes very quickly. Everyone is focused on getting the perfect picture of their best friend without realizing that someone's uncle is accidentally reflected in the mirror wearing approximately half of a pirate costume. The internet is forever. Wardrobe malfunctions should not be. So, the easiest solution is simple. No backstage photography. Everyone gets to focus on getting ready instead of wondering whether they're about to become an accidental internet meme.

 Rule #4: The lobby opens one hour before the show.

Not 75 minutes. Not whenever someone notices a car in the parking lot. Exactly one hour. Here's why. Imagine inviting forty people into your bedroom while you're still getting dressed. That's essentially what happens to the cast once the lobby opens. The actors retreat backstage, where dozens of people share one dressing room, one bathroom, costume racks, makeup stations, props, and varying levels of pre-show nerves. The hour before the lobby opening is their last chance to breathe, stretch, chat, and enjoy a little elbow room before they become glorified sardines. It's also your last chance not to see them. Part of the magic of theater is that your first glimpse of the characters happens when the curtain rises. Not when Cinderella is wandering through the lobby in curlers and a ratty track suit looking for her cell phone.

 The Moral of the Story

There are dozens of rules around the Playhouse. Some are required by law. Some protect our historic building. Some protect expensive equipment. Some protect people. And some protect all of us from discovering exactly how much chocolate can ruin velvet. None of them were created because we enjoy saying "no." They're simply the accumulated wisdom of thousands of rehearsals, hundreds of productions, and countless volunteers all trying to answer the same question: "How do we make this place safe, welcoming, and just a little less chaotic?"

 So, if you've ever wondered whether there's a funny story behind one of our rules, the answer is almost certainly yes. Some of those stories are safe to print. Some are probably better left to theater legend. Either way, the rule likely wasn't written until after someone cheerfully demonstrated why it was needed. Every rule has a story. Some of those stories are funny. Some are expensive. Most are both. The good news is that you don't have to learn those lessons the hard way. You just have to follow the rules that grew out of them.