A Night at The Theatre

Let me take you out for a night at the theatre.

It’s any show you want it to be: it’s a bright shiny musical complete with jazz hands; a one man show about personal anguish; it’s a larger than life comedy of manners with the most elaborate sets and costumes; a piece of naturalistic drama where, to all intents and purposes the actors could just have walked straight off the street and onto set. It’s whatever you want it to be.

You have bought the tickets in advance, and the night of the show has arrived.

You leave your home/ your office/ your place of work/ the last shop you can squeeze in on your city break. You check your watch/ your phone/ the clock in the centre of the square and you quicken your pace.

You’re meeting a friend before the show for dinner. Or a drink. You’re meeting outside the theatre entrance. Or in the box office queue. Or maybe you’re going alone. (If you’ve never been to the theatre alone, I recommend that you try it one day, when all this is over)

You walk up to the entrance, and you’re hit by a wall of chattering voices. Some excited about the show. Some complaining about the work that they’ve not yet mentally left behind. There are people on the phone. Laughing. Hugging. Greeting each other. Trying to catch each other’s eye.

You squeeze through the crowd to collect your ticket /to buy your programme/ to order an over-priced usually disgusting glass of wine. You kick yourself for choosing the wine rather than the G&T. Or maybe you head straight to the loos to avoid discomfort mid-show.

You find your entrance. You smile and hand your ticket to the usher. “No thank you, I bought a programme at the bar”.

You breathe it in. That smell. That theatre smell. You let it fill your lungs for a second. You let it engulf you. You’re just BEING in the theatre. It doesn’t matter how frequently you go, it’s always magical.

You find your seat. You squeeze past any audience members already sitting down. There are some bags to climb over, some people smile as they stand or twist their knees as flat against the chair next to them as possible. Some groan, and sigh, irritated at the thought of having to find a comfortable position again once you get past them.

You sit. You wriggle around, try to find the best place for your coat, your bag, and your programme. Why did you buy that drink? It’s just given you more to faff around with.

You’re still surrounded by chatter. You look around at the faces surrounding you. Is there anyone in the crowd that you know? Statistically speaking probably not, but maybe. You keep looking, craning your neck. Trying to decipher the mood of people around you. That man on his phone looks worried. Work? Or something personal? The old couple two rows back aren’t talking. Are they mid-grudge, or are they just so comfortable in each other’s company after a lifetime together, that they can communicate without words? The woman along the row is chattering excitedly to her companion, but all you can see is the back of the friend’s head. Presumably she is just as excited. All these people surrounding you. What are their stories going to bring to their experience of the show you’re about to see that yours will not? And vice versa?

It gives you a little thrill.

The ushers draw the curtains all around the auditorium. The level of chatter dies down a bit. A few people who are still standing sit down, or make their way to their seats, hurrying slightly.

The lights go down, the conversation tails off. Your tummy flips in anticipation. You have a last little bum wriggle in your chair to get as comfortable as you can… and …

BAM!

Stage lights up. The audience collectively inhale.

And we’re off.

A collective experience which is different for every person in the room. It’s a lift. It’s a tug at a heartstring. It’s an education. A window into another world. A little taste of how someone else experiences the world. It’s exciting. The actors, the crew, the directors, the designers and dressers, everyone has been working on this for months. Yet anything could go wrong at any point. A breath taken at a different time to the night before, and the show is somehow a different show to the previous night. There is no one else sitting in your seat, seeing the actors from the same angle, experiencing the intakes of breath and the snorts of laughter of the people on either side of you. This is yours. All yours.

You come to the end of the show. The last gasp from the audience. The final black out. The last beat of still silence before the company runs out onto the stage to their well earned applause. And you’re laughing. Or crying. And clapping hard. You want to clap harder, but your palms are stinging. And you’re looking around, and everyone looks different to what they did at the start of the show. In some cases it’s barely detectable, but it’s there. That change.

The actors are smiling, starting to relax and shaking off the last few hours. They’re making eye contact with the audience. With some of the people they’ve shared their souls with. Make no mistake, that is not the soul of the character you are seeing. That is not a random emotion, or feeling, plucked from thin air. That is the actor letting you in. They have taken the writer’s words, and in a world created by the director, and the designers, they have stood infront of you, and hundreds of others, to bear their souls and welcome you in.

The company leaves the stage for the final time. The lights come up. People start rummaging around for theirs bags, and coats and rubbish, and then making their way to the nearest exit. It’s not a speedy process, but eventually you are out into the night air, eyes shining, heart racing, chatting about what you have just experienced with someone else who has experienced something similar. But not the same. Never the same.

Why, you might ask, have I written this, other than pure self-indulgence?

Because I wanted to remind you how it feels. Theatres are desperately trying to keep people engaged, and provide some respite while the country comes to terms with this crisis. There are free showings of NTLive to name but one. All the while dealing with the fact that the NT, the RSC, and others are facing the very real threat of complete financial collapse. If nothing changes, it’s estimated that 70% of theatres could be permanently boarded up by Christmas.

Given the vast contribution theatre makes to the economy, the government should be doing so much more. Or something, at least.

But that is not what this post is about. This post is about you.

If you are watching NTLive, or similar, from home during this, please consider making a donation. If everyone did, it would make a real difference.

Please let’s not make a night at the theatre a thing of the past. It would be a tragedy.