It’s Time to Rethink “The Show Must Go On”

At its best, it’s what makes theater magic. At its worst, it’s the ultimate enemy of EDI work in the arts.

I want to start by sharing one of my favorite, large scale “The Show Must Go On” experiences. It was the most recent revival of Fiddler on the Roof. I remember leaning over to my husband during a transition and whispering, “the dance is almost better than Hamilton.” Then, there was a loud bump, like the sound of bumper cars crashing.

Looking down from the mezzanine, I saw a set piece (on hydraulics) that was supposed to be floating off stage right. Instead, the little Anatevka house was glitching — butting against some invisible barrier each time it tried to move, like The Little Engine That Could.

My mouth fell open. I’d never witnessed a real technical glitch in the many Broadway shows I’d seen (though I’m dying to see a “No Fly” performance of Wicked where they have to utilize Plan B someday). After about three seconds of glitching, the lights came up to half and two crew members in headsets walked on stage, smiled directly at the audience, and waved. They then grabbed either end of the set piece and walked offstage.

The fourth wall had been unabashedly broken, and we, the audience, loved it (in my memory the audience applauded, though my husband tells me I’m making that up). It was a moment of real humanity — a moment of lifting a curtain that acknowledged that we were all human beings in a space, watching a story. I don’t think I stopped smiling until the Russians came to destroy the wedding at the end of Act 1.

While many audience members probably didn’t think much more about that glitch, my husband and I knew what had likely gone on behind the scenes. Frantic communication over headsets between stage management, crew, actors, light ops, sound techs and musicians to creatively problem solve in a matter of seconds. No one was hurt, but there was an obstacle in the way of proceeding. What they did was “The Show Must Go On” at its finest.

Now, let me tell you a story about “The Show Must Go On” at its worst — my own worst theatrical nightmare.

In this nightmare, I opened my mouth to sing the opening number of a sung-through musical. But there was something wrong with my voice, even though I’d warmed up ten minutes earlier. Something seemed to be blocking my voice from producing sound. And I didn’t have the use of a microphone or other actors on stage to help with amplification. I had 90 minutes of a one-act show to get through, and my most trusted tool, my singing voice, was failing me.

I left the stage in a blind panic after the first song. What was wrong with my voice? What was I going to do? How was I going to get through the rest of this show?

No one could help. The show was going on. There was no time to stop and assess. While everyone backstage checked on me, no one had an answer for me other than keep going and do your best. So I kept on going. I completely disengaged from my body for 90 minutes and the show went on until my voice would only come out in a whisper.

I wish I could transport my present self back to that moment where my past self came off stage in a blind panic. I’d look myself dead in the eyes and say, “We’re going to take 10.”

There was nothing (physically) stopping me in that moment from calling for a ten minute break. All I needed was a pause — to talk with the music director and the stage manager. To not feel completely traumatized and alone. To figure out what was going on and to come up with a solid plan from there.

But there was a very powerful force stopping me — an internalized and systemic force. “The Show Must Go On.” In that moment, stopping the show was not even an option in my mind.

It doesn’t matter where or when this happened. It happens everywhere and all the time.

The present-day me understands that had I stopped the show, the audience would probably have cheered. They knew my voice was failing. They watched and listened as a Black woman very publicly struggled for 90 minutes. I’m sure they were uncomfortable too.

What if I had just stopped and said — “I’m sorry, we’re going to take 10 to figure out what’s going on”? What was actually at stake?

It’s Engrained In Us

I can tell you lots of other stories of theater friends and colleagues. My husband has his own stories to tell — most notably, breaking his hand in act one of a musical and proceeding to continue along with act two before going to the emergency room. I can tell stories of sick actors being bullied into performing, vomit buckets being strategically placed offstage, and stage managers feeling forced to miss family funerals in service of “The Show Must Go On.” There are far too many to tell.

Recently, while my family was on vacation, we saw a circus-style show at an amusement park. It was about 90 degrees and this poor aerialist was clearly struggling in the heat. I’ll never forget how she came out for her bow with tears in her eyes, a faltering, shaky smile on her lips — clearly not okay. But she came out for the full company bow rather than just stay backstage and hydrate. I spent the entirety of bows worrying about whether or not she was about to collapse.

Listen. We’re talking about live theater. Anything can happen. That’s why we love it. It’s why we leave our couches and gather in public — to breathe and be with other human beings to experience stories as a community. But no play (keyword: play) should rely on actor trauma in order to go on.

Words matter. The word “must” is strong. The phrase “The Show Must Go On” is often said lovingly and fondly by theater artists. We are creative problem solvers at heart, and we often have to use creative methods to keep shows afloat when things go awry (like when a cottage in Anatevka won’t budge).

But for a long, long, time, theaters have relied on this engrained notion of “must” — this responsibility we have to keep the endangered machine running at all costs. Pain, fear and trauma be damned. In theaters across the country (and I’m sure across the world), we roll the dice every single day. We hope everything will be okay. But it’s actually not “hope.” It’s a dependency on the old model — an engrained message in every artists’ head — “The. Show. Must. Go. On.” The success, and in many cases survival, of theater depends on the lowest paid, least protected, most visible artists.

It took government mandates and the threat of closure to lead theaters to standardizing swings and understudies. Covid forced us stop and think about what we needed to do in order for shows to go on. But even now, years after the pandemic shut down theaters across the globe, we don’t budget sufficient time to equip these crucial people for success. Often times, though there are understudies in place, theaters would rather save time and roll the dice, betting that nothing will stop the machine from rolling on.

What Does This Have to Do With Equity, Diversity & Inclusion?

In short, everything. Equity in the arts is about creating systems, large and small, that support the diverse groups of artists working on projects. It’s about recognizing what people need in order for the opportunity to succeed at the same level, and to thrive at work.

Imagine accepting a corporate job with no sick days or dedicated vacation days. As an actor, if you’re unavailable to perform or rehearse on Passover, Easter or Juneteenth, you’ll just get replaced. Or you’ll be afraid to speak up about your conflict because you’re afraid you’ll be replaced. And when it comes to “sick days”, most everyone is just crossing their fingers and hoping for the best.

That doesn’t feel like a system that sets any artist up with the stability needed to thrive in their job. That’s why when I lost my voice in my theater nightmare, I spiraled like a tornado the following day — visiting the doctor to get analyzed, the emergency room to get a nasal endoscopy (not at all fun if you’re not familiar), and the pharmacy to purchase antibiotics and steroids, all on my dime, so that the show could go on.

And now let’s talk about the intersection of diversity here — specifically racial diversity. In theater, where do we see the most racial diversity? You guessed it. It’s the actors onstage who are largely responsible for maintaining the machine of a show. Yes, stage managers, light and sound ops, crew and wardrobe members as well. No show can go on without these crucial people. But they are behind the scenes. It’s the actors, the people responsible for showcasing a theater’s commitment to diversity, who are on the front lines. They feel direct responsibility for the show going on.

As the only artist of color, onstage or backstage, involved in my own theater nightmare, the burden of “The Show Must Go On” fell squarely on me. And I didn’t feel like I had a choice in the matter. Zooming out — that sucks, right? You bet. It happens all the time. And it doesn’t feel at all like inclusion.

It’s not any one person’s or one company’s individual fault. It is a system we’ve all agreed to participate in. And just because we’ve made broad strokes as an industry to increase diversity efforts on stage doesn’t mean we’ve made meaningful progress to change the system behind the machine. “We can’t possibly stop the show” is like an automatic response. We power through, and we are applauded for doing so.

Can the Show Go On?

I’d like to propose the following three questions be answered before determining if a show should go on:

In Fiddler, could two crew members come out and safely move the glitching set piece so that the show could transition to the next scene? Yes. And guess what — the audience LOVED it. I loved the moment so much that it has stayed with me all this time.

In my theater nightmare, did I really think the audience couldn’t wait 10 minutes? Go use the restroom or get a drink from the bar — and come back? And as theater lovers, would they not be thrilled that an actor was taking care of themselves?

Had I asked myself the 3 questions though — “Was my mental health in jeopardy?” Yes. “Am I considering the long-term cost.” Nope — just that the show must go on. “Are there safe, creative solutions available?” Yes. I could have asked to take 10. The world would not explode if we’d taken a 10. The world wouldn’t even explode if the audience had to be refunded.

I know that replacing the definitive “must” with the more precarious “can” is no easy feat. It takes individual artists knowing and trusting themselves, trusting the organizations they are working for, and believing that their humanity matters above all else. That trust is crucial for artists to feel empowered (not pressured) to do their part, everything safely in their power, to help the show go on.

It’ll take rewiring for companies who are struggling financially, just trying to stay afloat, struggling to keep the theater doors open at all. It also takes companies making it clear that the weight of any production isn’t entirely on artists’ shoulders, and that there are understudies, swings or clear plans of action in place in case an actor, crew member, or SM needs a sick day. This hopefully all leads to the shared understanding of the responsibility we all have as artists and arts leaders to keep theater alive and take care of each other at the same time.

This isn’t easy work. This is long, long, work. In theater, there is just never enough time — but this is why EDI work is so crucial. We must (I’m using the word ‘must’!) make space for trust building at the start of any project so that we have a solid foundation and shared, clearly-articulated responsibilities.

We Want the Show to Go On

As actors, and as artists, we are not always going to perform at 100%. That’s just a part of the gig. A show will rarely ever go on with everyone at 100%. But there is a difference between a scratchy throat and a lost voice, a glitching set and a real safety hazard, indigestion and running offstage between scenes to vomit buckets.

I’m sure every artist has good and bad “The Show Must Go On” stories to tell. But many of us, and especially those from marginalized and underrepresented identities, had the time to reflect in 2020 about how much of ourselves we’ve given in service to “The Show Must Go On.” For me personally, it was a very scary past to illuminate once I took the time to shine light on it. And in returning to the theater, most artists are carrying backpacks of all sorts of “must” trauma along with us. We want the show, and theater in general, to go on, but we’re starting to weigh the individual cost and grapple with decisions we’ve made (or that were made for us) in the past. It’s hard.

For leaders and organizations too — there’s such a burden when it comes to staying financially afloat to produce theater. Looking at loss of revenue and dwindling budgets, it can feel impossible to staff a show with adequate backup support. It’s hard.

Regardless of all of that (or really, because of all of that) we need to start healing and reworking that “must” wiring in our brains. Otherwise, the show may go on in the short term, but the flimsy, unstable foundation will crack under the strain in the long term. We must replace “must” with the more compassionate, more creative question: “Can the show go on?” Is it worth the cost to go on and can we maintain safety in the process?

With full certainty, I know my husband would go back to the moment of breaking his hand in act 1 and still go on for act 2. After answering the three questions for himself, he made a choice that worked for him (I mean, he may as well perform act 2 before his wife arrived to drive him to the ER right? Can you hear my sarcasm?) But that’s what I’m advocating for — artists being empowered to make their own individual decisions, considering their job responsibilities with their own safety and well-being in mind. And with that must also come theater investment in trust, support and back-up options.

“Must” a show ever go on? No. But as artists, we want it to. We perform and create because we love it. (We certainly don’t just do it for the money!) But we have to weigh the cost, and sometimes, the show shouldn’t go on. Sometimes, it mustn’t.