Opening Night and the Director

"I bet you can't wait until opening night."

I get that a lot. In fact, it's one of the most common statements I hear from people when I'm working on a play, both as a director and an actor.

As an actor, opening night is like Christmas. There's an excitement that I can feel the moment I wake up that morning. There's a nervous tension in the pit of my stomach that makes it almost impossible to sit down longer than ten minutes at a stretch. (Which is hard enough for me to begin with.) The delicious anticipation as I enter the stage door and begin my pre-show routines. Dressing, stretching, vocal warm-ups, and on and on... I'm a very ritualistic actor when it comes to my pre-show prep. Everything done in the same order at the same time. It's not about superstition, it's about preparation. It's what I have to do to get myself physically and mentally ready for the show. Ultimately, it's all to distract myself from the terror in the back of my mind that I might, MIGHT, fail. I used to get so worked up before performances that I'd throw up before curtain every night. (Needless to say, toothpaste and a toothbrush were a part of my regular ritual, and still are even though the preceding problem is not.) Opening night is something that actors can't wait for, yet often approach with an almost unnatural fear. "Are we ready, or could we use another week?" (Actors always want another week.)

As a director, though, opening night is usually bittersweet. Here is this thing that has been a part of my life for sometimes over a year by the time you include the selection, analysis and research phase, and rehearsal process. For actors, opening night is the beginning, for the director, it is the end. Once the show is open, it no longer belongs to me. It belongs to the actors and the audience. The play takes on a life of its own, and I'm no longer part of that life. It's like being dumped. The play moves on without me, and I move on the next play, which I'm already several weeks or months into the planning of. What I'm left with after opening is a strange sense of lethargy. Usually, 6 pm Monday rolls around, and I feel like there's somewhere I should be, something I should be doing. It usually passes in a few moments, but this goes on for several days.

There is also joy, however. To sit in the audience on opening night to see this event that you've worked so hard on finally makes it debut, and to watch these people to whom you've grown so close come into their own as artists, is a special feeling the likes of which cannot be described, only experienced. The familiar terror is also there, "Oh God, I hope this isn't awful!" And, of course, there is relief: we made it, it's good, and I can let go and not worry anymore.

So, do I look forward to opening night? You bet. Even though my involvment in the show all but ends, good theatre is never finished. It is always evolving; it is growing, changing, getting better with each passing performance. If I've done my job right, once opening night comes along, the cast and crew no longer need me. If I've done my job right, their artistry will take over. If I've done my job right, I'll be missed, but not needed.

"I bet you can't wait until opening night!"

Only a sucker would take that bet.