The Unsung Heroes of the Theater

Theater reviews are like magic tricks: they make you look in a certain direction and applaud the obvious. “Stunning performance by the lead actor!” They gush. “A moving portrayal of grief, joy, and indigestion!” Yes, the actor cried on cue and remembered all their lines. Bravo. Meanwhile, the director—the sorcerer who stitched the show together with mood boards, unpaid overtime, acted as Mom and pychologist and spilt tears of pure aesthetic anguish—gets all the credit of a coat rack.

And the stage manager? Ha! They get less attention than the fog machine. Which, incidentally, they also had to fix, cue, and explain to the fire marshal.

Let’s break it down. The actor appears onstage, speaks words someone else wrote, moves in ways someone else blocked, wears clothes someone else designed and constructed, and gets a standing ovation. The director spent six weeks preventing the show from becoming a very expensive interpretive dance about emotional confusion and/or awkwardly performed comedic timing. They wield vision, psychology, and a truly disturbing protocol as to how to stay calm and patient when they are about to implode.  They are the puppet master—only, instead of strings, they’re manipulating egos, schedules, and a cast that insists on “finding their truth” by rewriting the blocking during tech week.

And the stage manager? Oh, you mean the caffeine-fueled deity wearing all black who knows the entire script, blocking, prop list, and cast’s food allergies by heart? The person who keeps the show running when the lead accidentally enters in Act I dressed for Act III and the fog machine won’t stop coughing like a Victorian child? The person who, by sheer willpower and a Google Sheet, ensures that this chaotic, live spectacle actually happens at the correct time, in the correct order, without someone tripping over stage furniture or face-planting into a Christmas tree?

Theater critics, I beg you: diversify your praise. If a show is brilliant, it is not solely because an actor emoted with the intensity of a method-trained avocado. It’s because a director made bold choices and a stage manager executed them with battlefield precision while also double-checking whether the fake blood had stained a borrowed costume. You do seem able to mention the director and the stage manager in volumes if the production is a flop.

Actors are the frosting. But the director is the recipe, and the stage manager is the oven. No one thanks the recipe or the oven. But without them, you just have raw eggs and good intentions.

So next time you’re moved to tears by a production, remember: Someone called that lighting cue. Someone told that actor where and when to cry (or laugh). Someone made sure the swords were “theater standard” and not, say, a real katana from one of the actor’s college “samurai phase.” Neither of those people who made those things happen are barely mentioned (if at all) in the review.

Applaud accordingly. Or at the very least, bring them snacks and wine.