A Plea to Stay Through the Bows

(Photo: Haley Nelson/Post-Gazette)

by Chris Peterson, OnStage Blog Founder

Let me say this plainly: if you’re the kind of person who stands up and bolts for the exit the moment the lights come up for the curtain call, you’re not just being rude—you’re missing the point of live theatre altogether.

I saw this happen recently at a Broadway show. A packed house, a thrilling performance, and then—just as the final blackout hit—a stream of people rushed the aisles like they were trying to escape a burning building. Not a polite, quiet exit from the back. I’m talking mid-orchestra seats. Coats on, bags in hand, full speed ahead. All before a single cast member had even taken a bow.

And I sat there, furious. Because what I wanted to shout—lovingly, but with feeling—was this: These actors just gave you everything they had for the past two and a half hours. The very least you can do is stay and clap.

Now look, I understand the desire to beat the crowd. I really do. The line at the parking garage gets long. The subway platform gets packed. I’ve been there. And if you have somewhere you absolutely need to be, okay—life happens. But let’s also be honest: if you're cutting out early because of a tight schedule, what that really tells me is that you didn’t plan your trip to and from the theatre correctly. Theatre is not a pit stop. It’s the destination. And it deserves your full attention—including the ending.

The curtain call isn’t optional. It’s not an extra scene tacked on at the end. It’s part of the show. It’s the moment when the cast steps out of character and says, without words, thank you for being here. And it’s your moment to say back, thank you for what you gave us. It’s a ritual. A mutual respect. A shared breath between artist and audience.

So when you sneak out before that final exchange? It’s not just about you getting home a few minutes earlier. It sends a message—intended or not—that says: “I got what I wanted. I’m done.” It treats the performance like a product instead of a living, breathing experience. It suggests the people on stage are worth your money, but not your time.

I promise you: they notice. These actors rehearse for weeks. They perform through illness, injury, exhaustion, heartbreak. And unlike film or TV, they don’t get retakes. They only get you, that night, in that seat. So when you vanish at blackout, you’re not just slipping out quietly. You’re walking out on the moment of gratitude. You’re taking the final beat away from the people who earned it.

If you loved the show? Stay. Clap until your hands hurt. Stand up when the bows make you feel like you have to. And if you didn’t love it? Still stay. Clap out of respect. Appreciate the work, even if the result wasn’t your favorite. Because no matter how you felt about the plot, the staging, or the songs, those people gave you everything they had. Honor that.

And please—please—don’t grab your coat during the last note. Don’t shuffle through the aisles during a blackout. That noise, that movement, that tension—it matters. It breaks the spell for everyone else still trying to be present. It pulls focus from the actors who deserve that moment.

Besides, you never know what you might see. Stick around, and sometimes the magic keeps going. I’ll never forget when I saw The Band’s Visit on Broadway. After the bows, the cast didn’t just wave and walk off—they launched into a mini-concert. It was unexpected, joyful, and one of the most human, spontaneous things I’ve ever seen onstage. The people who left early missed something extraordinary.

Theatre is a conversation. The bows are the final word. When you skip them, you’re not just leaving early—you’re leaving something incomplete.

So next time, stay seated. Let the lights come up before you do. Clap like it matters—because it does. The show isn’t over until the bows are done. Be there for the end. It’s the least we can do.