To the Bullies in Theatre: Why Are You Like This?

by Chris Peterson

You know who you are. You walk into the rehearsal room with a chip on your shoulder. You turn your nose up when someone else gets the role. You whisper cruel things about someone’s performance from the back row. You disguise your contempt as “honesty” and your insecurities as “standards.” You push people out to make room for yourself.

And I just have to ask: why?

Why do you think your talent gives you permission to treat people poorly? Why do you feel the need to gatekeep an art form that is, at its core, about community, collaboration, and vulnerability? Why do you get off on making someone feel small when they’re brave enough to put themselves out there?

It’s not just high school drama clubs. It happens in community theatre. It happens in college programs. It happens in professional rehearsal halls. Somewhere along the way, you decided that theatre was a competition and that cruelty was the path to legitimacy.

You’ll call it “tough love” or “truth-telling.” You’ll say you’re “just being real” or that the “industry is cutthroat.” But let’s be honest. Most of the time, it’s not about pushing someone to be better. It’s about putting them beneath you.

What are you so afraid of? That someone else might shine? That someone younger or greener or more generous might be good? Might even be better than you?

Theatre is not a solo act. It never has been. The best directors I know lead with empathy. The strongest actors are generous scene partners. The designers, the crew, the stage managers — they know what it means to build something bigger than themselves. And you — you throw a wrench in it with your eye-rolls, your gossip, your passive-aggressive comments that kill someone’s confidence before opening night.

I’m tired of watching talented people leave this art form because of people like you. I’ve seen brilliant students walk away because someone told them they didn’t belong. I’ve seen ensemble members hide in the shadows because someone louder told them they weren’t important. And I’ve seen grown adults weaponize their resumes to justify their bullying.

We should be better than this.

Theatre is hard enough. It demands late nights and early mornings. It asks you to give your time, your voice, your body, your emotions. It asks you to do all of that for very little money and even less certainty. The least we can do is make the room kind.

You can still have high standards. You can still push yourself and your castmates. You can still take the work seriously. But you don’t have to be a jerk about it. You don’t have to roll your eyes when someone flubs a note or stumbles over choreography. You don’t have to treat someone’s mistake like it’s a personal insult to your craft.

And for what it’s worth, I’ve never seen a bully actually make a show better. I’ve seen them make people quieter. I’ve seen them create tension. I’ve seen them poison the room and then wonder why the energy feels off. But I’ve never seen someone’s cruelty result in a better performance. I’ve never seen someone’s ego make the ensemble tighter or the story clearer.

If you’re that talented, then you should be secure enough to be kind. If you’re that experienced, then you should know better than to humiliate someone who is trying. If you’re that passionate about theatre, then you should be the first one making it a safe and brave space.

So I’m asking. If you recognize yourself in any of this, stop and ask why. Ask what it is you’re trying to protect. Ask what theatre could look like if you led with kindness instead of control. Ask what might happen if you were brave enough to lift someone up instead of push them down.

Because here’s the truth. No one remembers who was the most intimidating in the rehearsal room. But they will always remember who made them feel like they belonged.

And if you can’t do that, then maybe you’re not as good at this as you think you are.