Would You Ever Walk Out of a Broadway Show at Intermission?

by Chris Peterson

I was scrolling TikTok the other night, and someone casually mentioned that they’d recently walked out of a Broadway show. Not stormed out. Not dramatically. Just left at intermission.

They explained it plainly. The show wasn’t working for them, and sitting through a second act felt like a waste of time. Not in a cruel way. Not as a hot take. Just a matter-of-fact assessment of how they wanted to spend their night.

They said it almost offhandedly, like it wasn’t a big deal. And yet it felt like one. Walked out? On Broadway? Because it wasn’t good? Because the second act didn’t feel worth it?

And that’s when the question crept in. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet, slightly uncomfortable thought.

Would I ever walk out?

Not in a huff. Not mid-song. Always at intermission, of course. I’m not a monster. But still. Would I actually stand up, grab my coat, and decide that the second act wasn’t worth my time? Because theatre trains us not to think that way.

We’re taught, implicitly and explicitly, that leaving early is rude. That it’s a personal failure. That if a show isn’t landing, it must be because we don’t get it yet. Stick around. Let it wash over you. The second act will fix it. It always fixes it. Except when it doesn’t.

I’ve sat through second acts that felt like penance. Not because the work was offensive or broken, but because it simply wasn’t good, at least not for me. The storytelling didn’t deepen. The ideas didn’t sharpen. My mind wandered. My body slouched. I checked my watch more than once and hated myself for it. And still, I stayed. Because leaving felt like admitting that my time mattered more than the show.

But why does that feel wrong? Disrespect to whom, exactly?

The artists? Sure. Though they already have my ticket money, my attention for a full act, and my honest attempt to meet the work where it lives. The audience? They’re too busy unwrapping cough drops to notice. Broadway itself? I promise it will survive one fewer person politely sitting through a second act they’re not engaged in.

The truth is, we talk a lot about honoring theatre, but very little about honoring time.

Time is the one thing none of us gets back. Broadway asks for a lot of it. Two and a half hours. Three, sometimes. Add in travel, lines, the mental effort of sitting still and being open. That’s not nothing. It’s an offering. And offerings deserve intention, not obligation. I think we confuse endurance with appreciation.

Somewhere along the way, staying became a badge of honor. As if sitting through a second act you’re not enjoying proves something about your seriousness as a theatre lover. But engagement isn’t about completion. It’s about connection. And when that connection isn’t there, forcing it doesn’t make it deeper. It just makes it longer.

I’ve had people whisper to me, almost ashamed, that they left a show at intermission because it wasn’t good and they didn’t want to waste the rest of their night. As if confessing a sin. They lower their voice. They justify it. “It just wasn’t for me.” “I was tired.” “I wanted to love it.”

That last one always gets me. Wanting to love something doesn’t obligate you to give it more time than it’s giving you back.

Now, let me be clear. I’m not advocating for treating theatre like a streaming service, bailing the second something doesn’t click. Art deserves patience. Some shows ask for trust, and I’m glad I’ve stayed for many of them.

But there’s a difference between patience and obligation. Between giving a show a fair shot and sitting through a second act you already know won’t work for you. And only you can feel that difference in your body.

There’s also something quietly honest about choosing to leave. Not angrily. Not smugly. Just calmly deciding that this particular second act isn’t how you want to spend your time tonight. That doesn’t mean the show is bad. It means the relationship isn’t happening.

Some of my most meaningful theatre conversations have come from shows I stayed for despite my doubts. And a few have come from shows I didn’t. Both taught me something. One about patience. The other about boundaries.

I keep thinking about that TikTok. About how casually they framed it. The show wasn’t good for them, and the second act felt like a waste of time. No guilt. No grandstanding. Just an honest choice. Maybe that’s the real shift.

Not treating theatre like a test we must pass, but like a conversation we’re allowed to leave when it stops speaking to us. Broadway isn’t a moral obligation. It’s an ecosystem of taste, timing, mood, expectation, and personal history colliding in a seat that costs more than it probably should.

So I’ll ask you the same question that followed me from my phone into that theatre, from that TikTok into that intermission.

Would you ever walk out?