To All Directors - Let Actors Act, Stop Giving Line Readings

by Chris Peterson

There’s a special kind of rehearsal purgatory reserved for directors who give line readings.

You know the type. You walk in excited to work, you’ve got your script, you’ve done your homework, you’re ready to play, and then five minutes into the first scene, the director starts feeding you your own lines like you’re a malfunctioning robot that needs to be reset.

“No, say it like this.”

Not a note. A full-blown performance delivered at you, with the expectation that you will now go out there and do your best impression of them. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, they do it again. And again. And again. For every line. For everyone. Until the whole cast starts sounding like one person wearing different costumes.

I still remember this from college because honestly, how could I not.

I was in a production of All My Sons, and our director did line readings as the first step for every single line of the show. Not “hey, can we explore that intention a little more?” Not “what’s the thought behind that?” Not “try it on your feet and see what happens.” Nope. Immediate: “Here’s exactly how you should say it.”

And if you’ve ever acted in a process like that, you know what it does to your brain. It doesn’t make you better. It makes you smaller.

Because the second someone hands you the “correct” way to say a line, your job quietly shifts from acting to copying. You stop thinking about what you want from the other person. You stop listening. You stop making choices. You start chasing approval. Everything becomes about getting through the scene without being corrected again.

And that’s the real problem. Not just that line readings are annoying (they are), or that they can be controlling (they can be). It’s that they rob actors of the thing you actually hired them for: their instincts, their imagination, their humanity.

A line reading is basically this message: “I don’t trust you.”

Maybe the director doesn’t mean it that way. Maybe they genuinely think they’re being helpful. But actors can feel it, and the minute they feel it, they stop taking risks.

It’s especially brutal in a play like All My Sons, where so much of the power comes from subtext, tension, and people desperately not saying what they actually mean. Flatten that into “say it like this,” and you’re not directing anymore, you’re dictating rhythm.

And yes, sometimes the director’s read is “good.” That’s not even the point. The point is the actor didn’t get there. They didn’t discover it. They just copied it.

Here’s the thing: directors love to talk about “collaboration.” We all do. It’s the word we toss around like confetti. But collaboration requires room. It requires trust. It requires the freedom for an actor to try something, for it to not work, for them to adjust, to dig deeper, to surprise you.

If you want actors to be alive on stage, give them notes that lead to life. Give them objectives. Give them stakes. Give them actions. Give them images. Ask them questions. Ask what they want. Ask what they’re afraid of. Ask what they’re trying not to say.

If the pacing is off, talk about pacing. If the intention is muddy, talk about intention. If the moment needs more urgency, give them something playable that creates urgency.

But don’t hand them your delivery and call it directing.

Now, do I think there’s ever a place for a line reading? Sure. Last resort. Emergency glass-breaking moment.

If an actor truly cannot find the rhythm of a complicated line after multiple notes and multiple approaches, and you’re staring down tech week like it’s a freight train, then yes, sometimes you give a quick example of what you mean.

But even then, the best version of that is careful and temporary. “Here’s what I’m hearing,” not “do it exactly like this.” And then you hand it back to the actor, because the goal is never to clone your voice. The goal is to unlock theirs.

So if you’re directing right now, here’s my gentle, slightly sarcastic plea: resist the urge.

Take a breath. Ask a question instead. Give them something playable. Let them surprise you. Let them fail safely. Let them find it. And if you absolutely have to give a line reading, fine. Do it.

But treat it the way it deserves to be treated: as the last thing you do, not the first.