Directors, Let’s Reinvent Giving Notes

Vivian Beaumount stage

by Chris Peterson

I am not anti-notes. Let me say that upfront before anyone clutches their director binder. Notes are necessary. Notes are how the show improves. Notes are how we stop repeating the same weird choices for three straight weeks because nobody wants to be the one to say, “Hey, why are you doing that?”

But the way we’ve decided to give notes at the end of rehearsal, in a group, when everyone is tired and vulnerable and half-dressed in rehearsal clothes that smell like panic, feels like one of those theatre traditions we’ve kept alive simply because nobody’s dared to ask if it still makes sense.

And here’s the thing. It’s not always the note itself that’s the problem. It’s the delivery. Notes can build trust, or they can quietly chip away at it. They can make actors feel clearer, or they can make actors feel smaller. And if you’ve ever been in a rehearsal room where you start bracing the second the director says, “Okay, notes,” you know exactly what I mean.

So yes, I’m asking directors to consider reinventing the notes process. Not because actors are fragile. Not because we can’t handle correction. We can. We do. Most of us want it. But because the goal is a better show, and the fastest path to a better show is a room where people feel safe enough to take risks without worrying that the last ten minutes of rehearsal is going to feel like public evaluation.

First, can we admit that not every note needs to be public?

There is a difference between a functional adjustment and a note that’s going to hit someone right in the confidence. If it’s sensitive, if it’s personal, if it’s going to embarrass someone, pull them aside. Take two minutes. Send a quick message later. Handle it privately. You can still be direct without making it a moment.

Also, fewer notes. Please.

There is a strange director flex in some spaces where more notes equal more authority. Like, if you give forty notes, you must be serious, thorough, and in control. Meanwhile, the cast is absorbing maybe three of them. If you want something to actually change tomorrow, pick the notes that unlock the next layer of the work. Pick the notes that will actually shift a scene. Stop trying to fix the entire show at 10:47 p.m. when everyone is mentally halfway home.

And I am begging us to normalize written notes as an option.

Not as a replacement for everything, but as a tool. Because hearing a long list of adjustments after a three-hour rehearsal is like trying to learn a new language while someone is vacuuming next to your head. Written notes give actors time to process. They reduce the “wait, what did they say about my entrance?” chaos. They also force directors to be clearer, which is a gift to everyone.

While we’re here, can we also stop giving notes that are just vibes?

“This isn’t working.”
“Make it more real.”
“Don’t do that.”

Okay. Cool. Thank you. Life-changing.

Give actors something playable. Give them an action. Give them a goal. Give them a question that unlocks a choice. “What are you trying to get from them in that moment?” is a note. “Try it faster.” is a note. “What if you’re hiding it?” is a note. “Be better” is not a note. That’s just a feeling you’re having.

And sometimes, honestly, the best choice is not to give notes that night.

Some rehearsals are cooked. Some rooms are tense. Some nights you can feel morale hanging by a thread. That’s not the moment to unload ten minutes of critique because it’s “what we do.” Save it. Let people go home with their dignity intact. Give the notes tomorrow when brains are functioning and the room isn’t running on fumes.

Because here’s what I keep coming back to. Notes are not just information. Notes are culture. Notes are relationship. Notes are how you teach a cast what kind of room this is.

Is it a room where actors can take risks, make mistakes, and be brave?

Or is it a room where actors learn to protect themselves because the last ten minutes of every rehearsal feels like the part where you find out if you disappointed the teacher?

I have been in rooms where notes felt like a gift. Specific. Honest. Respectful. You left feeling like, okay, we’re building something together.

And I’ve been in rooms where notes felt like punishment. Where the cast gets quiet. Where people stop asking questions. Where you can literally feel everyone trying to take up less space. And then we all call it “professionalism,” like that makes it healthy.

It doesn’t.

You can run a tight rehearsal room without running an anxious one.

So yes, directors. Reinvent the notes process. Experiment. Adjust. Treat it like any other part of rehearsal that can be designed with intention. Because if you want actors to be brave onstage, we have to stop making rehearsal the place where they learn to shrink.