Actors, Be Honest: What’s Your Pre-Show Ritual?

by Chris Peterson

There’s a very specific kind of chaos that lives in the hours before a show.

It’s not the show itself. The show is fine. The show is rehearsed. The show is the thing we’ve been doing for weeks. The show is, theoretically, under control.

It’s the before that’s unhinged.

Because in the span of hours, you’re expected to take a full human being who had a full human day and somehow turn them into… whatever character they’re playing that night. And you have to do it while somebody is yelling “ten minutes” like it’s a threat, someone else is doing eyeliner with the intensity of a brain surgeon, and one person is absolutely, unmistakably, raw-dogging panic in the corner and calling it “getting in the zone.”

Which is why I have always been fascinated by pre-performance rituals. Not the superstitions, although theatre people are nothing if not a little bit haunted. I mean the routines. The little habits that quietly keep us from spiraling into the void.

For me, in college, it was a movie.

And I don’t mean I’d put on some deep, emotional art film to align my chakras. I mean I would arrive hours early to the green room, wheel in our TV with the built-in DVD player like I was delivering sacred technology, and pop in something familiar. Something comforting. Something that didn’t ask anything of me.

It was my way of telling my brain, Hey. We’re safe. We’re okay. We’re not currently being hunted for sport.

And it worked. Every time.

There was something about a movie playing in the background that made the whole pre-show process feel less precious. Less “THIS IS THE MOMENT WE PROVE OUR WORTH AS ARTISTS.” More “Okay, cool, we’re just people putting on costumes and telling a story, let’s not turn this into a spiritual emergency.”

It turned the green room into something closer to a living room.

And the best part was how other castmates would wander in and get pulled into it without even realizing it. At first it would be one person, hovering like they didn’t want to commit. Then another. Then suddenly you had this little cluster of people half in costume, half in real life, laughing at the same stupid scene they’ve seen a hundred times, quoting lines, stealing glances at the TV while pinning mics and doing hair.

Nobody had to try. Nobody had to be “on.” The room just… softened.

And that’s when it hit me, even back then, that rituals aren’t really about the ritual.

They’re about what the ritual does.

Because actors don’t arrive at the theatre as blank slates. We arrive carrying stuff. School stress. Work stress. Family stress. The fact that we live in a world where everyone is tired all the time. The random text that ruins your mood at 4:47 p.m. The argument you had in the car. The commute that made you late and sweaty and ready to fight God.

Rituals are how we set that down.

They’re the bridge between real life and stage life. They’re the thing that tells your body, We’re not at work anymore. We’re not in traffic anymore. We’re here now. We’re doing this now.

And every actor has their version.

Some people are quiet pre-show. Like, aggressively quiet. They sit there, sipping water like it’s medicinal, staring into the distance like a Victorian child with consumption, and if you speak to them they’ll look at you like you just kicked a puppy. I used to judge those people when I was younger. Now I’m like, no. That’s a coping mechanism. That’s their nervous system asking for a dimmer switch. Respect it.

Some people need noise. They need chatter, laughter, movement, music. They warm up by talking, by joking, by keeping the room alive so their brain doesn’t have room to start whispering, What if you forget literally everything you’ve ever learned.

Some people have physical routines that are basically a handshake with their own bodies. Vocal warm-ups. Stretching sequences. The same order of makeup every night. The same hoodie they wear while they do notes. The point isn’t that it’s magical. The point is that it’s familiar.

And then you’ve got the chaos gremlins. The ones doing push-ups in the hallway. The ones pacing like they’re about to be launched into space. The ones who listen to the same pump-up song on repeat like they’re entering a UFC fight. Bless them. They’re not trying to calm down. They’re trying to activate. They need their energy high enough to ride it straight onto the stage.

None of these are wrong.

The goal isn’t “be calm.” The goal is “be ready.” And “ready” looks different depending on who you are and what kind of brain you’re working with.

But here’s the thing I really want to say about pre-show rituals, especially in community theatre: they’re not just about the individual actor. They’re about the room.

That movie wasn’t only calming for me. It became a shared atmosphere. It gave everyone permission to be human for a minute before we asked ourselves to be extraordinary.

Because community theatre green rooms are a wild mix of people. You’ve got veterans and first-timers. You’ve got someone who’s been on stage since the Reagan administration next to someone who just discovered theatre because their friend dragged them to auditions. You’ve got teachers and accountants and exhausted parents and college kids and retirees and people who absolutely did not need to add rehearsals to their schedule but did it anyway because something in them still wants to play.

And in that environment, rituals are glue.

They’re how you become a cast instead of a collection of individuals silently panic-sweating in the same room.

Sometimes the ritual is a movie. Sometimes it’s a group prayer. Sometimes it’s a dumb chant that makes everyone groan. Sometimes it’s the way the whole room goes quiet the second the stage manager says “places,” like a collective breath being held.

And honestly, I think there’s something kind of beautiful about that. In a world that constantly asks us to be productive and efficient and serious, theatre still makes room for these small, strange, human routines that say: we’re here together, and we’re about to make something.

So if you’re an actor and you have a pre-show ritual, keep it. Protect it. Don’t let anyone make you feel weird about it.

If you need to arrive early and sit quietly, do it. If you need to listen to Beyoncé at full volume while you apply mascara like war paint, do it. If you need to watch the same comforting movie in the green room so your heart rate stops acting like it’s running from the police, do it.

Because actors aren’t fearless. We’re just very talented at being scared and doing it anyway.

And if a small ritual helps you walk into that light feeling steadier, clearer, more grounded, more like yourself?

That’s not silly. That’s the craft.