'Relaxed' performances are great - why can't we have 'ultra focused' ones too?

Daisy Buchanan loves theatre. But as an autistic woman, she finds the sensory overload of a noisy audience difficult

Daisy Buchanan about to watch Here We Are at the National Theatre. Photo: Dale Shaw

By Daisy Buchanan

‘Do you prefer going to the theatre, or going to an exhibition at an art gallery?’

If you have ever suspected yourself of any neurodivergence, you may have taken an online quiz or that poses this question. If you believe you’re autistic, which I do, I think the ‘correct’ answer is gallery. Galleries are supposed to be calm and quiet. People sing at you, in the theatre. You’re more likely to meet drunk, unpredictable people in the theatre.

But I love going to the theatre – at least, in theory. I love the ritual of it, and the language of it. When it’s good, it’s wonderful. It moves me. I want to be seduced by it – and for me, some of that seduction comes from the sense of a shared experience. I often think of the collective gasp and the goosebumps that accompanied the denouement when I watched Dan Bravo’s excellent performance in Witness For The Prosecution. Crying, and being among other people who were not holding back their tears, as Imelda Staunton sang ‘Losing My Mind’, during Follies. Going to see Kendall Feaver’s Ballet Shoes, and feeling the shared anxiety, and then delight, of an audience who held the source material very close to their hearts. Great theatre is a wonderful way for us to understand our unique connection to the universal. We’re all supposed to be in it together.

And I feel calm in a theatre, in the way that I used to feel calm in school assembly. I think this is why. The audience has a role, and that role has rules. Eyes front. Sit still. No whispering, no rustling. The actors are giving us the best that they have for a couple of hours, in exchange for our undivided attention.

However, only anxious nerds like me followed the rules when they were sitting in assembly, and I suspect we’re the only ones still following the rules at the theatre. Chaos reigns. A couple of months ago, I was watching the new musical adaptation of The Great Gatsby in the West End on a Friday night – and no-one around me was even bothering to whisper. There was heckling, fidgeting, chewing and phones all over the place. Sure, it’s a production that is supposed to feel like a party – but it’s a poor party guest who spends the evening staring at their devices and failing to pay attention to their hosts. And for me… I was trapped in a sensory nightmare.

The Great Gatsby at the Coliseum. Photo: Johan Persson

It has been a real relief to understand a bit more about why a ‘badly behaved’ audience bothers me so much. It’s a sensory processing issue, and I’m quickly overwhelmed by sound and touch. It’s not simply because, as I believed for so long, I’m horribly uptight and I resent other people relaxing and having a nice time.

I didn’t always feel this way. Once, I could put up with any amount of annoying theatre behaviour if I had an interval drink to look forward to. But almost three years ago, I stopped drinking alcohol. Every hangover was triggering a mental health crisis, and I hoped that if I cut booze from my life, I’d be happier, calmer and less anxious. Quitting has made a huge, positive difference to my life, but in my sobriety, I discovered that I’m autistic, and I’d been using alcohol to numb my sensitivity to noise and crowds. I was desperate to prove I could be ‘fun’ and laid back, without a drink in my hand. Instead, I realised that in some ways, the world was harder to navigate if I wasn’t able to drink my way around it.

Yet as I’ve learned more about why I feel the way I feel, and how I respond to the world, I’ve also learned more about how other people feel and respond to the world – and that I could be more considerate to their needs, too. Neurodivergence is not a one-size-fits-all term – and I’m now coming to realise that when other people rustle and fidget, in some cases, that’s just the way their own neurodivergence manifests.

In the last few years, theatres have started to offer ‘relaxed’ performances. These are shows that have been adapted for an audience with a broad range of sensory needs. The lighting might have been redesigned, or the sound might be softened. Audience members will be encouraged to leave the auditorium when they feel overwhelmed – and not discouraged from talking, fidgeting, or moving around. This is excellent – it’s vital that everyone feels comfortable and welcome in a theatre.

Daisy Buchanan is an author, podcaster and journalist. Photo: Sarah Kate

But sometimes I wish there was also an ‘ultra focused’ performance, for people like me, whose autism manifests as need for stillness and quiet from everyone but the actors. (I suspect a fair few neurotypical folks – and indeed disgruntled actors – might enjoy these too.) In my fantasy, these performances would be subjected to a similar set of rules as the quiet carriage on a train. Absolutely no phones in the auditorium; maybe phones could be placed in sealed bags with time locks. A limited concession stand, where snacks with rustling wrappers are not for sale. A ban on any response apart from clapping, and restrained tears and laughter, because I’ve noticed that some audience members have taken to shouting out “Yes!’” and “I agree!” (Just about understandable during parts of Hamilton, utterly bewildering during Hamlet.)

‘Ultra focused’ performances may be a pipe dream – but still, now I know that I have significant sensory needs and not (just) a horrible personality, I have been able to make provisions and adaptations that have helped enormously. If you also find yourself feeling frustrated at the theatre, and craving quiet and focus, I hope these suggestions might help you too.

About a year ago, a friend recommended Loop earplugs. I have the Switch model, which has three settings – Quiet, Engage and Experience – the latter is designed for the theatre, cinema, concerts and any occasion where you want to hear what you came to hear, and tune out everything else. The ear plugs eliminate the noise, and allow me to focus on the sound, and they’ve made my theatre trips so much calmer.

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This sounds obvious, but it’s taken me a long time to learn: the climate in the theatre can be as unpredictable as the weather on a British spring day. I’ll have a much better time if I dress in soft layers. I can’t control anything that anyone else is doing, but I can make sure that I’m not feeling extra prickly because I’ve got a scratchy woollen coat bundled up in my lap and rubbing through my tights. I’d rather be distracted by other people’s fidgeting than miss the performance because I’m trying desperately hard not to fidget.

Someone once told me that the writer Rachel Ingalls loved to go to the opera, and she’d always buy two seats. Ideally, she’d bring a friend, but if no friend was free, she’d rather sit beside an empty seat, so that she didn’t have to sit next to a (fidgeting, chewing) stranger. “She was quite eccentric,” said the storyteller, and I’d nodded politely while thinking if I had the money, I’d do this every single time. Instead, I select the seat at the end of the row, whenever it’s available. And when every single person in the world climbs over me before the performance starts, I remind myself that it’s worth it for a slightly calmer experience overall once the actual show has started.

Finally, I never go to the theatre on an empty stomach (or with a full bladder). This means that even when people around me start eating, I can stay with the performance, instead of drifting off and wondering what it is they’re eating, and where they got it from. It also means that I can stay in my seat during the interval, absorbing what I’ve just seen, instead of navigating the queues for loos and concession stands, where there’s a lot of jostling. (Although on a good day, if the theatre isn’t too busy, I might go for an ice cream.)

I know that theatre isn’t supposed to be solemn, or quiet. Our performance tradition is a raucous one. The theatre was always meant to be a gathering place for everyone from kings and queens to the groundlings. But I’m also sure autistic women like me must have been watching plays for thousands of years, when we just used different language to describe and understand our experiences. We’ve all found ways to watch, connect and participate, and I hope that continues for a long time. That said… I’m very grateful to be doing so in the era of the Loop earplug.

Daisy Buchanan is an author, podcaster, and host of the Creative Confidence Clinic here on Substack, where she explores how to navigate the emotional and practical challenges of creative work. Daisy is offering all Exeunt readers a very special HALF PRICE OFFER when they subscribe to Creative Confidence – by clicking on the button below.

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