There are shows you direct that go well, and there are shows you’re immensely proud of.  I’ve been privileged to have both.  But every once in a while there’s the one where everyone in the room quietly realizes, oh… this is different.

That was Rabbit Hole at Whitby Courthouse Theatre.

We knew it early. Not in an arrogant way. or in a “we’ve got a hit on our hands” kind of way. Just a shared, slightly stunned recognition that what was happening in the Attersley Room during rehearsals didn’t feel normal. The cast, as an ensemble, was lightning in a bottle. It was the kind of alignment you can’t manufacture as a director no matter how clever you think you are. It just happens or it doesn’t, and when it does, your job changes completely. You stop trying to build something and start trying desperately not to break it.

The People Who Made It What It Was

I could write an entire post about each of these performances—and maybe someday I will—but the truth is, this show was a collection of moments where actors went somewhere real.   And in a community theatre setting that can be the most challenging element for a director – stripping away the performative to expose the real.

Casting my daughter, Sophie Risman, as Izzy was one of those decisions that lives in your gut before your brain catches up. Both of us were trepidatious—and rightly so. Community theatre can whisper. Nepotism is an easy narrative when people don’t have all the information, and all of us were keenly aware of that.

But Heather and Paul and I knew. Not in a “she’s my kid” way, but in a “once people see this, that conversation dies instantly” way.

And boy did it ever.

What she did with Izzy wasn’t just good. It was the kind of performance that makes people sit forward without realizing they’ve moved. Authentic, messy, deeply funny, and then—without warning—grounded in something real enough to sting. Watching audiences discover that, night after night, was one of the great quiet satisfactions of this process for all of us.

Then you layer in something you can’t direct your way into: real-life relationships bleeding into the work. Having Amanda Gleed and Nancy Gleed—a real mother and daughter—play Becca and Nat? That’s not a gimmick. That’s stakes you don’t have to invent. Their performances were stellar regardless, but there’s a weight that comes from lived connection. A shorthand. A history. You don’t act certain moments—you just let them happen, and the audience has no choice but to feel that, whether they can articulate it or not.

Dillon Hunter did something I think caught a lot of people off guard. I heard it at intermission more than once: “I’ve seen him before… I didn’t know he had that in him.” His Howie wasn’t a variation on past performances—it was a full pivot. A deep, unflinching dive into the quiet, suffocating grief of a father who’s lost his son. No tricks or theatrics – only presence and pain and restraint.

And then there’s Joey Dillane.

Finding a young actor who can carry that kind of psychological weight without it feeling performative is rare. What that character has lived through—the guilt, the trauma, the teeth-grinding undercurrent of PTSD—it’s not easy territory. And Joey didn’t just handle it. They owned it.  Holy f**k did they ever deliver.

The Response… From the People Who Came

The reviews were… kind of ridiculous, honestly. In the best way. Not just strong, but specific. Thoughtful. Emotional. We had unsolicited letters coming into the theatre from patrons—actual letters—talking about how the show affected them. That doesn’t happen in 2026. Not like that.  People weren’t just enjoying the show. They were engaging with it.  They were talking about it at intermission. Sitting in it on the drive home. Carrying it with them for a few days after.

Exactly what theatre is supposed to do.

And yet…  half houses. Maybe two-thirds on a good night.

A decade ago, this show would have filled the room based on word-of-mouth alone.  Not because it’s light and easy. Quite the opposite. Because audiences used to come to the theatre for that experience. For the emotional commitment. For the chance to be moved, unsettled, maybe even a little wrecked for a couple of hours.  That used to be the draw.  Now it feels like we’re asking people to take a bigger leap than they’re willing to take.

It’s not just about streaming or convenience, though those are part of it. It’s something more fundamental. The contract has changed. Audiences used to meet us halfway. They brought attention, openness, a willingness to lean into discomfort.  But now, more often than not, the question is: “Is this going to be easy?”

And if the answer isn’t clearly yes… they stay home.  Not just in Whitby – in every community theatre that dares to bring something beyond movie-based or “jukebox” musicals.  The world’s emotional climate in the third decade of the century has created a population so desperate for unfettered joy that they abandon any form of entertainment that may move them in another direction.  They don’t want to think about the human experience – they want to escape it completely.

What We Learned in That Room

Rabbit Hole doesn’t work if the audience doesn’t engage. You can’t half-watch it. You can’t scroll your way through it. It asks something of you. It demands a kind of emotional participation that we don’t practice much anymore.

On social media about a week ago, Durham theatre maven Anna LeBourdais beautifully reflected on this production of Rabbit Hole not as easy entertainment, but as an invitation – one that asks audiences to reconsider why they come to the theatre at all (https://www.facebook.com/share/p/18Rg3DiQzT/ ).  Her review suggested that while not everyone may seek out this kind of emotional experience, productions like this challenge audiences to move beyond passive enjoyment and instead ask whether they are willing to truly sit with something meaningful.

When people did show up—and when they leaned in—it was electric.  You could feel the room shift and the silence change. The kind of collective stillness where nobody wants to move because it might break something. That’s the real magic. That’s the whole reason we do this.

But we’re having a harder time getting people in the room to experience it.

So Where Does That Leave Us?

Yeah – as usual, I don’t have a neat answer.  I’m not interested in chasing only lighthearted, undemanding material just to fill seats. That’s not why I do this, and honestly, it’s not why most of us got into theatre in the first place.  But I also can’t ignore the reality that even when you have something special—something honest and fully realized—it doesn’t guarantee an audience anymore.  That part is heartbreakingly new.

But optimistically, making Rabbit Hole reminded me that the appetite for meaningful, human storytelling isn’t gone. Not even close. The people who came proved that over and over again.  Some of them returned more than once.

I think we’ve lost the habit of seeking it out.  But honestly, maybe part of our job now isn’t just to create the work—but to remind people what it feels like to sit in a room, together, and actually feel something.

When it comes to human interaction – the true community experience – there is nothing that hits like live theatre at its best.  And we really had that with Rabbit Hole.

I just wish more people had been in the room to see it.