I recently enjoyed a big budget musical. Pure escapism and cuteness on steroids, including a dog who effortlessly upstaged everyone. (Let’s just say it rhymes with “Granny.”) Act 2 of course, ended on a soaring crescendo. Smiles all round. Lights dimmed, the orchestra took a quick breather, and the kids started whining. Then, before the lights had fully come up and the ensemble had even re-entered the stage, four people directly in front of me were already on their feet, whooping and cheering.

Now, the show was polished, fun, and entertaining, but it didn’t grab me that way. I didn’t feel at all compelled to give an ovation, but I was immediately thrown into a common theatrical dilemma.

I’m a short arse, whether sitting or standing (heels included) so I’m used to craning my neck and filling in the blind spots. Navigating large heads or a boofy hairdo is one thing, but during a standing ovation, all anyone can see is a sea of backsides. It only takes one person in Row A to rise, and suddenly the entire audience is in the throes of reverse theatrical dominoes. So there I was: forced to stand and clap. For. Every. Single. Bow.

We’ve all been there and had that choice: stay seated, stare at the floor or ceiling trying not to look like you’re forced to check out a patron’s buttocks, or get up and half-heartedly join in. And let’s face it, once the first few rows are up and patron peer pressure kicks in, everyone more or less feels compelled, because who wants to miss the curtain call? Sometimes they’re more engaging than the show itself.

That moment of “Dammit, do I or don’t I?” hesitation looks like you didn’t like it enough—three or four stars maybe. Like when we paid for Jason Donovan as Frank N Furter and got the understudy instead. Staying seated? Silent protest. Hated it, and I don’t care if the cast sees me. That’ll show them.

I always feel ridiculously resentful surrendering to the crowd. I’m pretty sure my face says it all: This was a grudging ovation, and you can’t make me look like I’m having fun. And when I stoically abstain from standing, I get 1984 vibes. Big Brother is watching your non ovation.

The only time it feels right is when you actually want to. And when I do, I know I’m the one forcing the person behind me to look at the carpet and start their own internal ovation crisis.

The standing ovation has surprisingly imperial roots. In ancient Rome, an “ovation” wasn’t given for an epic triumph but for a less bloody victory. It was more like a polite nod or military pat on the back.

But standing to applaud? That’s relatively recent. For most of theatrical history, audiences showed appreciation with clapping, shouting, whistling or booing. (Yes, booing was once an accepted part of the spectrum.) The term “standing ovation” dates back to around 1831, but the gesture itself didn’t become common until the 20th century, when it was still reserved for performances that were truly extraordinary. A standing ovation was rare, and it used to mean something. Now, it often just means the show has ended.

These days, every awards ceremony, sporting event, studio audience and even corporate keynote ends with a wave of people rising to their feet. Once the ultimate gesture of admiration, the ovation now feels more like a reflex than a response. It’s becoming more difficult for the truly exceptional to stand out.

So the question remains: have we officially entered the golden age of “Everyone Gets a Standing Ovation”?

Is this applause less about astonishment and more about expectation? Obligation? Or habit? In some theatre circles, it’s become the deliberately staged finale, so producers can claim straight A ovation bragging rights. It’s nearly always kicked off by a collective shout of “Everyone up on your feet!” followed by awkward chair dancing, synchronised arm choreography and endless reprises.

Not every ovation is a final noisy sign off. On many occasions, I’ve left a show silently stunned, moved or elated. Because theatre isn’t always about the moment—it’s about what lingers. Not just the effort, but the impact. This silent ovation sometimes arrives gradually, through conversation or thoughts during the journey home, or days later, when a memory suddenly resurfaces.

I saw Bell Shakespeare’s King Lear in 1998. “Saw” is a severe understatement because it left a lasting impression. The visceral power, the imagery, the way it cracked open the characters—I had never really understood the themes until that night. And Melita Jurisic’s astonishing, desperate performance as Goneril is something that has sat inside me ever since. It helped me make choices about directing, acting, writing and interpreting theatre. So, in my eyes, I’ve been giving King Lear a standing ovation for nearly 30 years.

True ovations should come from primal connection, not polite habit. Not because you’re told to, or because you want to see the bows and encore, and especially not the unspoken rule that if everyone else is doing it, you should too. An ovation is a celebration of something rare, remarkable and deeply felt. And so, the act itself should be just as priceless.

But who am I to judge? If you’ve parted with your cold hard cash and navigated the horrors of peak hour just to get to the theatre, then the show is offering you something, whether it’s magic or just a night out. Theatre is extremely personal. Theatre is life. And no one should rain on anyone’s ovation. Just please don’t make me feel guilty for not joining in, or for my backside impeding your view.

Follow Faith in Theatres on Facebook and Instagram as she claps, questions, and occasionally rebels against the standing ovation brigade.