Tonight:
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With Phèdre opening at the National Theatre last night and The King and I this weekend, one actor involved gives an insider's view of staring into the abyss'...
For anyone addicted to adrenaline rushes but without either a motorbike or a line of Routemaster buses to leap over at high speed, experiencing a theatrical first night is probably the next best thing to junkie heaven.
And with recent West End openings including A Doll's House at the Donmar Warehouse, Jude Law's much-anticipated Hamlet, and in an event likely to send the most experienced thesp reaching for the Sanatogen, two successive openings on the same day as part of Sam Mendes's acclaimed Bridge Project at the Old Vic, the current crop of first nights would satisfy the most demanding thrill-seeker.
The first night of a live show remains a uniquely theatrical confection.
However glitzy a film premiere might be, by the time your performance is unfurled to an adoring public it'll have been many months since you actually committed it to celluloid.
That's if it hasn't already ended up on the cutting room floor.
In theatre, by contrast, it's either s*** or bust.
However much you may talk in rehearsal about “exploring the nuances of the text” throughout the long weeks of performances that lie ahead, everyone knows that if the press night gets panned, there may only be a handful more performances in which to explore anything other than the whereabouts of the nearest job- centre.
Somebody once calculated that the stress endured by actors on such occasions is akin to being involved in a minor car shunt.
While this may sound suspiciously like the “darling, you were marvellous” school of analytical research, it's a fitting analogy.
Actor David Haig more succinctly described such ordeals as “staring into the abyss”. You may secretly think you know how good (or bad) your show actually is before you step on stage, but one of the joys of live theatre is its unpredictability.
There are many examples of results confounding expectation: none more than the opening night of Mamma Mia! in 1999, when a company allegedly bracing themselves for the worst only realised at the curtain call the extent of the phenomenon they'd stumbled upon.
As the writer William Goldman so nearly put it: “In showbiz, nobody knows anything.”
The adrenaline usually kicks in a couple of hours before curtain up, when the stage door area becomes inundated by cards and flowers sent from well-wishers, or in the case of the Royal Albert Hall where I'm currently appearing, confused tourists asking where they can get tickets to see Andy Williams in concert.
In any case, your own day will already have been spent mumbling your lines on Tube trains to the alarm of fellow passengers, mixed with frenzied interludes rifling through the greetings cards section of your local WH Smith to find witty and appropriate sentiments to pass on to your fellow actors.
The rule of thumb on press nights is that if anything is going to go wrong it'll usually happen just before curtain up: vital props go walkabout, fake moustaches suddenly decide they're not going to stick (blame the globules of sweat now seeping from your top lip), secure fastenings snap, dressing room keys won't function.
But this is as nothing compared to what's happening out in the auditorium.
First-night audiences are unique, in that nearly all those there are people who either desperately want the show to succeed or are secretly hoping it will fail.
The show's producers (they're the ones with the rictus grins) and families and friends are packed alongside rival producers, actors who didn't get the gig, and crucially the critics, identifiable by their furtive demeanour, surreptitious scribbling and their customary placement at the end of the rows to facilitate instant getaway once the curtain descends.
As soon as it's over, the celebrations or recriminations can begin in earnest.
An after-show party, whether it be hot and cold running champagne or cheap plonk in plastic cups, is not just a luvvie tradition — crucially, it allows all those overheated nervous systems enough time to cool down before staggering home.
It's also the first informal test of how well the evening has gone.
At least in the UK we can still live in hope until next day's reviews: on Broadway, the casts of shows have been known to arrive at theatrical junkets to find the waiters already putting the chairs on the tables.
This weekend I have my own glimpse into the abyss in the form of the press night of Raymond Gubbay's mammoth staging of the King And I at the Royal Albert Hall.
With its imperial setting, real water with boats and live fireworks bursting overhead, rehearsals have sometimes felt not so much a preparation for a conventional first night so much as a cross between the Earls Court Boat Show and the opening ceremony for the Beijing Olympics.
Nonetheless, by mid-evening I'll be mounted on a quilted cushion with a glass of fake champagne in my hand, surrounded by 5,000 punters, all watching a cast of stupendous international dancers backed by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra performing a heart-melting ballet sequence.
It's a tough job — but somebody's got to do it. Just as long as my moustache stays put.
