I think theatre must be an event, an experience, not compete with

“I think theatre must be an event, an experience, not compete with cinema. When people are able to download stories on Netflix, you need to give them a good reason to jump into the car and drive two hours. It has to be something you can only see in the theatre, and it has to be worth it.” Thus spoke Robert Lepage, the visionary dramatist, who understood that theatre, like the sacred fire of old, must burn brightly enough to draw souls from the comfort of their homes. In these words lies not merely a reflection on art, but a timeless truth about human endeavor: that what is worth doing must be alive, must summon the spirit with wonder, and must awaken the senses beyond what any screen can provide.

In the age of machines and mirrors, where stories flicker across countless devices, where a tale can be summoned with a click and dismissed with a sigh, the ancient art of the theatre stands as a living heartbeat. Once, in the days of Athens, the people gathered beneath open skies to witness tragedy and triumph unfold before their very eyes. They did not go to escape life—they went to encounter it more deeply. The stage was their temple, and the actors their priests, calling forth laughter, grief, and awe. To sit in such a place was not to consume, but to commune. And so Lepage reminds us that true art must be an experience, not a convenience.

The origin of this belief lies in the eternal difference between the living and the lifeless. Cinema, wondrous though it is, captures the shadow of life, but theatre embodies its breath. When one sits before the stage, the air vibrates with the pulse of those who perform. Every gesture, every pause, every silence is unrepeatable. It is the art of the moment, vanishing even as it is born. This is what Lepage means when he says it must be “something you can only see in the theatre.” The power of the stage lies not in perfection, but in presence—fragile, fleeting, and therefore sacred.

Let us recall a tale from the heart of Japan, where the ancient art of Noh theatre still thrives after seven centuries. The performers move slowly, their masks carved from wisdom and time, their gestures deliberate as wind over stone. The audience watches in reverent silence, for they know what they witness will never occur again in the same way. It is not entertainment—it is ritual. A moment of unity between the seen and the unseen. Lepage’s vision calls us back to this spirit: to make the theatre not a product, but a pilgrimage.

In his words we hear a deeper challenge—not only to artists, but to all who create. In a world where imitation is easy and abundance numbs desire, we are called to make our work worth the journey. Whether one builds, writes, teaches, or leads, let the labor not merely repeat what others have done, but awaken something that cannot be downloaded, cannot be copied, cannot be contained. Every creation should say to the soul: “Come. Witness. You will not be the same after this.”

This is the lesson hidden in Lepage’s wisdom: do not compete with the ordinary when you are capable of the extraordinary. The theatre, like life itself, must not settle for being convenient—it must be courageous. It must take risks, provoke thought, stir the blood, and kindle reverence. For when the world is lulled by comfort, the true artist must dare to be an event, a disturbance, a spark that demands attention.

So, to the creators of this age, take heed: do not craft what can be streamed, replicated, or forgotten. Craft what must be felt. Let your work breathe. Let it carry scent, silence, imperfection, and truth. When others sit safe in their homes, your calling is to give them reason to rise, to journey, to seek. The distance they travel to witness your creation should mirror the distance their hearts will travel in its presence.

And thus we conclude: whatever your art, your craft, your purpose—make it worth it. Make it an event, a living experience, something that stirs the air and changes those who behold it. For the world does not need more convenience; it needs more wonder. And if you create such wonder, people will not only drive two hours—they will cross mountains, brave storms, and step beyond the screen, to meet you in the sacred theatre of life itself.