Early to rise

Everyone hisses at latecomers, but they have a rearguard second unit that gets away scot free — earlygoers. Could be they’re the same people.

Earlygoers are those impatient souls who, during the curtain call, when everyone is basking in the evening’s pleasure, leap up in front of you and begin shoving their way up the aisles, as if a small skunk had just been spotted under the seats.

A critic with a deadline has an excuse, but a skilled critic is so fast on his feet that he can be up and away before the curtain rises again during that brief lapse between the last line and the curtain call, when it’s still dark enough to make a clean getaway.

Earlygoers are never as polite or as speedy. Usually, they wait until the very moment the stars appear before they stand up and gather their belongings — or, if it’s a movie house, as the credits are rolling, and poignant violins are playing, and you’d like to enjoy the dramatic afterglow.

Where are all these people rushing to at 11 o’clock? Maybe it’s to reach their car before everyone, or to hasten a babysitter home, but my guess is it’s just good old-fashioned boorishness.

Leaving early isn’t only rude to fellow playgoers but to everyone on stage (even in some strange way to the shadow figures on screen). A curtain call takes, at most, two minutes, and a special two minutes it is.

Curtain calls are staged, just like everything

As a curtain-call connoisseur, I take personal offense when earlygoers deny me that last final little glimpse, an opportunity to see the actors out of character — or, in some cases, in character.

else, and now and then you see some really dandy ones — unless people are standing in front of you wrestling with raincoats.

ACT takes some care with its curtain calls and used to stage a season finale “walk down,” sort of Ten Best Curtain Calls. The best curtain call sums up the play in a moment, in a freezeframe pose, an instant replay from the show.

Even the classic modest hand-in-hand bow gives the evening a fond send-off. Ignoring a curtain call is like leaving someone’s house after dinner through the nearest window.

Walking out on the actors is encouraged on TV, where announcers hawk upcoming shows and newscasters burst in with updates and teasers while a tender dramatic moment is trying to happen under the hubbub. KQED is adept at squelching delicate fadeout moods by having a staff man natter about “Monty Python” over “Citadel” theme music, as if inviting us to stay tuned for “Dynasty.” We can get all the hype like that we want for free at ABC.

As a curtain-call connoisseur, I take personal offense when earlygoers deny me that last final little glimpse, an opportunity to see the actors out of character — or, in some cases, in character. There are two schools of thought whether to break character at curtain call; after “King Lear,” ear-to-ear grins seem inappropriate.

At a movie like “Terms of Endearment,” people can barely get their faces back together, let alone arrange their coats and scarves. Anyone who walks out over the credits isn’t callous; they just don’t want to be caught red-eyed.

In any case, I always look for some final directorial fillip, one last little rosette that will perfectly finish off the evening’s dessert.

Earlygoers are only interested in the business at hand, and, once concluded, quickly bolt for the doors, as if it’s a fire drill. My hunch is these people are not anxious to be there to begin with.

Your true playgoer stays clear to the end, until the applause has died. Or if it’s a musical they’ve especially loved, until the band has played itself out and is packing up the instruments.

You see people leaning over the orchestra pit and listening till the very last strain has died away. They don’t want to leave, ever.

This column originally appeared in The San Francisco Chronicle on Jan. 5, 1984.