At the photo opp, the show’s director called up to her technical manager for a lighting cue. When that cue failed to materialize in a timely fashion, she guessed at the cause and shook her head. “You’re playing Angry Birds, aren’t you?” As an aside, she told us, “He’s obsessed with Angry Birds.”

The tech called down, “Am not!” but it was unclear which accusation he was denying: the Angry Birds obsession or the idea that he’d been obsessively Angry Birds-ing when she’d asked for the lighting cue.

It all worked out: the lighting cue came up and no blood was spilled.

The other day, some crew members took a pre-show breath of air together outside the Dock Street Theatre’s stage door. It was a moment for them to both decompress and gear up. In a short while, they’d be up to their eyebrows in concentrated effort. Their chatter carefully avoided any mention of the show they were about to help bring to life. There wasn’t much laughter. There was an unspoken camaraderie.

Studying this little band of brothers (and sisters) made me realize how much we, as Spoleto enthusiasts, take their efforts for granted. It’s only when a glitch creeps in — a mic fails, a lighting cue goes awry, the smooth transition from scene to scene staggers — that we think of them at all. If they’re doing their jobs well, they’re invisible to us. Except they’re not. Not really. Look around.

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