Queuing

Last Thursday I got up to go to the theatre at 3.30am. I arrived at 4.15am. I joined a queue already consisting of twenty two people.

It turns out that the first people in line had been there eight hours. They’d arrived before the previous show had finished and actually slept (well, they claimed to have slept) outside the foyer entrance all night. I’m not sure what I expected; I was queuing for Jerusalem tickets two days before the final performance. And so, it seemed, was everyone else. From actors and students to teachers and office workers; there was even a mother bringing her teenage daughter (and I found waking myself up difficult).

I was reasonably hopeful (as I stood in line for five hours) that I would manage to get a ticket. There were many attempts to calculate exactly how many tickets were required by those in front of me, which, despite asking exactly the same question, to exactly the same people, radically altered every half an hour (I can now sympathise with the difficulties facing pollsters). From a rough average, however, it seemed I would be one of the last. 

This made my section of the queue rather frantic: some of us would definitely have spent five hours in vain. Indeed, in several of my fellow queuers it engendered a desperate vigilante streak to emerge. One woman spent three hours patrolling up and down the queue, just to check no one had joined. I’m not sure what she would have done in the event that they had: probably written them a strongly worded letter.

Yet there was also an exciting camaraderie in knowing that we weren’t the only ones desperate to see the show. We all shared that guilt of knowing we’d left it too late. The show became that much more valuable: not only did we each individually think it worth waking up for, but we knew other people did as well. The number of people queuing bizarrely meant that it was more exclusive: only some of us would get in.

The show was amazing: but before I’d seen it, what made me, and others, rate it so highly? Other shows get five star reviews. Other shows have exciting marketing campaigns, big billboards, endless web adverts, flyers, posters, the lot. Yet almost none of them have people queuing outside the night before they start. 

Everyone I spoke to in the Jerusalem queue had been personally recommended by a friend. Most, by more than one. West End shows can spend upwards of £70,000 a week on marketing; but they can’t create that buzz when one or two of your friends unequivocally recommend a show. So as a producer, how can I get that hype?

Easy. Have a really, really great show.

Thanks to Andy Rob for the photo (sadly without queue).

Rewrites

I’m pretty excited about producing. I’m also pretty terrified by it. It’s exciting to work with so many different people - writers, directors, actors, you name it, I get to have some involvement in what they're doing. Yet with so many different people involved, it’s terrifying to think that so much is out of my hands. I’m meant to oversee (and be responsible for) everything that happens to the show: relying so much on other people is therefore fairly nerve-wracking. Especially when that means relying on an audience turning up.

Yet despite the occasional headaches, working with those other people is what makes theatre the most exciting art (well, I would say that). Collaboration is at the heart of theatre, both in its creation and consumption. So the more collaboration the better. Which is why I’m so excited by the fact that the writer and director I’m working with are returning to the script for a couple of rewrites.

A few days ago, Broadway producer and blogger Ken Davenport wrote a piece praising the role script doctors can play in giving scripts an edge. Yet it’s not just a different writer who can inject something new into a script. In fact, it’s arguably far more valuable to the integrity of the piece to have the original author go back over it, rather than just someone with a knack for writing zingers.

Because it’s not just those few new words that matter. It’s the process of collaboration that writer and director engage in which gives the show staying power. And that close collaboration has to be right from the beginning. Because while it should be relatively easy to manage just writer and director, as I add more people into the mix it’ll only get tougher. But if I can get it right, then hopefully that zing of collaboration will keep gaining momentum right until opening night.

And while the thought of extra zing is never unwelcome, having to think about that first performance so far in advance is stressful. But worrying now about opening night will relive the pressure when it finally comes around, right? Somehow, I don’t think so.

Budget Basics

Recently I’ve been writing a budget for a new show I want to produce. Perhaps fabricating would be a better word when it comes to budgeting. Since a budget is basically a guess. At least in the beginning. Both when beginning the budget itself and when starting out as a producer. The former because you haven’t really got to grips with the project yet, the latter because you wouldn’t know what it would cost even if you had. I don’t find it easy, but then again nor do all professionals.

So experience isn’t everything. And it certainly doesn’t guarantee success. Even the most experienced producers can’t predict everything, especially the likelihood of an audience actually turning up. The early closure of Spring Awakening this summer after only ten weeks in the West End is just one example of many. And that happened despite solid reviews. They just didn’t sell enough tickets. And that’s something no one can predict, no matter how much experience they have.

All of which is rather heartening for a young producer who doesn’t have that experience. And looking over my completed budget, it feels justified. This might be the show. And knowing that you’ve got something good lined up is exactly what producers need to sleep well.

But then again, surely it can’t be that easy. Even young producers don’t need much experience to tell them that. On a second glance, there were a few small problems with the show I’d budgeted. Like the fact that I’d added expenditure to income rather than subtracting them. Definitely too early to celebrate. But perhaps that’s the most important lesson to learn early on: don’t count theatrical chickens, even if it does help you sleep.

Beginnings

This blog has a very simple purpose: to track the successes and, inevitably, failures on my way to becoming a theatre producer.

I imagine writing it shouldn’t be too difficult; doing it on the other hand, might be.

These suspicions were confirmed recently while trying to make contact with a small theatre where I thought I might put something on. While casually talking to the manager (it’s of course essential to keep all details confidential) I mentioned that I was interested in producing shows professionally. A concerned look spread across her face. I’m still not sure whether she was concerned for the reputation of her theatre or my sanity. Either way, it wasn’t a good start.

I steered the conversation toward what level of experience she thought was required of potential producers at her venue. I’m not sure what I hoped for, but it was probably along the lines of “Well, almost exactly the level you have. Do you want to come and produce here?” Having had it rather easy at university, with the chance of producing at a major regional theatre and the internationally renowned Rustaveli Theatre (it is renowned, it says so on Wikipedia), I think I assumed that such fringe venues are the way to start out in London.

It quickly became apparent that this is not the case. My question was parried with the predictable response of “experience, and lots of it”. Yet its implication was clear. I would need a lot more experience before I should even think about applying to her theatre.

Point taken. Vaulting ambition dully brought back to earth. I’m going to have to start much smaller and work slowly upwards before getting to that stage. And given the size of that particular stage, I’m currently looking for places smaller than 4m².

So if anyone wants me to produce a play in their kitchen, let me know.