Ellie Moon plays Jamie Baker in TRUCK by Graham Isador.Graham Isador/Supplied
This week is the premiere of my new play as part of Factory Theatre’s spring season. TRUCK is about a retirement speech for the last truck driver in North America after all cars become self-driving. The script is the biggest project I’ve ever been a part of. And I expect it’s the last time I’ll ever put on a play.
The reason is largely what you’d expect. It’s increasingly hard to justify the time, effort, and financial risk it costs to mount a production. The ups and downs of live entertainment since the pandemic have been well-documented. With few exceptions, theatre companies have struggled to get ticket-buyers to return. Large institutions such as Toronto Fringe and Winnipeg’s Prairie Theatre Exchange have publicly expressed financial shortcomings. Anecdotally, I’ve had friends – folks who are constantly booked for gigs – struggle with the internal contradiction of being a “professional artist” who can barely afford the cost of living.
It’s something I think about a lot. I’ve worked in or adjacent to the theatre for the better part of 16 years. Until coming on board full time with The Globe, I made rent through a mishmash of jobs. Playwriting and dramaturgy contracts. Freelance journalism and occasional television work. Still, the majority of my income came from copywriting.
It’s a setup I’d largely accepted. Very few of my favourite artists make a living entirely off their art. Even after a handful of awards, some nice reviews, and a few international tours, I accepted that I was not one of the lucky few who can afford to just make theatre in Canada. What was harder to accept was losing money to put on work that was very successful.
When I say losing money, I don’t mean some kind of cost-benefit hypothetical, like taking theatre jobs as opposed to chasing something more lucrative. I mean that, for the past decade, all of my shows have existed as co-productions. A festival or company puts in a certain amount of cash (and/or donates resources) while I’m expected to put up the rest. And that means that in addition to hours of admin tasks on top of writing a play, I’ve got to find funds for the show to go on.
For the public workshop of TRUCK in 2022, I paid the actors an honorarium and rented some space for rehearsal. It was an intentionally barebones approach. The money from the festival covered about half of what I spent. Grants we applied for were not selected for funding. I ended up making up the difference with money I made participating in a hotdog-eating competition filmed for Miller Lite’s Instagram.
People loved the script and performances. We sold out the show and there was praise from critics and my peers. What I didn’t have the heart to tell them was eating hotdogs on social media was more lucrative than putting on the play.
The incarnation of TRUCK happening this week puts me in a similar spot. Despite a cast of theatre heavyweights, a successful workshop, placement in a season, and a timely script, I still wasn’t selected for any of the grants I applied for. While I’m endlessly grateful to Factory Theatre for the support, the resources afforded to us don’t cover everything we need to mount the play.
I put up a bit of my own cash, slashed things down to the essentials, and pulled in a lot of favours to make up the difference. Our set is a few tables and chairs. The costumes are largely clothes from my closet. We’ll have to sell about 300 tickets to break even. There’s something honest about that method. If the show is good enough, I’ll be able to top off the honorariums for the cast and maybe take something small for myself. If not, I eat crow on a bad bet.
Still, this far into my career I had hoped for a different setup. I am passionate about this play, this cast, and telling this story. I’m grateful for the support I’ve had to bring this script to life. And after weeks of admin, directing, writing, marketing, and producing I’m also very, very, tired.
This is how theatre-making is for most people in the industry. The sustainability is questionable at best. For a long time I had bitter feelings about that, but I’ve been trying to look at things from a different perspective – especially if this is really the last time I do this.
As a profession, the theatre is not something I could ever recommend getting into if you’re looking at any financial stability. Still, the only reason I’m willing to put up with years of frustration and monetary risks is because I haven’t found a feeling better than putting up a show. There is a story in my head and with the support of a bunch of people, that story comes to life on stage. That’s a magic trick.
When it’s not my script, supporting an artist I believe in to help tell the best version of their show? That’s a blessing. Most of the time putting up a show feels largely impossible. But I hope if anyone out there has any curiosity toward the theatre, they’re able to chase their passions. Acting. Writing. Sound. Whatever. It’s a terrible way to make money and it doesn’t always work. But when it comes together, it’s the greatest feeling in the world.
