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GOBBLE GOBBLE!
by Kristine Z. Kochanski
Those of us who inhabit the very murky world of marketing, particularly in the arts, are painfully aware that the capacity of our efforts to achieve bum-seat interface is limited by legions of bizarre variables. We may find ourselves stymied by, for example, the fact that the sun is shining and our errant punters would rather enjoy the dying rays of the sun with their nearest and dearest, quaffing Pimms and cramming strawberries down their necks, than pay £20 to shut themselves in a large windowless room with a couple of hundred strangers cudgelling their intellects over the latest offering from some obscure wordsmith. It may be the case that, as we gear up for our Christmas kitschfest, a volley of bomb blasts in the capital make the cowardly blighters reluctant to drag their tots through a war zone to watch a group of aging hippies wielding whimsical puppets.
We bear this, and other freak incidents (it still hasn’t quite dawned on us that “summer” happens every year with the same unpleasant financial effects) with equanimity. There’s not a lot we can do about it. And yet the one turn of events which really throws us, time and time again, is the show which for the last three months we have gleefully been telling the public is the Next Big Thing being unanimously hailed by press and public alike as nothing less than a pure genuine turkey.
In an industry forced to rely less and less on advance bookings and more and more on the last-minute whims of a wayward public, the importance of how a work is received is paramount. The effects of a poor reception are generally disastrous, and in the ensuing panic logic breaks down completely. In a rational frame of mind, we would attempt to spare the blushes by focusing public attention on future projects and letting the poultry currently running amok on our stage fade gracefully into the background, but our lords and masters never seem to see it this way. Instead, we are implored to throw money at the problem of failing sales and load the groaning presses with brightly-coloured advertising reminding the world that it is our theatre which is responsible for this spectacular flop. We festoon the building with banners proclaiming desperately that The Stage actually didn’t think it was all that bad, so please come and give it a go, we’ll only charge you 50p.
The temptation is understandable, but in the cold light of day it is hard to see how leaping up and down shouting “Look! In here! A turkey!” can be anything other than counterproductive. Slice it however you like; the flavour of this particular bird is an unmistakable one, and will not be disguised by any amount of costly dressing.
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