By Grace Hatchell
Now then.
I love theatre. I really do. I love the lights going down, the hush before the curtain rises, the little flutter you get when the orchestra starts, the programme rustle, and the person three rows behind opening a boiled sweet as if they are trying to unwrap a greenhouse.
I love the magic of it.
But I think we need to have a proper chat about ticket prices.
Because not everyone wants to sit in the gallery, the upper circle, or somewhere so high up you can practically wave at low-flying aircraft.
Sometimes we sit there because that is what we can afford.
And there is a difference.
There is a difference between choosing the upper circle because you love the view, and choosing it because the stalls are priced like they come with a free weekend in the Cotswolds and date with Andrew Lloyd Webber.
There is a difference between thinking, “I quite like being up here,” and thinking, “Well, at least I can still hear it.”
And yes, before anyone starts sharpening their calculators, I know costs have gone up.
I know theatres are expensive to run. I know buildings cost money. I know touring costs money. I know lighting, sound, sets, costumes, musicians, stage crew, front of house staff, marketing, insurance, heating, rights, wigs, fog machines and whatever mystical substance they use to keep panto dames upright all cost money.
I am not pretending theatre is cheap to make.
I am not saying artists should be underpaid.
I am not saying venues should be expected to survive on goodwill, vibes and one interval tub of ice cream.
But I am saying this.
Theatre cannot keep calling itself accessible if a reasonable seat increasingly feels like a luxury purchase.
Because that is what it often feels like now.
The best seats go to the biggest wallets. The central stalls, the lovely dress circle seats, the ones where you can actually see people’s faces and not just their general emotional outline — they are often priced as premium.
And premium, in plain English, often means “not for you, love.”
So the people with money get the best view. The people with less money get the back, the sides, the restricted view, the vertigo section, or the seat where you spend two hours trying to look around a pillar as if you are flirting with it.
And we all just accept this as normal.
But should we?
Is theatre meant to work like that?
Is theatre meant to say, “Come one, come all — but if you want to actually see the actor’s left eyebrow during the emotional breakdown, that will be another £80”?
Because I am not sure that sits comfortably with all the warm, lovely language theatre likes to use about inclusion, community and belonging.
Do not get me wrong. Affordable seats matter. They really do. I am glad they exist. I am grateful when I can get one.
But sometimes affordable seats feel like a polite way of saying, “You can come in, but only if you sit over there.”
And “over there” is often up several flights of stairs, behind a railing, at an angle last seen in GCSE geometry, with a view of half the set and one enthusiastic shoulder.
That is not the same as accessibility.
Accessibility should not mean the cheapest possible way to technically be in the building.
Accessibility should mean people from different backgrounds can actually share in the experience properly.
And I know some theatres do brilliant work with cheaper tickets, rush tickets, youth schemes, community access, previews and lotteries. Some of them really do try. This is not me whacking every venue with the same handbag.
But the wider pricing culture still needs a rethink.
Because premium pricing has crept in everywhere. It is not just theatre, of course. Trains do it. Airlines do it. Hotels do it. Even buying a sandwich now can feel like entering a financial negotiation with a hostage-taker.
But theatre is different.
Theatre is not just a product. It is art. It is culture. It is community. It is where people go to feel something together in a room full of strangers.
So when the best seats are treated like status symbols, it changes the feeling of the room.
It says something about who theatre thinks deserves the best view.
And that matters.
So here is my radical little thought.
What if, for some performances, every seat was the same price?
One price. One ticket. One audience.
Then your seat is allocated by lottery.
Pure chance.
You buy your ticket, and you might end up in the stalls. You might end up in the circle. You might get a beautiful central seat. You might get something perfectly fine but not spectacular.
But everyone has the same chance.
No premium seat pricing. No “best experience if you can afford it.” No theatre version of capitalism wearing tap shoes.
Just a room full of people who all paid the same and all had an equal shot.
Would it be perfect? No.
Would some people grumble? Absolutely. Someone would write a furious email in Times New Roman. Someone would threaten never to return unless they could personally select row E, seat 14, because that is where they once saw Les Mis and had a spiritual awakening.
But would it be fairer?
I think it might be.
At the very least, it would make us question why we have all become so comfortable with the idea that money decides who gets the best cultural experience.
Because that is what is happening.
If you can pay more, you see more.
If you can pay less, you make do.
And I do not think theatre should be built on “make do.”
Not when it tells stories about humanity. Not when it asks us to empathise. Not when it spends so much time talking about reaching new audiences.
New audiences do not just need a seat.
They need to feel like they belong there.
And belonging is not helped by making someone feel as though they are watching from the naughty step because they did not have an extra £90 lying around.
I am not saying every single performance should work like this. I am not daft. Well, not professionally.
Maybe it starts with one performance a week. Maybe it is certain preview nights. Maybe it is matinees. Maybe it is a monthly “equal chance” performance where every ticket is the same price and the seat allocation is random.
Maybe theatres could still protect access requirements, because of course they should. Nobody is saying wheelchair users, disabled audience members or people with specific needs should be thrown into some chaotic raffle of doom.
But for everyone else?
Why not try it?
Why not have a bit of imagination?
Theatre asks audiences to imagine all the time. Imagine a barricade. Imagine a palace. Imagine Denmark. Imagine a cat is singing at you for entirely sensible reasons.
So why can theatre not imagine a fairer pricing model?
Because the current one is starting to feel tired.
It is starting to feel like a velvet rope in disguise.
And no, I do not want theatre to become financially impossible for producers, venues or performers. I want theatre to survive. I want it to thrive. I want everyone who makes it to be paid properly and treated properly.
But I also want audiences to survive the booking page without needing a lie down.
There must be a middle ground between “theatre cannot afford to exist” and “audiences cannot afford to attend.”
There must be a better answer than asking ordinary people to choose between a decent seat and their weekly shop.
Because theatre should be special, yes.
But special should not mean exclusive.
It should not mean the best seats quietly reserved for people who can shrug at the price.
It should not mean working-class audiences, students, families, carers, pensioners, single people on one income, and anyone else counting the pennies are automatically pushed further back.
And here is the thing: people remember how a venue makes them feel.
They remember whether they felt welcomed.
They remember whether they felt priced out.
They remember whether the cheapest seat felt like a genuine invitation or a technicality.
And if theatre wants lifelong audiences, it needs to think about that.
Because today’s person in the cheap seat might be tomorrow’s regular theatregoer, donor, volunteer, reviewer, performer, writer, producer or proud parent of a child who falls in love with the stage.
But only if they feel theatre is for them.
Not just near them.
Not just available to them if they sit behind a pillar and behave.
For them.
So yes, I will still sit in the upper circle if I have to. I am hardy. I am northern. I have survived bus replacements, bad coffee and people saying “pacific” when they mean “specific.”
I can manage a few stairs and a distant view.
But once in a while, I would quite like a reasonable seat without having to mortgage Granny, sell a kidney, or take out a small loan from a mysterious man called Keith.
I would like theatre to remember that accessibility is not just about opening the doors.
It is about what happens after people walk through them.
And maybe, just maybe, a same-price seat lottery would be one small way of saying:
You all deserve a chance at the good view.
Radical, I know.
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