I am writing this from Edinburgh Waverley train station, waiting for a train home from a day at the Edinburgh Fringe (the world’s largest performing arts festival) which I spent with a friend, seeing a couple of shows, and leisurely floating about the streets of Edinburgh. That is to say, I was at the Fringe, but I am not At The Fringe.
There’s a romance to the Fringe. Its history on the fringes of the Edinburgh International Festival, the rags-to-riches success stories, the three-star-review-in-the-Guardian-to-acclaimed-TV-series success stories, the persists-against-our-better-knowledge optimism. That optimism is palpable at the start of the month as theatre troupes plaster their posters on the Royal Mile pillars. It’s still palpable a week later in the rush of the first reviews as hasty edits are made to publicity materials. It’s notably less palpable halfway through week 4 when it’s raining, you’ve been working all day and you’re shoving your 21st Tesco meal deal of the month into your mouth while power walking from one side of the city to the other and some young guy with a southern accent shoves a flyer in your face shouting, ‘DO YOU OPPOSE APARTHEID?’ That might be too specific to be relatable. (In the incident in question, with the little energy I could muster, and through a mouthful of cold tomato and feta pasta, I turned down a flyer for the ‘DO YOU OPPOSE APARTHEID?’ musical by mumbling ‘I… can’t right now’ which I’m not sure reflected very well on me.)
Once the romance has worn off, what are you left with? The staggering cost of staging a show at the Fringe? The largely inaccessible venues? The low/no wages for everyone from performers to venue staff? The impact on living costs and rental insecurity for Edinburgh locals? The realisation that it’s quite annoying when the English theatre world talks about ‘Edinburgh’ as a one-month event, forgetting that real people live here for the rest of the year?
I don’t mean to be too cynical. I love the Fringe. I want it to be there every year. I love getting to participate in a full month dedicated to theatre. I just wish it was a bit less the way it is.
Last year, the biggest drama in all the Fringe Discourse1 was over before the shows had even finished previews. Performer Georgie Grier posted a picture of herself crying on Twitter along with a caption saying only one person was in the audience for her one woman show. Her replies were flooded with reassurance from celebrities and the next day’s show sold out. A lovely outcome from a less than lovely situation.
However, other Twitter users quickly discovered that she had posted something similar the year before, saying she had cried in the bathroom after her (same) show was attended only by her parents. Many people lost their sympathy for her, calling it a publicity stunt; Sarah Manavis even wrote about it in the New Statesman, citing Grier’s tweet as an example of ‘pity marketing.’
So was the tweet a deliberate marketing ploy? And, if it was, does it matter? Let’s take it one question at a time.
Was it a marketing ploy?
I wouldn’t be surprised if she was hoping to increase audience sizes on the basis of the tweet. In fact, I’d hazard a guess that she was. Even if she was posting just to connect with other performers in a similar situation, as many people do over the month, she was probably hoping some of them would attend her show. But that doesn’t make it a marketing ploy so much as a desperate plea into the void. There was no way she could have predicted the traction her post would get. Even with the most cynical interpretation I can muster, I can’t imagine she was hoping a slew of British comedy celebrities would help sell her show for her.
So, does it matter? Speculations about Grier’s motives aside, is ‘pity marketing’ a problem?
Some people clearly think it is. From what I saw online, some people’s problem with the double tweet appeared to be the perceived dishonesty. Which, I get it, I really do. They had an emotional reaction to the picture of her crying and, now that they have more information, they feel betrayed. But how much honesty are we entitled to and how much context is it reasonable for us to expect from a short tweet? You’re never going to get the full story on the internet. What should she have posted instead — ‘Only one person came to see my show tonight. Btw last year only 2 people came on the first night and I posted about it then, too’?
Once Grier’s 2022 tweet resurfaced, the first person I saw post negatively about it was a man with a PR company. I’ll say that again: a man with a PR company took issue with the idea of her promoting her show on social media. He received responses agreeing with him, saying things like, ‘Other people have to PAY for this.’ Presumably, then, it would have been a perfectly reasonable tactic if money had changed hands before the tweet was sent. But everything’s a trade off when it comes to marketing a Fringe show. Your time flyering to get people in the door. Your money paying someone else to market for you (an online PR man for example) to increase ticket sales. Or, in this case, arguably some pride in exchange for social media traction.
Manavis believes pity marketing is a problem. She writes, ‘this [pity marketing] trend indicates a growing belief that every artist deserves this kind of achievement and should be spared a brush with failure.’ Does it? Do we believe that? I found that statement quite jarring (read: blatantly ridiculous). There is a growing belief that a broader range of people should be given opportunities and support, but I have seen no evidence to suggest a growing belief that everyone should be successful (ask any early career artist how many rejections they’ve received in the last year).
She goes on to say, ‘Success should be earned on merit, not fleetingly bestowed by a pitying public.’ Of course success should be earned on merit. But this is to assume that success at the Fringe (or elsewhere) is purely determined by merit. It isn’t. This reflects the persistent Fringe mythos that anyone or anything can achieve success at the Fringe with nothing but hard work, a super-special show and word of mouth. The ‘Fleabag’ effect, if you will.
A lot has been said about Phoebe Waller Bridge’s wealth, family and connections and I have nothing new to add to that. But despite the fact that we often acknowledge the massive inequalities in who can put on a show at the Fringe due to the costs, and we acknowledge that the wealthiest and most connected benefit hugely from their networks outwith the Fringe, I think we (normal people involved in theatre and who know better) still hold on to some of that idealism. The idea that a good show is a good show. But it isn’t.
Nothing at the Fringe is equal. Venue matters, show time matters, marketing matters, social media audiences and connections to reviewers matter. Having a producer, emotional support, financial support and not having to work or commute so being able to network in an artist bar all matter.
Something we don’t talk about (and should) is how resources and connections don’t only impact a show’s success, but also a show’s quality. A good show really isn’t just a good show.
One person writing and directing and performing alone will achieve a very different end product than someone with a whole creative team who has had guidance and direction and dramaturgy and an R and D process and a practice run in a theatre in front of a real audience. A mediocre Fringe show could potentially be on par with a piece of phenomenal Fringe theatre with the right support. One of the top shows of the Fringe could have been very different without outside support.
None of this is cheating. It’s just not equal. It’s all an attempt to make the best show possible and to bring in the biggest audiences possible. So, as for ‘pity marketing,’ I say go for it. It’s a creative marketing choice. It’s a performance. It’s theatre.
And it was Massive Online Drama, like UK-wide Online Drama. 2024’s biggest drama TBD.
Can I ask? Is Georgie Grier any good? Because if I were a performer who worked hard and put on a show and only one person came to see it, I'd probably cry, too. If I were any good, I'd probably cry every time that happened, sincerely. And if my tears brought in a better audience, that would be all to the good, although unnecessarily rough on my self-esteem. On the other hand, if I wasn't any good, the pity marketing would just be drawing people into a waste of time, and at some point I should take the hint.
I'm not familiar with the Fringe and can't tell from what you write here how it's organized, who is investing, or how performers are chosen. It would seem, however, that some effort should be made to level the playing field a bit, to level it UP, specifically. Glad you reported on the whole thing.