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Livestreamed play readings instead of theatre? It just reminds me of what we've lost

<span>Photograph: James D Morgan/Getty Images</span>
Photograph: James D Morgan/Getty Images

I’ve been a theatre critic for 10 years. Usually there’s nothing I want more than to watch a play or musical or experimental art piece. But since theatres across the world have been shuttered in the face of the Covid-19 crisis, I’ve been finding it hard to muster the excitement for the scrambled, loving offerings from theatres globally: live-streams and special events.

Part of that is chafing against impositions and barriers that model the worst obstacles to enjoying live theatre, like “appointment” streams that require you to experience it a certain time, or within a limited timeframe. It feels unnecessarily restrictive and unfortunately redundant in the online realm, especially in a world where the first 13 seasons of Grey’s Anatomy aren’t going to be yanked from Stan anytime soon (I started it during isolation and now I’m up to season 12; no, I’m not okay).

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There have been pockets, though, of joy. Sydney Theatre Company’s first phase of STC Virtual, their response to the shutdown, was small and heartfelt: actors read and performed favourite scenes and poems; making art for the sake of making and sharing. And Belvoir In Concert, the Surry Hills theatre’s Covid-19 fundraiser, was a pre-recorded variety show that leaned into its new medium to create a playful, polished and surprisingly emotional 40 minutes.

Last night, Sydney Theatre Company launched its second phase of STC Virtual with a live-streamed reading of a full play: Marieke Hardy’s No Pay? No Way! (an adaptation of Dario Fo’s Non si paga! Non si paga!). The play, directed by Sarah Giles, was several weeks into its run when ordered closed, and as the cast (Glenn Hazeldine, Rahel Romahn, Helen Thomson, Aaron Tsindos; Catherine Văn-Davies) appear on the livestream from their individual homes, there’s distant hint of that performance magic: the play clearly lives in their bodies at the level of muscle memory. The actors avoid the now familiar stilted, compromised performances of cold or under-rehearsed readings.

Still, there’s something missing. Giles’ production was a full-bodied, knowing farce. You can’t help but wish this stream had been pre-recorded to achieve some hallmarks of farce in online, filmic language: comic entrances and exits, quick-cut costume changes, prop work.

But then, there’s usually something missing. This stream – and many others – was released quickly, and offered whole-heartedly, on the proverbial smell of an oily rag, because right now livestreaming functions not just as art, but as advertising and fundraising.

While the stream is available for free until 4 June, STC has provided a suggested donation scale. Artistic director Kip Williams says the funds will help the company to keep artists employed. But artists’ entitlement to emergency financial assistance right now shouldn’t be dependent on producing art: we’re in the middle of devastating national unemployment and economic crisis, but the government’s relief schemes don’t take everyone into account. Arts practitioners are racing to learn Zoom, IGTV, and Facebook live – modes that have their own style and trends – to attract crowdfunded donations, remain relevant, or make the case for grant funding or personal financial relief. But the results are often diminished.

Of course, companies cannot be faulted for not having a plan, or not having digital media art literacy; no one expected this to happen. But it shouldn’t have to be this way. Art is better when it isn’t desperate, and artists make good work when they can pay their rent.

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If I want to watch something online, I’d rather watch something created for online by multi-disciplinary or online artists – like ABC’s Sarah’s Channel (created by playwright Nick Coyle for YouTube with its style and visual language in mind). Or, if we’re taking theatre online, why go past the UK’s Forest Fringe Festival? Their Paper Stages is a zine-style download that calls itself a festival disguised as a book. Plus, consider the TikTok account of playwright Jeremy O. Harris, who remixes classic plays into memetic pastiche. It isn’t forced; it isn’t a panic; it’s an embrace.

I appreciate the gifts, but I’d rather see artists making the art their way, on their own terms. When these live streams and filmed releases are passed out as a quick solution to a bigger problem and don’t account for medium or mode, they live in a ghostly in-between, creating empty fake stages that contain an echo where our breath should be. It only reminds me of what we’ve lost: the irresistible, irreplaceable community that springs up every night in a theatre. I miss it terribly.