One Year Later
By James McNeel
Managing Director, City Theatre Company
My first day working at the National Endowment for the Arts was September 11, 2001. An auspicious start.
There’s a really terrific essay written by the novelist Rick Moody about the Literature grant panel on which he was serving when terrorism seemingly stopped America. The panel re-convened that day, though, and the work continued. It was resilience. Broadway was open in just 48 hours and helped the nation heal. Concerts, plays, museums came back; yes, with some financial uncertainty and things were unsettled for a while, but we kept moving forward and the art — on stage, in books — born out of that era is profound, honest, real. As it should be.
In September 2008, with the onslaught that became the Great Recession, I was living in New York City working as a consultant to individual artists and small to mid-size cultural organizations. The economic body blow was more severe and the financial impacts more lasting. And while the work might have gotten smaller — you’ll note there were a lot of solo plays and “two-handers” in the years that followed — it never stopped.
March 12, 2020 was different. Well, is different, really. “Is” because it’s still with us and will be for a while.
It is on that date that most of American culture crashed to a halt. It wasn’t instantaneous like 2001, or seemingly out-of-nowhere as 2008 (which shouldn’t have been in hindsight, of course — you know, bubbles and reckless lending and stuff); we had all been monitoring the coronavirus for a few weeks — or maybe it was just a couple, really? — and making what now seem like quaint preparations and operational adjustments. I’d never used the term “enhanced cleaning” before, but we pasted it everywhere. We scoured for sanitizer, gloves (but not masks, if I recall).
I have photos of my girlfriend and me skiing on March 1. We knew about Covid, but I also recall drinking a beer after the slopes side-by-side with strangers at the bar and thinking nothing of it.
The next day, Monday, March 2, the League of Resident Theaters hosted a national call with 75 organizations across the country. The opening line from the invitation email from LORT President Jennifer Bielstein began “Many of you have reached out as we all prepare for the worst case scenario related to the spread of the Coronavirus around the country.” I imagine I can speak for Jennifer when I say: We had no idea what was coming.
We had opening night of Molly Smith Metzler’s Cry It Out on March 6. I remember an awkward non-hug hug with the Mayor’s Chief of Staff, who was in attendance. We knew typical human-to-human connection wasn’t supposed to happen now…right?
The first day of rehearsals for PerkUp PerKup, a world premiere by Isaac Gomez, was on March 10. The company gathered in a circle ready to launch the life of this really, really critical play about privilege, white fragility, racism. (This production would soon be lost — one of three by Isaac that were cancelled or postponed due to Covid.)
Later that night, an email from Buzz Ward, Managing Director at Cincinnati Playhouse, to a group of “Midwestern” arts managers — ranging from Wisconsin to Missouri, Ohio to Minneapolis and Pennsylvania — who had been planning a mini-retreat the following week in New Orleans. Buzz said, “Despite plane and hotel reservations, should we consider a postponement of our gathering?”
After immediate agreement from everyone on the email chain, it pivoted (you know, that now overused word?) and became the first of many collegial sharing threads — policies, public messaging, plans, timelines, unions, desk yoga and meditation techniques. These emails have kept me sane in the months since.
Two days later, we had our final performance before a live audience, indoors. One year later, that’s still the case.
But first:
The day prior, March 11, City Theatre had its regular Wednesday morning staff meeting. We discussed an updated “Coronavirus Statement” to be added to our pre-show reminders and posted on social media. I distinctly recall starting the meeting with a report from the previous evening — I had spoken to a local councilman who said, “If the Penguins are still playing, the St. Patrick’s Day Parade (coming up on Saturday) will still be on.” In Pittsburgh, this means life is moving forward, things are normal (and about to get sloppy).
Ten minutes after repeating this to my colleagues, I looked at my phone. No St. Patrick’s Day Parade (hockey would make it just one more day).
Amidst this, though, an email from a colleague about a potential co-production the following season. They had a spot where we could store the set. Then, an exchange between our rentals committee about dates in our smaller theater in August, which seemed reasonable. There’s a message from Clare, Associate Artistic Director, about a possible Rolling World Premiere. The work was continuing.
In between, there’s a note from a larger organization gathering several of us to talk to funders about the “financial implications of the coronavirus” — the request was to meet the following Wednesday. The first of many (and thank god they keep taking our calls).
We wrote to our board at 3:30pm that day with an update on our safety precautions, with assurances that the show will go on — it must!
Our Front-of-House Manager, Jenna, puts out a call to senior staff at 4:38pm with the subject line: “Usher cancellations — need staff help” for the weekend shows. It would turn out we didn’t.
At 6:30pm I sent an email to about 30 local colleagues seeing if they wanted to hop on a call the following evening — this is still March 11 — if I set it up on our conference line (City Theatre did not have a Zoom account — yet). It begins: “When I started this email just yesterday, the Coronavirus situation did not feel as unhinged as it certainly does now. I’ve spoken with a few of you individually to seek out advice and commiseration…”
March 12th was epic. A Thursday.
My first email out that morning was at 8:01am to the executive director at a local dance company, responding to an article she’d forwarded me about the growing crisis: “Oh, I read it. There’s a doozy from Charles McNulty in the LA Times. I need [the] government to start communicating. The difference for us to stay open 9 more days (versus shutting down now) is financially massive. I HAVE to generate as much $$ between now and next Sunday through sub renewals and try to avoid refunds. At the same time, no one wants to make this actually worse health-wise.”
[Did I mention that Cry It Out was our subscription renewal production — onsite renewals, curtain speeches, and we were pitching our 2020–21 season? It carried the marketing slogan — wait for it — “Expect the Unexpected.” I will forgive Nikki, our marketing director, someday. March is our largest ticket sales month of the year. A big deal. By the way, the refund requests never really came. Arts-goers may complain about the choice of wine at the bar, or the parking situation, but when it matters, they’re there for you.]
I think my first conversation that day with City Theatre’s co-leader, Artistic Director Marc Masterson, was around 9:15am and before he was to go into rehearsals for Perkup. We discussed whether Cry It Out, up on our Main Stage, could make it through NEXT weekend.
I texted Marc, now in rehearsals, at 12:31pm to let him know that, confidentially, two theaters (from our Midwestern manager group) were “stopping performances after this weekend. Continuing rehearsals” for their next show.
Eight minutes later, I emailed Patti Kelly, our union stage manager, that we planned on an “archival capture” filming of Cry It Out the next night (Friday). Just in case.
At this point, two or three of us started the “what ifs” around closing the run early after this upcoming weekend — three days hence — and calculating what losing the final eight performances would mean. (We’ve now lost over 180.)
I spoke to Lou Castelli and Marya Sea Kaminski, managing and artistic directors, respectively, at Pittsburgh Public Theater. They were scheduled to open their next show the following night and were in previews. At that point, they planned on getting through opening, but we agreed to keep each other posted.
I interrupted Marc in rehearsal and we decided to cancel performances starting on Saturday after we were through Friday’s (tomorrow’s) filming. (We had begun to hear word of allowances from the unions for filmed content of our stage productions to be shared digitally — a first for our industry. The first of many firsts, it would turn out.)
At 2:28pm I texted Marc: “Broadway just shut down.”
At 2:39pm, my next text to him was a screenshot of a Facebook post by the aforementioned Mayor’s Chief-of-Staff with “the latest from the Governor,” which read, in part, “The Wolf Administration strongly encourages the suspension of large gatherings, events, conferences of 250 individuals or more.”
Our Main Stage is 254 seats, but we were far from sold-out (in fact, other than our hearty and loyal subscribers, attendance had been lagging since opening night), I guess we could proceed?
But we were shutting down, of course. There was no question and no more considering. I think the feeling might have been relief, though I would not have identified it as such then. In the matter of about six hours, we had gone from maybe closing early by two or three days, to closing before Saturday’s matinee, to — now — tonight, Thursday, March 12.
The extraordinary — and I mean that completely — City Theatre staff went into (quiet) action. I am still beyond proud of what they did that day, and every day since. I’m proud of the artists. I’m proud of my field, of this profession. The seriousness, the focus, the empathy; others with the real power then and in the days, months that followed could’ve learned something from watching what I saw that week and every one since.
One final performance. We called our videographers, Mickey and Molly Miller, who were scheduled to watch the show that night with a simple question: can you bring your cameras and a friend?
We set-up for a three-camera shoot and leaned into the “if possible” text in the union archival recording clause regarding 24 hours’ notice, but did not tell the cast what was really up.
I was scheduled to attend The Band’s Visit downtown in the Cultural district with my girlfriend, Shannon. She went alone with my empty seat next to her (which was far from the only one. The world was waking up to the new reality), and I, instead, greeted our audience — they were oddly chipper — streaming through the big red doors of our theater. I usually love that part of the job, and I think I did that night more than ever.
I believe our Director of Ticketing & Patron Services, Joel, did the curtain speech. Or maybe I did? I’m not sure anymore. Our longtime patron, volunteer, and Honorary Board member, Iris, who is over 90 and fitter than I ever will be, was there. I remember that. Maybe 80 other folks in total — 40% of what a typical Thursday night house count would be.
We told the front-of-house team, with their newly-secured rubber gloves on, after the show began.
We hovered. I paced. The press release was finalized. One of the actors, Tim, saw us in hushed whisper as he made a cross backstage in-between scenes.
The curtain came down and I think the actors already knew.
We met with them in the Green Room. There were tears, shock, disbelief, and yet, total understanding. No one was surprised, really. Not anymore.
We sent out the public notice that the run was over. Emails to patrons (the calls — so many calls — would begin the next day), the board, the full staff.
The Ghost Light took center stage that night. One year later, and it’s still there, waiting to be struck to the wings.
I like to say that theater-makers get paid to make believe; but, boy, this has been unbelievable. For all of us.
We might be staggering a bit, and there have been some really tough days since — but, like the ghost light up on our Main Stage, we’re still here, and we’ll be back. Not tomorrow, but soon.
— March 12, 2021, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
James McNeel has been Managing Director at City Theatre since January 2015. He previously worked at the Contemporary American Theater Festival, the Center for Creative Resources, Cherry Lane Theatre, and the National Endowment for the Arts. He is originally from West Virginia and has lived in New York City and Washington, DC in addition to Pittsburgh and WVa.
