Theatre and its Audiences: Reimagining the Relationship in Times of Crisis

By Kate Craddock and Helen Freshwater
Methuen, 256 pp.

Reviewed by Katayoun Salmasi*

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit — an art form rooted in shared presence, physical space, and communal ritual — theatre faced a profound rupture. Stages closed. Auditoriums emptied. The once-celebrated act of gathering became a public health hazard. What followed wasn’t just a suspension of performances: it was a moment of reckoning for the entire field.

In Theatre and its Audiences, UK Festival director Kate Craddock and University of London lecturer Helen Freshwater approach this estrangement not with solutions or sentimentality but with the goal of clear-eyed inquiry. Theirs is not a roadmap back to how things were. Instead, they investigate what theatre revealed under pressure, and how those revelations has helped reshape its future.

Structured around five key dimensions — time, space, technology, communication, and care, — the book treats each as a field of power, not merely a technical or logistical concern. In doing so, the authors ask urgent questions: who is theatre for? who is allowed in? who remains on the margins, and why?

The book’s central claim is both simple and radical: nothing about theatre is neutral. Every aspect, from scheduling and ticket pricing to foyer signage and architecture, carries assumptions about value, access, and belonging. What often appears routine or traditional is, in fact, loaded with meaning.

Craddock and Freshwater write with a style that is deeply grounded in scholarship yet accessible to a broad readership. Their book is addressed not only to academics, but also to artists, producers, policy makers, and cultural workers. Most crucially, it centers the audience, not as data or demographics, but as a public to be welcomed, challenged, and reimagined, not simply spoken at.

The opening chapter revisits the disorientation of early 2020, what the authors describe as a “dark festival,” when time collapsed, routines broke down, and theatres became irrelevant to daily life. Traditional schedules no longer fit the shape of lived experience. In this void, artists began to experiment with new ways of engaging time. Some created 24-hour live-streams. Others turned to durational or asynchronous formats. These were not deviations from theatrical form; they were direct responses to lives reshaped by anxiety, caregiving, and digital fatigue.

By documenting these creative strategies, Craddock and Freshwater push back against the idea that shorter or flexible performances represent a lowering of artistic standards. On the contrary, they argue that these forms reflect a deeper attunement to contemporary realities. Rethinking time in theatre is not about compromise, it is about equity.

They remind us that time in theatre has always been shaped by power. Matinees historically catered to women’s domestic routines. Today, intermission-free plays speak to short attention spans but also reflect the pressures of contemporary life. During the pandemic, time became even more unevenly distributed. Essential workers were drained. Others had time but lacked the emotional capacity to engage. Flexibility, then, is not an aesthetic weakness. It is a tool for inclusion.

The second theme, space, is treated with similar critical attention. Theatre buildings, they argue, are not neutral containers. They communicate through materials, layouts, and social codes. Velvet seats, marble staircases, glass foyers, these are not just design choices. They reinforce hierarchies of class, race, and cultural capital.

The pandemic temporarily displaced theatre from these buildings, pushing it into streets, homes, and screens. Some celebrated this shift as a liberation from traditional venues. But Craddock and Freshwater caution against that optimism. Many of the old exclusions simply followed theatre into new spaces.

Drawing on theorist Henri Lefebvre’s assertion that “space commands bodies,” they explore how architecture and design have historically controlled who can enter, who feels welcome, and who must navigate discomfort or surveillance. Even the open-air amphitheaters of antiquity, often idealized as democratic, were built on exclusion, denying entry to women, slaves, and non-citizens.

One particularly compelling analysis focuses on the theatre foyer. These liminal zones between street and stage often appear benign, but the authors show how they operate as social filters. From signage to seating, from lighting to acoustics, foyers quietly instruct audiences on how to behave and who belongs. While some companies have tried to reimagine these spaces as interactive or participatory, most remain coded environments that privilege certain bodies and silence others.

Digital theatre, which surged during lockdowns, offered new access for audiences who had long been marginalized, including disabled viewers, those living in rural areas, or people with caregiving responsibilities. But virtual participation came with its own barriers: stable internet, quiet space, digital fluency, and suitable technology. Craddock and Freshwater insist that accessibility is not just about entry. It is about a sense of belonging, of being expected and included, not merely allowed.

The authors then turn to the concept of presence, which has long been central to theatre’s identity. Liveness is often defined by physical co-presence: actors and audiences sharing time and space. But lockdown forced a reconsideration of that idea. The authors ask whether presence can be redefined beyond the physical. Can emotional and attentional connection, what they call “copresence,” occur through screens, across time zones, or even asynchronously?

They offer vivid examples of this rethinking. In one digital performance, a Zoom event ends in a spontaneous kitchen dance party, with audience members sipping drinks, lounging in bathtubs, or dancing in their homes. What might have once seemed chaotic becomes a new form of shared experience. These moments do not undermine theatre’s essence, they stretch it.

This exploration is situated within a longer history of theatre’s uneasy relationship with technology. From Renaissance debates over illusion to current concerns about platform capitalism, theatre has always wrestled with the fear that tools might eclipse human presence. Today’s digital spaces introduce new questions: who designs the platform? Who controls the data? What behavior is encouraged, monitored, or sold?

The authors draw on W.B. Worthen’s concept of “surveillance theatre,” where audience engagement is not only visible but harvested. Likes, reactions, and clicks are not neutral feedback. They are forms of labor and commodification. Craddock and Freshwater do not dismiss these concerns. But they also see value in digital messiness. When a livestream lags or a cat interrupts a scene, the illusion breaks, and the human infrastructure behind the screen becomes visible. These glitches reveal the collaborative, fragile nature of theatre, online or off.

The discussion then shifts to theatre’s role in an age of misinformation. With trust in media and politics declining, what can theatre, an art form built on fiction, offer in terms of truth?

The authors begin with a chilling example: Boris Johnson’s early COVID speech predicting the loss of many lives. Its calculated delivery, devoid of emotion, becomes a case study in political performance. Rather than clarify, it concealed. Craddock and Freshwater argue that in contrast, theatre’s power lies in its transparency. It does not pretend to be neutral. It names its structure. It announces its intentions. That candor gives it ethical weight.

But the critique is not just external. The authors turn the lens on cultural institutions themselves, examining how they perform care and inclusion without shifting real power. Branding strategies, curated social media feeds, and overly friendly newsletters can simulate intimacy without inviting real accountability. Even choices around font and color carry messages about who is being addressed and who is not.

Against this backdrop, they highlight examples of genuine redistribution. At Alphabetic Theatre, directors greet audiences in plain language. At ARC Stockton, local communities vote on programming through initiatives like “Pizza and Pitches.” Contact Theatre includes youth board members with actual decision-making power. These are not optics. They are material shifts in who holds the microphone.

Still, the authors warn against hollow gestures. Soliciting feedback without changing outcomes is not collaboration, it is extraction. Participation must come with influence. Otherwise, institutions risk rebranding control as engagement.

One particularly sharp critique focuses on the NHS’s “Clap for Carers.” It was theatrical, emotional, and widely shared. But it was not backed by policy change or increased funding. They present it as a cautionary tale: symbolic action must not substitute for structural support.

This leads to the final theme, care. Not as sentiment, but as infrastructure. For theatre to be truly inclusive, care must inform every aspect of its operation: from budgeting and programming to staff contracts and audience relationships.

The chapter becomes personal as Craddock herself reflects on being asked, again and again, to speak about the “future of theatre” during the pandemic. Her response reframes the question. Future for whom? Built on whose exhaustion? At what cost?

The pandemic did not create new access needs. It simply made visible how long those needs had been ignored. For years, disabled and marginalized artists had advocated for captioning, remote options, and sensory-friendly performances. They were told these adjustments were impossible. Then, when mainstream audiences needed them, they appeared overnight. What was once dismissed as fringe became standard.

The authors celebrate performances like Joey by Sean Burn and Augmented by Sophie Woolley, where access tools are integrated into the creative process. Captions, sign language, and sound design are not add-ons. They shape the aesthetics of the work. These are examples of care embedded in form, not pasted on after the fact.

They also explore economic access. Pay What You Decide models challenge the notion that value must be dictated from above. Instead, they invite trust and agency from the audience. Pricing becomes a conversation, not a barrier.

The authors are clear that care is not soft. It is labor. It is often gendered, precarious, and invisible. It shows up in the logistics of rehearsal schedules, emotional support for staff, and the quiet scaffolding that makes inclusive theatre possible. Institutions must not only speak of care. They must fund it.

The book’s final focus is governance. True care requires power-sharing. Craddock and Freshwater uplift models where communities help shape budgets, programming, and leadership. These changes are not cosmetic. They shift theatre’s very structure.

The book closes on a speculative note. It imagines a person walking home in 2037, listening to news of Amazon’s collapse and the rise of local culture. The future is not utopia. It is plausible, but only if care becomes a sustained practice.

The two authors conclude with a challenge. Stop treating audiences as customers. Start seeing them as co-creators. Measure success not by ticket sales, but by inclusion, safety, and who still hasn’t been invited in.

Their message is not one of pessimism. It is a call to act. Theatre is not just an event. It is a structure. A set of choices. A shared contract. And like all contracts, it can be revised.

In the hands of Craddock and Freshwater, theatre emerges not as a fixed tradition, but as an ongoing negotiation; imperfect, messy, and full of possibilities.

*Katayoun Salmasi is a theatre critic, playwright, dramaturg, and director. Her work has appeared in a range of journals and magazines. A member of the American Theatre Critics Association (ATCA), she completed her doctoral studies at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. Her research focuses on immigrant narratives in contemporary American drama and the role of criticism in shaping public discourse.

This work is licensed under the
Creative Commons Attribution International License CC BY-NC-ND 4.0.

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