The Fortune created loyalty by virtue of the blood, sweat and tears in getting from page to stage. But the sale of its assets is an act too far, writes Lisa Scott.
I remember how exciting it was, down in the Fortune Theatre's dank admin crypt, every time a letter came saying an application had been successful.
The theatre had never really taken advantage of its charitable trust status before I arrived: the new marketing manager, straight out of teacher's college, dressed in tight flounces, right leg in a cast, hair dyed harlot red - the lurid granddaughter the members society had never wanted.
To begin with, some were very cross. Why was I putting in all these applications? What business of mine was fundraising? A gift horse, my teeth were suspect.
Funding applications take days and days, so some of that time might have been better spent. However, once I started to be successful the tide turned and there were heated arguments about what I should fundraise for next. What was more important?
The stage manager wanted new blacks, the lighting technician wanted new gobos, the sound guy wanted a new desk. Of course, it wasn't my stuff, but like everyone who worked there, I felt a sense of ownership. The place did that to you, created loyalty by virtue of the blood, sweat and tears (and sometimes concussion: stage manager Keri Hunter was once levelled by a 4x2 swung blindly around on someone's shoulder in a very pantomime move) involved in getting from page to stage.
It would be the most exciting job I'd ever have. Drama reigned daily, elderly Shakespeareans had heart attacks, comedians turned up at the airport completely off their faces, politicians-turned-leads quit weeks out from opening night and needed protecting from a voracious media. There were love affairs (often heightening the performance, until they fizzled out), it was all jolly good fun, if you could take the stress.
Actors taught me everything I know about human nature and how to pretend you're not terrified. On Friday afternoons before a premiere, we staff would lean up against the bluestone outside, sun in our faces, knowing the play was on its own now. Inside that night, as the house lights went down, that wonderful feeling of shared humanity, laughter in a full house, the joy in looking sideways down the row at rapt faces. Sometimes the magic never came, sometimes the audience didn't.
After five years, a golden goose expected to lay and lay, my heart wasn't in it anymore, so I left, but I never stopped loving the Fortune, even though sometimes she was like an alcoholic mother: you never knew whether she was going to hug you or beat you with the jug cord.
Today, the Fortune Theatre is planning to auction its assets, everything from rows of red seats, lights, a Ralph Hotere drawing, to crates of L&P. I'm no lawyer, but this seems dodgy. Aren't these things a public good? The money that paid for them came from community trusts such as Bendigo, the Southern Trust and the Lion Foundation and when I wrote to those people, I promised appreciation. I said we really needed this or that - and now nobody needs it?
Worse, as far as I'm concerned, is the inclusion of archive material. For every play during my tenure (2003-08) the marvellous photographer Reg Graham, a true old-school gentleman, took cast and dress rehearsal photos for promotional purposes, as well as pictures of the incredible sets designed by Peter King and John Waite.
I would keep the programmes, posters and any other memorabilia and store them for future reference, as theatre staff had been doing since the converted church replaced crosses with tragedy/comedy masks in 1978. Now it is all going under the hammer, making a liar of me, both a tragedy and a comedy, being "liquidated'', a horrible term which smacks of final solutions.
I looked through the Haywards catalogue and saw so many things once deemed necessary. It was like seeing the contents of a loved one's home after their death, pointless without them there to give life to it.
Yes, I took from the Fortune, it was a valuable stepping stone to a writing career; working there taught me resilience, showed me what I was made of - because if you can market the arts you can do pretty much anything. But I thought I had left something behind to say thank you.
