Dear Theatre,

We need to talk.

I’ve been putting this off for a while now, but I’ve finally found the courage to be honest with myself and our relationship. Forgive me for not doing this face to face, but a letter just feels more apt…dramatic, even.

It was 2021 and there you were. Familiar, alive, electric and accessible with STC’s cheap tickets for under 30s. It was Kip Williams’ adaptation of Julius Caesar. From the stage in the round, beautifully shifting sets and seamless, tactful integrations of modern life, I was in lock step with you from the beginning. Coming out of the Roslyn Packer theatre, I had decided then and there that my new identity was as ‘a theatre go-er’. My own niche interest where I could escape into another world for 1.5 to 2 hours. In secret, it made me feel slightly cooler than everyone else.

A few weeks later, Seven Methods of Killing Kylie Jenner at the Darlinghurst Theatre Company dragged me somewhere deeper than where theatre had taken me before. It took me to a raw, funny and painfully current place. I sat in the second row of the small theatre space/ So close to the stage, a drop of spit landed neatly on my arm as the actor delivered her energetic monologue about the pressures of society as a young girl. I felt seen.

Both experiences left me interrogating my soul, turning over and inspecting each corner of my mind, re-considering the fabric of all my own perceptions. I was hooked. "This is it, this is the start of something real." And thus, our love story started with the same spark as most young love does.

For a while, I chased that feeling like a fool. I bought the tickets. I diligently read reviews, kept up with what was showing at each new season. I sat through the slight awkwardness of convincing friends to come with me to what seemed like a soul shattering production, only to leave feeling, if I’m honest, a little bored and a little empty. But still, I defended you. Night after night, year after year. “No, no. Trust me! You just haven’t seen the right one yet.”

Yep, I was one of those people.

And look, you continued to know how to dazzle me. On a recent trip to London, the allure of The West End pulled me close again.

Hamilton. People love Hamilton. I should give it a go. The velvet seats, the lush setting. I was in London! What a night.

As the curtains drew to a close and the actors filled the stage, I quickly realised, “Oh…This is a musical.” As this dawned on me, I also remembered I don’t like musicals.

To add a sunburn to a mosquito bite, it became apparent the whole thing was singing. Not only singing, but that unique brand of ostentatious, ‘look-at-me’ style of rapping. I found myself thinking, “I’d actually prefer to read the wikipedia article, than to listen to any more rhymes about the founding fathers,” (or whatever Hamilton’s about) and I left during the intermission, putting it behind me as I found my way back to the underground station.

Determined not to have this be a blight on my London experience, I decided to try again for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child a few days later. Some good friends of mine gave it rave reviews, and as a long time fan of the franchise, it felt like a safe bet. About 70 pounds later and a very long evening spent in the city (the play is in two parts with a 2.5 hour intermission between each), I was once again, underwhelmed and dare I say it - disappointed.

There. I said it.

It hurts. Because I wanted to believe in us. But the truth is, I’ve spent hours squirming in my seat, trying to will myself into being moved. I’ve watched plays that mistake abstraction for depth and spoken word style monologues that feel more 22 Jump Street than The Moth.

You keep asking me to meet you halfway, to fill in the gaps and sometimes I do. But more often, I leave the theatre adjusting to the fact that the afternoon has now faded into the evening, wondering what just happened and why it felt like homework.

I don’t want to be bitter. I’m not saying you’re completely at fault. Maybe I expected too much. Maybe I confused a few great nights with true compatibility. Maybe I'm just growing apart from who I was when we met? Someone desperate for something ‘live’ and ‘unfiltered’, in a world that suddenly felt anything but.

I can’t keep making excuses for you anymore.

Still, I have to ask. Do you even want to surprise me anymore? Or are you just performing for your peers, hoping to get programmed again next season? Do you believe what you’ve spent so hard working on is good performance? Or are we all walking around, blinded by the guise of high brow art? Sometimes it feels like your boldness has calcified into a formula, your edge dulled by a fear of not being seen as serious.

I know you’re trying. I see the risks some artists take, the effort, the long nights and grant applications and bar jobs. I don’t want to throw shade on the people who love you fiercely and keep you alive. But surely they must feel it sometimes too?

Look. It’s not that I’m leaving forever. I’ll still think of you when I walk past Belvoir, or the wharfs, and perhaps I’ll be enticed again by Sarah Snook’s Picture of Dorian Gray. I’ll scan the season programs, lurk in the background to see how you’re going. But I need space. I need to stop hoping every show will be that show. I need to learn how to go without expecting transcendence.

Maybe we’ll find our way back to each other, older and wiser. Maybe I’ll stumble into some fringe warehouse in Marrickville or Camden or wherever, and something weird and beautiful will happen, and I’ll remember why I gave you my heart in the first place.

Anyway, ultimately, I’m tired of pretending this is fine.

I still love what you could be. I always will. But I don’t love what you are right now.

Take care of yourself and I wish you all the very best. I truly mean that.

With more affection than you probably deserve,

Your disheartened ex-audience member,

Dani Zhang