Skip the 29-Hour

The 29-hour reading isn't the best way to find backers. So what is?

Jared Harbour, writing in Twenty-Nine Hours:

Everyone in the industry knows the reading is, in practice, a backer’s audition wearing a different hat.

The 2 PM Thursday audience is predominantly industry insiders. A show that underwhelms fifty jaded professionals who’ve seen two readings that week might electrify a paying audience in Des Moines, or a tourist from Seoul, or a college student seeing her first musical. The reading tests for insider approval, which correlates with consensus, which correlates with safety. It does not test for the thing that actually determines whether a show runs: whether a civilian audience will tell their friends to buy a ticket.

Jared’s piece is the most clear-eyed diagnosis of the 29-hour reading I’ve read. Which got me thinking.

The problem with the 29-hour reading isn’t the restraints or union guidelines; it’s that we’ve collectively lost sight of what the 29-hour reading is for and have tried to make it into something it was never meant to be.

29 hours is an intentionally constrained period, and readings work best when they are just that…readings. Actors sitting around a table, reading a script, so the authors can hear it out loud.

That’s it.

The 29-hour format was never meant to be a developmental workshop where the authors go home each night and write new scenes or songs. Nor was it meant to be a backers’ audition with 5-piece bands and expensive sound systems.

It would be bad enough if we tried to make the 29-hour reading into just one of those things. However, most now use the 29-hour reading to simultaneously improve the script and as a backers’ audition.

We’re trying to cram two separate 3-week developmental periods, with discrete goals and outcomes, into four and a half days. The math doesn’t math.

And humans will always believe they can be the exception to the rule.

I’ll often hear, “Oh yeah, we only want to hear the script out loud. We’ll just invite a few people to sit in at the end of the week to listen.”

As soon as there’s any audience, even just a few folks pretending to be “flies on the wall” in the corner, the 29-hour reading becomes a backers’ audition.

I still believe the 29-hour reading can be an appropriate and cost-effective tool when used for its intended purpose; however, it’s an inefficient and expensive way to present material to potential investors.

So if the 29-hour reading isn’t the best way to solicit investors, what is?

For one, I would argue it’s time to bring back the living room salon. This wasn’t always a quaint idea, it was how Broadway actually worked. For decades, producers raised money the intimate way: gathering investors in private Manhattan apartments to hear the songs and the pitch. Hal Prince described it vividly in a 2016 American Theatre piece:

My career began with the adaption of a book called 7 1/2 Cents, about a strike in a pajama factory in Dubuque, Iowa. We had no experience raising capital. George Abbott agreed to direct it and asked if he could do the first backers’ audition at Howard Cullman’s apartment at 480 Park Avenue. We agreed, and the Cullmans gathered about 100 of the major Broadway investors. When the Cullmans invested, everyone followed. And if they abstained, everyone followed them as well.

Abbott began with these words: “This show is about a strike in a pajama factory.” And you could feel the collective deflation in the room. The composers played selections from the score, including “Hey There,” “Hernando’s Hideaway,” and “Steam Heat.” And at the end of the presentation, we raised zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

So, the next day, I thanked Mr. Abbott and took over the chore of raising capital. It was not so much of a chore then, it was actually a hell of a lot of fun. That was then. What followed were 11 auditions in friendly living rooms, passing a bottle of Scotch, some paper cups, and a couple of packages of peanuts and pretzels.

My speech began with me saying, “Our show is Romeo and Juliet in the Middle West. The Middle West is a very popular location these days, thanks to the Broadway hit Picnic,” blah, blah, blah. And in those 11 auditions, my presentation successfully raised our capital.

Critically, investors weren’t just backing the show; they were backing Prince and his collaborators. By drinking and mingling with them, they could size up the humans behind the work.

Instead of pitch decks and 29-hour readings, where audiences are forced to sit through 2.5 hours (if not longer) of underdeveloped material, investors were being asked to back the creators and the work in progress.

This is essentially how tech startups are funded. Investors aren’t investing in a fully realized product. They’re investing in their faith in the individuals behind it.

Of course, not everyone has access to large Manhattan living rooms with pianos. But the same outcome can be replicated by renting a bar or lounge for a few hours.

Additionally, platforms like TikTok, YouTube, and Instagram are also viable places to show off works in progress. Investors can consume new works in 60-second clips from the comfort of their couch. And, in many instances, a handful of clips can better capture the essence of what a show could be.

Shows that can generate views and followers can further demonstrate audience demand for a new work.

A show I represent, Reverb, an inventive mix of tap-dancing and beatboxing, has been using vertical video to pitch both the concept and market viability to investors. With tens of thousands of views, these clips capture what Reverb is better than any pitch deck could; and prove there’s a real audience for it.

Asking investors to sit on uncomfortable folding chairs for hours in hot rehearsal rooms is no way to raise money. Better options exist; some borrowed from Broadway’s own past, some brand new.

The folding chairs had a good run. It’s time to move on.

Photo by Alan Alves on Unsplash

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