What We Lose When Community Theatres Compete with Each Other

by Chris Peterson

Yesterday I watched a TikTok where someone said community theatres shouldn’t compete with each other, and my immediate reaction was: yes. Correct. Gold star. Put it on a bumper sticker.

And then my second reaction was: okay but also… if you did community theatre in Connecticut, you know “not competing” is basically a fantasy genre.

Because Connecticut is not a state. It’s a cluster of towns that all have (1) a Dunkin’, (2) the best pizza in the country, and (3) a community theatre. Every town. Every zip code. Every church basement. Someone is always doing a show. Someone is always announcing a season.

So yes, there’s competition. There’s always competition. Not even the healthy kind, either. Not “let’s make great art.” I mean the weird kind. The kind where you hear another theatre is doing the same show you’re doing, and suddenly everyone’s acting like you caught them texting your boyfriend.

And I get it. I’m not pretending community theatre is just vibes and jazz hands. Community theatre is art, sure, but it’s also survival math.

It’s rent. It’s royalties. It’s the sound system that only works if you threaten it. It’s a box office report that makes the board treasurer go quiet in a way that changes the temperature of the room. It’s “we need more butts in seats” said with the urgency of a 911 call. I’ve been there. Everybody’s been there.

So when people say “don’t compete,” I don’t hear “be naive.” I hear “stop acting like you’re fighting over the last remaining audience member in the county.”

Because that’s the part that drives me nuts: this idea that the audience is a finite pie and every time someone buys a ticket somewhere else, it’s a personal attack on your theatre’s existence.

It’s not. If anything, great theatre in an area makes more theatre-goers.

That’s the part a lot of us forget when we’re stressed, or tired, or bitter because the other group got the rights first. Theatre is not like grabbing the last loaf of bread at the grocery store. People don’t go to one show and go, “Welp! That satisfied my need for live performance for the next calendar year. See you in 2027.”

Theatre turns people into theatre people.

And theatre people are… let’s be honest… a little unwell. In the best way. Once you hook them, they come back. They bring friends. They start following merging Facebook pages. They volunteer to paint set pieces. They donate. They become one of us. There’s no cure.

So yeah, a rising tide lifts all ships. A knockout production across town doesn’t ruin your life. It reminds people that live theatre still hits. That it’s worth leaving the house.

What people call “competition” in community theatre is often just fear wearing a trench coat.

Fear that you won’t sell. Fear you’ll lose talent. Fear you’ll lose donors. Fear you’ll lose relevance. And that’s where it gets toxic, because instead of putting that energy into making your theatre better, we put it into side-eyeing everyone else.

And then there’s the classic community theatre panic line: “They’re stealing our actors.”

No. No they’re not.

Actors are not lawn furniture. You do not “own” them because they did Guys and Dolls with you in 2019, and you still have their phone number. They’re choosing where to spend their time. And honestly, most actors I know are not choosing based on “loyalty.” They’re choosing based on sanity.

If your theatre keeps losing people, it might not be because another theatre is “stealing.” It might be because your rehearsal culture is exhausting. Or cliquey. Or disorganized. Or makes people feel like they need therapy afterward. And I say that with love, because I’ve been in those rooms too, and I can still smell the emotional damage.

Also, can we admit something quietly? Sometimes the “competition” is… imaginary.

Like, yes, there are towns where it’s genuinely hard because there are only so many patrons, only so many donors, only so many weekends people will go out. But a lot of the time the big enemy isn’t “the theatre across town.”

Which is funny, because if you want to talk about irony, I once helped found awards for community theatre in Connecticut. A whole thing meant to celebrate the work, spotlight the talent, and say, “Hey, look at all this great theatre happening here.” And yes, awards are inherently a little competitive by nature. That’s literally the structure. But the spirit of it, at least the way I always saw it, wasn’t “let’s crown a winner and make everyone else feel like dirt.” It was “let’s make the whole scene feel bigger.” Let’s make people pay attention. Let’s create momentum. Let’s make theatre feel like something that matters in these towns, because it does.

But what would “not competing” actually look like in real life?

It doesn’t mean every theatre should program one show per decade and rotate politely like we’re taking turns at recess. It doesn’t mean you can’t do big titles. It doesn’t mean you can’t want to sell out. Wanting full houses is not evil. It’s literally the goal.

It means you stop treating other theatres like enemies and start treating them like part of the ecosystem. Because the real mission, if we’re being honest, isn’t “beat the other theatre.”

Stop competing like the audience is scarce and the other theatre is your villain. Make your work good. Make your process healthy. Make your theatre a place people actually want to spend their nights. And then, when the theatre across town puts on something great? Let it be great.

Because if one theatre in your area is doing great work, that’s not a threat. That’s free advertising for the entire idea of theatre. And lord knows we could use all the free advertising we can get.