There was no half-price ticket booth, no papering houses, no discount codes to boost advance sales and put people in the seats for new shows. As a result many new shows that received negative reviews would give up the ghost sooner --- one week runs were not uncommon --- and in their brief stays, sections of the theatre auditorium could appear something like a ghost town. I recall going to shows that ran but a handful of performances in which they closed the balcony and relocated the (few) balcony patrons to the rear of the mezzanine. In some instances the entire audience would be relocated to the orchestra. Orchestra ticket holders would be placed in the front, mezzanine patrons would be in the middle, and balcony patrons placed in the last few rows. The lines of demarcation were strictly drawn to make sure hierarchy still held sway.
One didn't have to look at telecharge seating charts (there were none to look at, in any case) to have a sense beforehand of whether the upper levels would be closed off for the performance that day. One's sixth sense--- and common sense. --- told you they might, and that often proved the case.
Of course, it goes without saying that actors would be happier playing in a hit to a full house than in a flop before a smattering of people. And yet at these one-week flops, I rarely got the feeling that the actors were not going full out, or that the play was not registering as it ought to have due to the small house. In fact, it was just the reverse. These were very rare and unique theatrical experiences; never was the evanescent nature of theatre brought more strikingly home --- to both cast and patrons --- nor the importance of seizing the moment while you can. Thus was a special bond forged and shared between those on stage and off. I treasured these performances, and felt/feel so grateful and fortunate to have experienced them.
