The Fall of "Versailles"
What a closing notice revealed about the corrosion of theater-fandom
When the closing notice for The Queen of Versailles hit last week, mixed in with the sadness and analysis was something that caught me off guard: celebrating. Not for the artists or the effort, but for the closure itself. As if a verdict had been delivered and the jury could finally cheer for getting it “right.”
Closings happen. Not every show lands. But this reaction felt different. Less like fandom, more like spectators keeping score. A competition to predict which show falls next.
And it made me wonder: when did being a Broadway fan start to feel like sitting on a panel of judges? When did hopeful curiosity turn into arms-crossed skepticism? And what happens to an art form this fragile when even a slice of its most passionate audience starts rooting—for real or performatively—against it?
That’s what I want to sit with this week. Not the show itself necessarily, but the culture around it. What’s shifted, what it’s costing us, and what we stand to lose if closures start feeling like wins.
Shall we?
The Shift
There was a time when Broadway conversations lived in a few familiar places: the Times review, message boards, a couple of blogs, or a heated debate between BFA students. People cared, but the conversation moved at a steady pace. A show opened, critics weighed in, word of mouth followed, and the culture reacted in its own time.
As social platforms grew, that cadence changed. Slowly at first, then all at once.
The first preview stopped being an internal milestone and became the start of a public story. Bow clips, TikTok reactions, Instagram stories, backstage photos—an entire narrative unfolding in real time, shaped by thousands of voices instead of a handful. The conversation no longer waited for opening night; sometimes it didn’t even wait for intermission.
This shift didn’t shrink the circle; it widened it. Shows found new audiences, and audiences found new shows. But the atmosphere changed. The room carries a different charge when every production steps into public view long before the official critics arrive.
That’s what I keep noticing—not fading passion, but redistributed influence. The gravity that once lived inside the theater now lives online, moving at the speed of the platforms.
Which leads to the bigger question: what really drove this shift? And that’s where things get interesting.
The Machine
Online discourse runs on three forces: speed, status, and simplicity.
Speed comes first. Platforms reward immediacy, which means early reactions travel the farthest. A bow clip or a ‘first preview thoughts’ video can reach more people overnight than a full review might in a week. Once a take starts circulating, it gathers momentum. Narratives lock in quickly and rarely pause long enough for nuance to catch up.
Status layers itself on top of that. Once reactions live publicly, they become tiny portraits of who we are—or who we want to be seen as. In many corners of Theater Internet, being perceptive, bold, or early earns credibility. Posting becomes a way of shaping identity. A take isn’t just about the show anymore; it’s a small act of self-presentation.
Simplicity ties it all together. Our brains latch onto clean, coherent arcs, especially in crowded digital spaces. A show becomes a “smash” or a “mess.” A rumor becomes a storyline. A closure becomes confirmation of something people felt weeks earlier. These simplified frames move faster than the slow, complicated reality of how musicals actually develop, wobble, grow, or surprise.
Speed accelerates the conversation. Status personalizes it. Simplicity makes the narratives sticky.
Put those forces together, and the discourse shifts from being commentary to having real influence.
Which leads us to the people caught inside that force—and the toll it takes.
The Cost
When the conversation around a show starts to swirl early, everyone inside the production feels it. Actors, musicians, crews, designers, stage management, producers—the whole company becomes aware of the chatter before the work has even found its footing. Previews take on a different charge when narratives are already forming online. A single take can shape morale, investor confidence, ticket sales, timelines, and the sense of whether the show is gaining traction or losing it. None of this stops the process, but it adds pressure to a stage of development meant for flexibility, experimentation, and uncertainty.
And then there’s the closing itself. When a show ends, hundreds of people lose work: performers, musicians, stage managers, ushers, dressers, electricians, carpenters, front-of-house teams, marketing staff, press reps, producers. A closing notice isn’t a storyline—it’s a financial and emotional shock that ripples through health insurance, rent, childcare, debt, and the scramble for whatever comes next. Treating that moment like a victory—or even a punchline—ignores the scale of what’s actually happening.
Zoom out, and the industry feels the strain too. Risk tolerance narrows. Investors lean toward safer bets. Producers hesitate on original work. Shows get fewer chances to find an audience, and the pipeline for new musicals tightens. An art form that depends on imagination starts getting boxed in by fear of the discourse that surrounds it.
This isn’t a call for silence or blind support. It’s a recognition that the way we talk about theater shapes the conditions under which theater gets made. And the weight of that talk is carried by real people.
The Invitation
None of this means audiences should soften their opinions or pretend every show works. Engaged, thoughtful criticism is a vital part of the ecosystem. Curiosity lives next to taste; honesty lives next to preference. The goal isn’t to mute the conversation. It’s to remember the role we play inside it.
To be clear: generosity doesn’t mean unearned praise. It’s asking us to let the work to live outside binaries. It means recognizing that our reactions travel farther and faster than they used to. It means holding awareness that the stories we tell about a show, even casually, shape the people building it and the future of the form we love.
Theater asks something simple of us: to gather, to listen, to respond from the seat we’re in. Online conversations can honor that same spirit if we let them. We can hold strong opinions and still hold empathy. We can name what isn’t working without cheering for collapse. We can stay curious long enough to let the art breathe.
Because theater has always relied on something deeper than verdicts: presence, patience, the willingness to meet a piece of work with an open heart.
And when we do, we create the conditions—and the culture—that make room for the thing we’re all secretly hoping for: a new show we can fall in love with.
One last thing…
Working on BEAU this season has brought all of this into sharper focus for me. I’ve written about reviews before, and I’ve always believed in the role criticism plays in our ecosystem. But being inside a new musical—one I’ve poured years of time and heart and sweat into—and watching it get dissected online is something different. Necessary, yes. Illuminating, yes. But complicated in ways I couldn’t fully understand until I was living it.
Because the lines between thoughtful critique and a quick comment are blurrier than ever. An aside on TikTok, a throwaway line on Reddit, a niche blogger’s review—they all count as word-of-mouth now. They all shape how people decide whether to buy a ticket. They all become part of the story a show has to outrun or grow into.
It hasn’t made me cynical. If anything, it’s widened my perspective. Every piece of this industry—red carpets, press cycles, marketing, reviews, the discourse swirling online—feels more interconnected than it ever has. And holding BEAU inside that context has given me a deeper sense of how fragile, resilient, and human the process really is.
Mostly, it’s made me think more carefully about the stories we tell about the work and the people making it. They travel farther than we imagine. And they matter more than we realize.
My hope is that we keep talking about theater in a way that helps it grow—not to score a point, but to help fuel the next wave of work we all deserve.
See you next week ♥️
—Matt