On the plateau

That’s a clinical term, not a rhetorical one - although Google tells me that these days we call it “Class III obesity” as if I am in fact a type of National Insurance contribution… or perhaps a trademark.

There are some things about being morbidly obese that might not be readily apparent to the normal BMI brigade (newfangled term is “acceptable BMI army“).

For one thing, it plays a role in almost every decision I make – which seat I take in a restaurant, whether or not I can fly economy on a particular airline, whether at a barbecue I’m going to choose to stand or risk sitting on the plastic furniture. (Okay, maybe it mostly affects my choice of chair).

It’s also impossibly difficult as a morbidly obese person - especially a short, morbidly obese person - to find well-fitting clothes. When I find some I end up buying them in three different colours (only to discover that they size isn’t consistent between the colour options… ah well, you live and learn).

My weight is an important consideration as a gay man too: if I go to the wrong gay bar or club, I have to brace myself before entry for the sneers and looks of horror that will come my way; I can’t exist on the Apps without accepting that my presence there will attract sometimes-daily messages that I’m, quoth str8acting6969, “fucking disgusting”. I’ve had dozens of “kys” messages from other gay men for simply being fat.

My weight is consistently the front-facing part of my identity - whether I choose to bring it up or not. (If that makes you uncomfortable, perhaps it’s worth considering how someone’s weight affects your perception of them.)

According to the influencer gurus, I’m morbidly obese because I simply don’t know any better. If only I could be shown the path to success it would all be okay. That is, of course, a nonsense: as any fat person will tell you, we have forgotten more about weight loss than most skinny people have ever known about it. Some of us never choose to go on a weight loss journey (newfangled term, courtesy of Lizzo: “weight release journey”), and others of us have tried and failed many times over. (While I’m in the latter camp, this is an important moment to recognise that not everyone wants to, or can, lose weight anyway).

Nevertheless, there is a subset of subhumans who spend an awful lot of their time waxing lyrical about how fat people could lose weight if only they understood the famed Calorie Deficit. As if losing weight for someone who has spent their whole life fat was anywhere near as straightforward as a bodybuilder cutting after a bulking cycle. It is remarkable - truly remarkable - how many people give unsolicited advice to fat people as if it’s a normal conversation point. Imagine if I advised an anorexic person to just “try harder”?

No, we fatties could chew your ear off at great length about the benefits or drawbacks of various different strategies for weightloss: we’ve been round the block on ketogenesis, insulin levels, 5:2 fasting vs 16:8 fasting (and 18:6 and 20:4 and 22:2), the rubber band effect, WeightWatchers, Atkins, Dukan, Warrior, Carnivore, body recomposition, bulk eating, SlimFast, Count on Us, how to prevent loose skin, how to build muscle while losing fat, aerobic vs anaerobic exercise, yes even the “eat nothing ’til you’re about to pass out then have a cube of cheese” technique.

Leaving aside the way that such “advice“ plays into tropes of traditionally unattractive people as stupid or incapable - a trope that is as foolish as the people who serve as its proponents - the common instinct to give fat people unsolicited advice misses two major points. The first is that we do in fact already know how to lose weight should we so choose. The other is that despite what everyone tells you online, it isn’t actually as simple as a calorie deficit: that is merely the mechanism, not the path to success.

Most people who try and lose weight find that the early pounds shift without too much trouble. In the first weeks one can happily shed weight at speed, usually a result of tightening up nutrition and increasing exercise, leading to a quick shock-factor on stored fat. Sooner or later, though, the much-feared plateau sets in. For some this can last a couple of months, for others it is hardly a week or two. Whatever the case, it is the moment where your resolve starts to slip. Nothing is quite as disheartening as spending a week tightly counting calories, hitting your step goal and working out to failure, only to find that the scales stay the same as last week. Sometimes, the scales even creep upwards again. If you’re losing weight in tandem with someone whose plateau is only a week or two while yours is a month or two? That is more than enough to make you give up.

There are lots of scientific reasons why this happens, none of which I’m about to bore you with. My point is that the plateau is part of the journey. You can do everything right and be stuck at the same better-than-where-I-started-but-not-where-I-want-to-be weight for what feels like an eternity before the numbers start to move again. This is the moment where you have to brace, and push through, and try not to pay too much attention to the outside feedback. If you allow your journey to weight release (thanks, Lizzo) be led by the compliments other people give you or the numbers on the scale, you will quickly find yourself chasing the wrong goal.

The challenge for the becoming-skinny is, in that moment, to put their head down, follow the parameters they’ve set, and press on. If they keep going, despite all the fears that it’s not working, the promise of the Gurus is that progress will be achieved. After all, it’s just about a calorie deficit, right?

What happens, though, when you’ve hit the plateau half a dozen times, and given up shortly thereafter each time. How likely are you to try again?

There are hundreds of opportunities out there for the newly-minted Theatre Professional. Perhaps as a way to sift through the seemingly endless numbers of bright-eyed, hopeful graduates that profiteering drama schools throw onto the pile of out-of-work actors and creatives each year, we have created a plethora of ways for newbies to prove their worth to the industry. There are awards for people making their debut, prizes for first-timers, competitions for people gaining their first credits. There are even awards for graduates before they’ve gotten a professional credit under their belts.

We also have plenty of get into theatre schemes for people just starting out, before they’ve trained, or for people who’ve graduated in a related field but haven’t yet tried to apply their transferable skills to the industry. This is important - after all, we have a skill shortage, particularly backstage, and we need to bring people up before a shortage becomes a crisis.

That doesn’t explain all of it though. While it’s absolutely a symptom of a well-meaning industry trying to help people make their first steps, I think it’s also because there is something incredibly enticing about being the person to catch the next big thing before anyone else. You’ll hear stories all the time about the people that saw Sutton Foster when she was “just” an understudy, or caught Jamie Lloyd’s first show, or worked with Jonathan Bailey before he was Jonathan Bailey. There’s something sexy and enthralling about new talent, of being ‘in the know’ enough to spot the artists of the future, of being the Discoverer.

Maybe it’s because I’m a theatre-maker in my 30s but I know so very many theatre-makers in their 30s. These people don’t need any help learning the ropes, nor do they need to be told that they’re the greatest debut the theatre industry has ever seen (well, since last year, at least). They don’t need to prove themselves to their peers by winning an award: their CVs speak for themselves. They definitely don’t need anyone to give them unsolicited advice about their next steps in the industry: they already know what they need to do and how to do it (even if somehow some people online do think advice is what the mid-career artist needs).

Nonetheless, they watch others who strike gold one time and win some awards leapfrogging past them, while they are slowly pigeonholed into a particular style or a particular scale of work. If you’re really good at making stuff at the mid-scale, other mid-scale shows are going to want you to work with them. If you have settled into the mid-career path and want to move up the chain it can be impossible to get into the room. That you’ve led on 15 set designs to-date seems not to matter when interviewing against someone who’s assisted once in the West End and “understands the process”.

For the mid-scale artist, the plateau is the most difficult bit. Many people quit live entertainment before making it because the early jobs never came. But once you’ve got to a place where you have consistent, albeit badly-remunerated - work, how do you transition to the better-paid, larger-scale projects? How do you make really good work that proves to the gatekeeper that you’re worth taking a gamble on when you need to take 14 jobs a year just to cover your basic living costs, and you’re in production meetings for the next show when you’re supposed to be in tech for the current one?

What of the designer who is finally “given a chance” but the producer chooses to low-ball the financial offer because they think going to someone new means they can get a cheaper deal, so they turn it down because they can’t afford to do it?

What of the artist who takes a next step up in scale and finds the project is a disaster and they now finds themself tainted with that brush?

What of the producer who gets all the opportunities early on because they’re the next big thing, only to decide they don’t want to work in theatre, so they move on?

I do believe that the biggest loss of the repertory system isn’t the much-mourned training opportunity that has been lost for new artists. While that was important, the other thing the repertory system did was give people a series of chances over an extended period of time to hone and perfect their craft, develop relationships with a group of people they will continue to cross paths with for decades to come, and craft a portfolio of contrasting projects that serve as an advertisement for the future. It was the theatre equivalent of a PhD - a chance to grow your work and your CV in a guided way, without having to worry right now about interview churn.

I know so many brilliant artists in their 30s who just can’t break past being mid-career for all the reasons I’ve listed. We need to find ways to serve those committed to their craft who are already good at what they do but can’t take the next step without somebody taking a risk. We need senior gatekeepers to make room for them at the table. For those on the plateau, continuing the same merry-go-round of venues and shows is a quick way to give it all up entirely, feeling as if those leapfrogging past are making it when they cannot.

For the mid-career artist, the chance to break through to the next thing is the goal they chase. Sometimes, it isn’t in their gift to achieve it. Sometimes, they need those already further along to give them a hand.

The GLP-1 allows the person trying to lose some inches around their waist to stop relying on willpower alone. They have accepted that weight loss isn’t as simple as just deciding to do it and following a list of instructions - it is also about providing a path forward for the people for whom success isn’t a foregone conclusion.

Ireland - following in the footsteps of other European countries - has finally found a solution to the mid-career plateau. Putting artists on a basic guaranteed, no-strings income means they can afford to take risks and try new things without worrying about meeting funding goals or impressing a particular employer. The result has been bigger swings, more exciting propositions, and even economic gain: when adjusted for tax income and welfare savings, the pilot scheme delivered a 39% profit.

What’s our solution?