Showbiz doesn’t pay How much money do actors really earn? The big bucks go to a gilded few. The rest of us barely scrape by, says Michael Simkins
CATHERINE ASHMORE
‘Y
ou’re an act-orrhhh, are you? So how much do you earn?’ Ah, here we go. How much do we earn? It’s a question frequently asked of thesps by guileless civilians. It’s little wonder, because actors’ salaries are the last conversational taboo in showbusiness. As a breed, we may be happy to talk endlessly about ourselves (‘But enough of me – what did you think of my performance?’), but ask us how much we’re pulling in and our natural talkativeness exits stage right. The popular perception is that actors earn fabulous sums for doing little more than pulling on a hat and pretending to be someone else for a few hours a week. But the truth is very different. And, remember, you see only the individuals who are working. Some 90 per cent of us aren’t. Most jobbing thesps consider ourselves blessed if we can scrape together 15K a year. If you’re appearing in a fringe production above the Hen & Chickens, you may be lucky to be offered anything more than a weekly travelcard by way of recompense. For a play at a regional repertory theatre, you’ll pocket between £450 and £500 a week, while a stint at the National or RSC will double that figure. Beyond that, it’s up to your agent to wangle a few more quid where they can. The only negotiating power we have is the ability to say ‘No’ and walk away in the hope our bluff won’t be called. But don’t count on it. Actors are ten a penny, and nobody’s indispensable. While subsidised theatre may be regulated by hard-won agreements chiselled out by Equity, our union, in the commercial sector it’s every individual for him- or herself. Years ago, I was offered the (to me) mouth-watering sum of £1,250 a week for a year-long contract in the longrunning theatrical hit Mamma Mia (the 36 The Oldie Oldie 2021
Black tie on a budget: Michael Simkins as Billy Flynn in Chicago
Pierce Brosnan role). On entering my dressing room to take possession for the next 400-odd shows, I stumbled on a rogue payslip left by my predecessor in the role. It revealed that my own version of Pierce had taken a substantial pay cut. My only recourse was a few choice expletives by way of a vocal warm-up. The best I’ve ever managed – a cool 2K a week – came about only because, for the only time in my life, I had some leverage over my employers. I’d been appearing in a West End comedy throughout the summer of 2012. It had proved so successful that the producers suddenly decided to extend the run, assuming I too would be happy to continue. But I was worn out, bored and in desperate need of a break. What’s more, I knew they had no time to rehearse a replacement. When I announced I couldn’t possibly face another performance, dahling, without an instant doubling of my wage packet I knew they’d agree, albeit through gritted teeth. It was a good Christmas.
In a fringe production, you’re lucky to be offered a weekly travelcard
And what of the stars, wheeling away in pantomime at the Palladium or headlining the latest blockbuster musical? Well, your guess is as good as mine. 5K a week? 10K? I’ve heard rumours of celebrities pulling in eyewatering sums, but who knows? They never talk about it. And, as long as they take the rest of us out for the odd company meal, neither do we. So much for the boards. When it comes to acting on television, salaries range from a fee of £800, for an appearance in a single episode of a daytime drama series, up to 150K a year if you’re a regular barfly in the Queen Vic or the Rovers Return – and that’s before you’ve even opened a supermarket. That’s just how it is. Or rather, that’s just how it was. Then along came Netflix. And Amazon Prime, Sky Atlantic et al. These behemoths of mass entertainment have resources the Beeb and ITV can only dream of, and have flooded the industry with cash. Get a berth on A Game Of Thrones or suchlike, even in a subordinate role, and you can be lighting cigars with fivers. Of course, most of your professional life you’re simply sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring. Yet when all hope is lost and the bailiffs are hammering at the door, there’s always the possibility of an unexpected television repeat fee riding to your rescue. Only recently, I trousered £600 for a 20-year-old episode of Midsomer Murders, along with 24p from Swedish TV for A Touch of Frost and 2p for a Grantchester in the Czech Republic. I sometimes try to imagine the worldwide residuals that must presumably accrue to the stars of shows such as Friends or Downton Abbey, but I can’t count that high. So if you ever run into me and are tempted to ask how I’m doing, forgive me if I dodge the question. Especially if I’m wiping your table or handing over your Deliveroo order…
