你付了多少？：門票銷售新點(diǎn)子

當(dāng)你在對(duì)號(hào)入座的座位上花去的時(shí)間占據(jù)了清醒時(shí)刻的三分之一時(shí)——無(wú)論是在飛機(jī)機(jī)艙還是演出場(chǎng)地，難免會(huì)一時(shí)糊涂，把兩者混淆。曾經(jīng)有一次，我趕在臨開場(chǎng)時(shí)沖進(jìn)北京保利劇院的劇場(chǎng)里，但坐定下后的動(dòng)作 卻是把兩手伸到座位下，尋覓機(jī)艙安全帶。多年來(lái)，我發(fā)現(xiàn)座位禮儀的某些細(xì)節(jié)是全球性的。比如說(shuō)，你從來(lái)不會(huì)告訴鄰座的人，自己是花了多少錢弄到這張門票的。

想當(dāng)年，一切都簡(jiǎn)單得多。門票上印有票價(jià)，也許是你花錢買的，也許是贈(zèng)票。當(dāng)然也有其他情況的存在：航空公司在淡季會(huì)提供機(jī)票折扣；而預(yù)先買劇院套票，主辦方或許會(huì)給你打個(gè)八折。此外，上述的例子還存在著階級(jí)制度，唯一的區(qū)別是，走進(jìn)艙門后你需要看好是往左走還是往右走，而在劇場(chǎng)里，你需要留意是往下走還是往上走。可是這幾年，這些慣例卻變得一團(tuán)糟。

大概20年前，航空公司與藝術(shù)團(tuán)體不約而同地發(fā)現(xiàn)，觀眾們的購(gòu)票準(zhǔn)則是：錢花得越少越好，如果能獲得免費(fèi)贈(zèng)票的話那更是再好不過了。當(dāng)時(shí)，他們搞不清這一現(xiàn)象背后的本質(zhì)原因：到底是純粹的經(jīng)濟(jì)因素，還是涉及了消費(fèi)階層的問題。但他們的第一步措施很簡(jiǎn)單：大幅度降低票價(jià)。這個(gè)舉措就算是最商業(yè)化的制作人都會(huì)同意，減少一點(diǎn)收入總要比劇場(chǎng)空空如也好得多。

一些表演藝術(shù)行業(yè)的營(yíng)銷人員曾一度提議票價(jià)要走“大眾路線”?！拔覀?yōu)槭裁床话迅鑴≡汉鸵魳窂d當(dāng)作電影院來(lái)對(duì)待呢？”一位著名的推銷顧問這樣說(shuō)，他提議統(tǒng)一劇場(chǎng)的票價(jià)，不設(shè)定票位區(qū)域，入場(chǎng)的觀眾先到先得——即使是在20年前，這個(gè)提議聽起來(lái)也相當(dāng)幼稚。不曾想到的是，后來(lái)電影院卻效仿歌劇院與音樂廳，實(shí)行不同區(qū)域、不同座位的電影票售價(jià)不一。

更近一段時(shí)間，一個(gè)可行的方案浮出水面——“限時(shí)優(yōu)惠票”（rush tickets，又名“速達(dá)票”）：很多演出方或是某些航空公司，在劇目臨演出或航班起飛前平價(jià)出售剩余的門票或機(jī)票?？墒牵蠹液芸炀桶l(fā)現(xiàn)了這一舉措的缺陷。我在紐約的鄰居是大都會(huì)的鐵粉，多年來(lái)一直會(huì)購(gòu)買大都會(huì)歌劇院的套票。然而前幾年票價(jià)飆升，連他們都吃不消，于是他們放棄了套票的那些好座位。也正因此，他們的觀演日程變得靈活得多。大都會(huì)演出季開幕的當(dāng)天剛好就有限時(shí)優(yōu)惠票出售，他們立刻在網(wǎng)上搶購(gòu)了兩張。隨后他們發(fā)現(xiàn)那兩個(gè)座位正位于從前套票座位區(qū)的后兩排，而他們付出的價(jià)錢卻僅僅是套票的十分之一。

我敢肯定，靈機(jī)一動(dòng)想出“限時(shí)優(yōu)惠票”方案的那個(gè)人多半不在大都會(huì)歌劇院的銷售部門工作，更不會(huì)是負(fù)責(zé)套票推銷的那個(gè)人。這種一方面提高套票價(jià)格，另一方面又給零售票送上新折扣優(yōu)惠的舉措，實(shí)在是自相矛盾，讓人摸不著頭腦。如果可以臨時(shí)買到便宜門票看戲，為什么要花大錢預(yù)先購(gòu)票，而觀演日程又被綁定受限呢？套票這個(gè)營(yíng)銷模式真的是瀕臨絕境了。試想下你想要登機(jī)，但是手里只有一張充了值的交通卡。

現(xiàn)在，去影院看電影的人越來(lái)越少，大部分人會(huì)選擇家庭影院的模式。鑒于此，藝術(shù)團(tuán)體開始鼓吹另外一種方案，模仿“網(wǎng)飛”（Netflix）計(jì)劃——流媒體依靠會(huì)員預(yù)先繳納會(huì)費(fèi)為收入基礎(chǔ)。顧名思義，這種模式就是讓你先交納每月或每年度的會(huì)費(fèi)，就可以無(wú)限量觀看演出。對(duì)于制作人與主辦方來(lái)說(shuō)，該計(jì)劃的主要優(yōu)點(diǎn)與套票相類似：早早地就將該筆費(fèi)用收入囊中；對(duì)于觀眾來(lái)說(shuō)，新計(jì)劃避開了從前套票模式的缺點(diǎn)（必須提前安排好觀劇日程，幾乎沒有任何回旋余地）。

這個(gè)計(jì)劃可能成為全美最劃算的——試想下，一整個(gè)演出季你都可以享用劇目的“饕餮自助”，但也可能成為最糟糕的營(yíng)銷案——如果提供的節(jié)目選擇與演出時(shí)段不合適或者不夠吸引人的話，可能就會(huì)一敗涂地。倘若你覺得劇院這種高雅藝術(shù)與媚俗的商業(yè)互不相容，不妨換一個(gè)角度來(lái)看看：這是一個(gè)健身會(huì)所，而得益的是你的靈魂（我在新加坡的一位朋友就經(jīng)常會(huì)埋怨，他的健身會(huì)所真是貴得要命，因?yàn)樗ぷ魈?，一個(gè)月用不上幾次）。

有些主辦單位（尤其引人矚目的是林肯中心）的某些演出推出了專為具有強(qiáng)烈階級(jí)意識(shí)、尋找降價(jià)商品的觀眾特設(shè)的“隨你付”計(jì)劃。由著名高男高音安東尼·羅斯·科斯坦佐（Anthony Roth Costanzo）領(lǐng)導(dǎo)的費(fèi)城歌劇院，為觀眾們送上11美元一口價(jià)的門票，更呼吁觀眾可以在購(gòu)票的同時(shí)為劇院捐款。究竟觀眾們會(huì)不會(huì)真的為費(fèi)城歌劇院慷慨解囊，我們拭目以待，但折扣購(gòu)物并不是建立品牌忠誠(chéng)度的好策略。

那么“會(huì)員制”呢？好吧，歡迎你參加。有幾家美國(guó)交響樂團(tuán)在疫情后開拓了新模式。眾所周知，疫情令各大院團(tuán)的上座率，特別是套票售出付出了慘痛代價(jià)。新模式是這樣的：因?yàn)橛^眾先付了“會(huì)員費(fèi)”，他們的選擇就更富冒險(xiǎn)精神；樂團(tuán)也一樣，尤其是在策劃新音樂曲目，或是制作更大膽的演出方面（這也是另一個(gè)可與“網(wǎng)飛計(jì)劃”相提并論的原因，至少在流媒體時(shí)代的早期更是如此）。會(huì)員費(fèi)的多少通常去取決于樂團(tuán)的水平與當(dāng)?shù)匚幕尘埃喊⒖仙萁豁憳穲F(tuán)（Arkansas Symphony Orchestra）每月收取9美元會(huì)員費(fèi)，而克利夫蘭樂團(tuán)（Cleveland Orchestra）每月的會(huì)員費(fèi)為29美元，會(huì)員可以無(wú)限量購(gòu)買折扣門票，每張為10美元。

圣保羅室內(nèi)樂團(tuán)顯然受到了航空業(yè)的啟發(fā)，為觀眾提供不同價(jià)位的會(huì)員資格可選擇，從每月5美元到20美元不等，不同的價(jià)格可選擇不同的座位區(qū)域——可謂是劇院的“經(jīng)濟(jì)艙”至“頭等艙”。至今，沒有樂團(tuán)膽敢說(shuō)自己成功地制定出一個(gè)完美的方案。大家還在不斷地微調(diào)方案中，但至少音樂廳的入座率提高了。

如果在新方案中有一個(gè)虧損者，那一定是票務(wù)部的員工：他們必須更具靈活性地調(diào)整固有的票務(wù)系統(tǒng)。數(shù)十年來(lái)，甚至是在技術(shù)發(fā)達(dá)的今天，大都會(huì)歌劇院的套票持有人，如果觀演計(jì)劃有變需要更換日期，需要辦理的程序麻煩至極?？墒茄劭船F(xiàn)下因?yàn)榧觾r(jià)而套票滯銷，外加觀眾蜂擁?yè)屬?gòu)便宜的“速達(dá)票”，票房收入可謂是雪上加霜，或許這就是一種因果報(bào)應(yīng)。

When you spend up to a third of your waking hours in a ticketed seat， either in an airplane or a performance venue， you’re bound to get the two confused. I once found myself rushing down the aisle at the Poly Theatre in Beijing and reaching under the chair for the seatbelt. But over the years， I’ve noticed that certain bits of seating etiquette have become universal. For one thing， never mention to anyone around you how much—or how little—you paid for your ticket.

Back in the day， things were pretty simple. The ticket had a price on it， and you either paid or you didn’t. Some mitigating circumstances might occur： airlines could offer discounts during the off-season， and arts presenters would lop 20 percent off the face value if you paid upfront for a subscription bundle of shows. Also， both had a built-in class system， the only difference being that after entering a plane you turned right or left and in a theater you walked up or down. But for some time now， the situation has been a tangled mess.

Some 20 years ago， both airlines and theaters found that， faced with either paying or not， many people weren’t. What wasn’t immediately clear was whether the problem was strictly financial or if the class element was involved as well. The first step was obviously to slash ticket prices， since even the most commercial producers would agree that less revenue outweighed the prospects of empty seats.

Early on， some marketing folks in the performing arts had suggested playing the populist card. “Why don’t we just treat opera houses and concert halls like movie theaters？” one prominent consultant asked， suggesting that all tickets should have one standard price， with unassigned seating on a firstcome， first-served basis. That sounded rather na？ve even 20 years ago； now some movie theatres have gone the opposite direction， with dedicated seating and multiple ticket prices based on location.

More recently， a viable option has been the so- called “rush tickets，” offered by many arts presenters （and even a few airlines） to fill unsold seats at the last minute. But the downside here became obvious quite quickly. My New York neighbors， longtime fans of the Metropolitan Opera， gave up their treasured subscriptions when the prices skyrocketed beyond their budget. With their schedule now considerably freer， they pounced on a pair of rush tickets to the first show of the season. Their new seats were two rows behind their former seats， at less than 10 percent of the price.

I’m pretty sure whoever came up with the idea of rush tickets was not in the Met’s subscription department. Raising base prices at the same time you offer new discount possibilities definitely sends mixed signals. Why pay big bucks to tie yourself down to specific dates when you can get cheap tick-ets whenever you want？ Anyone waiting for yet another nail in the coffin of subscription pricing need look no further. You might as well let people board a plane using a pre-paid travel card.

Now that fewer people are even going out to the movies， preferring to screen their films at home， performing arts presenters are already starting to embrace another model， dubbed “the Netflix plan”after streaming services that base their revenue on membership dues. Pay your monthly （or annual） fee and you can attend as many concerts as you like. For producers and presenters， it has the key advantage of subscriptions （getting the audience’s money upfront）. For audiences， it avoids the old model’s disadvantages （having to plan so far in advance， with little room to maneuver）.

It can be either the best deal in town， the equivalent of a season-long buffet dinner， or one of the worst， if few of the options or timings are appealing or convenient. If you find the idea of high art incompatible with such crass commerce， just think of it as a gym membership for the soul. （A friend in Singapore often complains that his gym there is the most expensive he’s ever seen， since he’s only able to make it there a couple of times a month.）

Some presenters （most notably， Lincoln Center） have offered their class-conscious， bargain-hunting fans a pay-what-you wish model for many of their offerings. Opera Philadelphia， now headed by countertenor Anthony Roth Costanzo， has started offering all tickets for US$11， with an option to donate more. Whether audiences actually do pay more remains to be seen. Discount shopping is not exactly a sound strategy for building brand loyalty.

But memberships？ Well， welcome to the club. A handful of American orchestras have started cultivating a new model after the Covid pandemic， which took its toll on attendance in general and subscriptions in particular. Under the new model， audience members， having already paid their dues， became more adventurous with their choices； so too did the orchestras， particularly in presenting new music and more courageous programming （another reason for comparison to Netflix， at least in its early days of streaming）. Membership fees often depend on both the quality of the orchestra and local culture： the Arkansas Symphony Orchestra costs US$9 a month， while the Cleveland Orchestra charges $29 a month in exchange for unlimited $10 tickets.

The Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra， perhaps tak-ing a cue from the airline industry， offers memberships at different price points， from $5 to $20 per month—from Economy to First Class， so to speak—with members allowed to choose their own seats within their fare class. None of these orchestras claims to have arrived yet at a perfect solution—they’re all still tweaking their models—but at least their concert halls are fuller.

If there’s a loser in this new structure， it’s the ticketing department， who needs to create more flexibility than the original system ever had. For decades—and perhaps even today—ticket holders at the Met had no recourse if their plans changed and they need to switch their dates. But considering the mass exodus among subscribers when rush tickets started， that’s the least the sales department deserves.