Only a handful of #MeToo stories have surfaced in Australia, thanks in large part to the country’s defamation laws – but many of the allegations that have made it to the public originated in the theatre.

Well before the hashtag went viral, two Australian actors, Eryn Jean Norvill and Sophie Ross, canvassed the anonymous experiences of theatremakers across the country. (Norvill is currently embroiled in a legal battle, after a private complaint she made to the STC, against Geoffrey Rush, went public. Rush denies the allegations).

The result was “pretty devastating to read,” Ross told the ABC, in an article published on Saturday. “It was just 58 stories, one after the other, of really terrible behaviour.” In response, the Media Entertainment and Arts Alliance (MEAA) commissioned its own survey of the theatre industry, and found that 40-60% of respondents had been sexually harassed, and 14% had been sexually assaulted.

Ross and Norvill have since launched Safe Theatres Australia, which has been consulting with key players in the industry to create safer spaces and implement policies to help protect workers. As the industry talks at length behind closed doors about the issues these high profile stories raise, Guardian Australia spoke to four women about their experiences in the theatre – and about how power changes everything.

Leticia Cáceres, director: unions have to be our first port of call

This week Yael Stone succinctly articulated the tragic imbalance of power that’s at play in our industry. Detailing allegations against Geoffrey Rush, which Rush denies, Stone described her 25-year-old self as being “at the bottom of the ladder”; she said “for all intents and purposes [this] was his show and I would be supporting him”. Her role in the show was far more at risk than his; his stature was selling out seasons in Australia and overseas.

“If I had gone to somebody and said he needs to be pulled into line, he needs to lose his job, there is just no recourse that’s going to work,” she said. “Are they going to cancel the show? Are they going to refund all those tickets? Are they going to boot him and keep me? No one’s there to see me.” I can relate.

Leticia Cáceres: ‘If an industrial matter of any nature arises, artists need to know there is someone on their side.’ Photograph: Deryk McAlpin

Once, I was vehemently abused by someone more well-known than me during rehearsals. It was a deeply humiliating experience that left me shocked and frightened. The person apologised to me but then proceeded to ignore me for the remaining weeks of rehearsal, effectively gaslighting me and making it impossible to work with them. I lost sleep, I couldn’t eat, I second-guessed every decision; going to work became excruciating. Did I report this? Yes. I was heard and given sympathetic looks, but my production went on without any recourse for this appalling behaviour.

The reality is that thanks to the extensive and systematic government funding cuts to the arts, theatre companies must rely on massive ticket sales to survive, so they’re always going to be reluctant to intervene with an A-list actor whose name is bankrolling a season.

This is why our unions have to be our first port of call in instances of bullying or harassment. If an industrial matter of any nature arises, artists need to know there is someone on their side who is going to advocate for them. Unions can take theatre companies to task, ensuring that work-safe policies are being enforced. They can set up mediations when there are disputes, and they can even facilitate legal action if an unsafe workplace situation continues or escalates.

Jane Montgomery Griffiths, actor and academic: the #MeToo movement challenges my generation

Jane Montgomery Griffiths: ‘There are few jobs and many actors; there are fewer parts for women and most of those are ciphers for the male characters.’ Photograph: Sarah Walker

I am not part of the #MeToo generation. I can’t claim that I was ever sexually harassed, that I was ever the object of inappropriate behaviour, that I ever thought what was happening backstage or onstage was not quite right.

Admittedly, I was groped and tongued nightly for the six months of my first job, not realising that wasn’t the norm until an older actor told me how the cast had been laughing at my naivety (“Don’t you know there’s such a thing as stage-kissing, darling?”). Sure, I was locked in a Winnebago by a TV star and offered an ongoing gig if I slept with him (“There’s no such thing as a free lunch”). And yes, I was stalked by a famous “creative” who made sure I lost my job in the West End when I turned him down (“You fucking prick tease”). But none of that was “inappropriate”; none of that was unusual. That’s just how it was.

The recent accusations of theatrical misconduct challenge my generation. We have been made to reassess everything we thought normal – the abuses of power, the untouchable hierarchies, and the desperate need not to be thought of as “difficult” that attended each and every new job. The culture was toxic, but it was a toxicity we all accepted and some willingly bought into.

Part of this toxicity came, and still comes, from the incredible difficulties there are in trying to forge a career in the industry. For female actors in particular, success rests on luck, looks and talent – in that order. There are few jobs and many actors; there are fewer parts for women and most of those are ciphers for the male characters. Existing primarily in a frame of sexual objectification, the young female actor is already up against it, even before we consider the gender imbalance among directors and playwrights, some of whom don’t even recognise there is a problem.

When the theatrical culture already objectifies and subordinates women within the narratives on stage, it’s hardly surprising that this creates a sense of entitlement in a certain type of male actor. The complexity arises when we become so acculturated to the gendered power imbalance that we don’t even see it’s there.

Take the idea of “playfulness”. A sense of play is essential for the creative process. But within the atmosphere of unrecognised male entitlement, “playfulness” can easily become inappropriate conduct – and the recipient of that “playfulness” cannot call it out without feeling they are a killjoy, a bad company member and, worst still, difficult. And so the cycle is perpetuated: the “playful” male actor behaves as he wishes, the subordinate female actor pretends it’s all a laugh.

We didn’t question this power dynamic 30 years ago, but it’s imperative we question it now. The first step to changing a toxic culture, to remedying the harm, is not defensiveness but acknowledgement.

Candy Bowers, actor, writer, producer: it’s not just about gender; it’s about power

The problem is about gender, yes – but more than that, it’s about power. The worst experience I had in the theatre industry actually involved another woman.

This woman was white, she was older, she was more well-known; she bullied and humiliated me throughout rehearsals, and physically and verbally assaulted me on stage. I’m a big black lady – if I had retaliated, there would have been trouble. I’m also less bankable, less powerful in the space. I was suicidal, vomiting nightly before the show, but there was nothing I could do. I followed all the company’s procedures, but there was still no reasonable outcome or true accountability. Instead, they sent a really clear message: if you speak up, we won’t support you.

Candy Bowers: ‘We need to make space for the new generation who know how to create inclusive and safe spaces where you can still thrive.’

As an actor, when you’re deep into a season you just don’t think you can leave. Many shows don’t have understudies – in other workplaces you can go on trauma leave or take time out, but you can’t do that in a 12-week show if there’s nobody to cover you. You might not know where your next paycheque is coming from; you might not have time or money to pour into a court case. These companies, meanwhile, treat us like commodities. The show must go on.

For those of us who are younger women, or representing a minority, we’re on the bottom rung. We’re dispensable, made to feel we should be grateful that we’re here at all; told that if we speak out or fight back we’ll become seen as “difficult” and we’ll never get work again.

Once someone said to me, “If only you were less mouthy, you’d be great”. As though if I was just a good darkie, I’d reap the rewards. For me there’s an added element: I’m one of only a handful of women from the African diaspora who get booked on main stages in the country. I feel a responsibility to my community to be successful, to show that it’s possible – so I suck up a toxic environment to the detriment of my own health. I want the less powerful and younger generations to know that their health and wellbeing is far more important than a mainstage gig.

There are people in this industry known for behaving badly. People who are creeps, who are predators or bullies, people who throw tantrums, props or punches. If these same people are bankable, they know they can get away with anything. Everybody knows who these people are, but companies put so much pressure on actors to toe the company line that nobody speaks out.

There’s a certain generation of people at the top of the industry who have the power to stop this behaviour, but often they enable it instead. And it’s not just men. The powerful women got there on the same ticket, in a system that’s been marinating in misogyny. They’ve benefited from the white patriarchy, they want to protect their turf, and they were brought up to stand behind their men at all costs. They tell us, “It’s always happened, you just have to deal with it like we did”. Maybe they’re bitter, or maybe they’re scared – because if these women crack even for a minute, and admit that this behaviour isn’t OK, they’ll have to confront the fact that they’ve also been victim to it. And that realisation will come with an epic amount of pain.

The people who have created the toxicity that exists in the industry should no longer be governing it. They should no longer be the general managers, the artistic directors, the people who teach in the acting schools. We need to make space for the new generation who know how to create inclusive and safe spaces where you can still thrive, and make edgy work, without disempowering anyone.

Patricia Cornelius, playwright: we need more women at the top

A few years ago, Adelaide critic Jane Howard found that of the plays programmed by mainstream companies, only a heartbreaking 11% were written and directed by women. Moreover, the spaces those works were performed in were usually smaller and less prestigious, with less ability to make money. I had known the inequity was bad, but not that bad. I naively felt that if I put my head down and wrote better, then my work would be recognised. Ha! What a load of crap.

Patricia Cornelius: ‘Actions between actors have to be consensual, have to be relevant to the work; it’s got to be controlled and intricately planned.’

This power imbalance has had a huge impact on my life, both professionally and personally. Without recognition – without the support of strong infrastructure and marketing and publicity – it is a very hard slog to get a play on. The companies will choose male playwrights over and over – and the women whose work does get chosen will watch it suffer from being workshopped, undermined and bashed around at length by others. Often it will never go into production, which means women’s voices are missing from the broader cultural dialogue.

This inequity filters down to the female actors, crew, other creatives. Most plays chosen for programming, for instance, will have a central male protagonist who is served by a few lesser-defined female support roles: his mother, his wife, his lover. Most of those central male roles will be filled with well-known men who can attract a good box office.

The “star”, as he will be referred to, will be considered the most important person in the play by these companies, who are primarily running a business. He will be feted and fawned upon and loved.

There’s the equivalent of this kind of man in many industries, I’m sure – but the theatre industry has a very distinct work practice. It’s usually a short rehearsal period under great pressure. Sometimes the work might challenge, even frighten the actors involved, who are asked to reveal so much of themselves in bringing their characters to light. Unlike in film, they will have to do this over and over again, in rehearsal and across a long season of performances.

It’s not an easy, comfortable job – and to do it well, they need to work in a safe, protected environment, with a director looking after them. The boundaries are clear. Actions between actors have to be consensual, have to be relevant to the work; it’s got to be controlled and intricately planned. I’ve heard the garbage about sexual tension, or energy, or frisson, or whatever you want to call it – about how it’s a way for an actor to connect with the cast and audience. More crap. Sexual energy in performance is acted – and if it’s not, then it needs to be stopped.

Calling out bad behaviour is not the role of a female actor with less power; it’s the job of a director. And if male directors are failing to read bad behaviour, then that’s another reason we need more women at the top.