“God, I’m going to miss this place.” Spoken by K. Reed Needles at the end of Robertson Davies: The Peeled I, these words floated away from the stage at Hart House Theatre as the legacy of the celebrated Canadian thinker came to a theatrical close. In that instant, an entire audience was filled with bittersweet joy at the recollection of a fond memory and at the communal gratification of honouring a legacy. I found myself wishing that the rest of the production was as effective as that all-too-fleeting moment.
An exercise in cut-and-paste as much as anything, Robertson Davies: The Peeled I is the work of K. Reed Needles himself, who was a student of Professor Davies’ in the 1970s. Needles and director John Krisak, both highly accomplished in the theatre world, pieced together Davies’ most profound work and thoughts by using the author’s own writings. The show is doubtless most effective in this specific theatre, as the deep reverence that both Needles and the late Davies had for the hallowed ground upon which the show was staged was palpable, and allowed for the audience to share in that patented U of T nostalgia.
“Money does not buy happiness,” Davies declared as he recalled his past of fluctuating employment and varying degrees of success in a
dizzying array of fields. “But it makes it possible to support unhappiness with exemplary fortitude.” It was times like these, when the play illuminated a particularly brilliant aspect of Davies’ genius and the audience swelled with approval, that it seemed the goal of the production had been accomplished. It was times like these that I realized the weight of the moment for the sole actor on stage, whose chance it was to honour his mentor and icon in a way so fitting and true to his legacy—and how it must be one of the defining moments of his career. It was times like these that I considered reading Fifth Business all over again.
But it was during the lengthy interludes in which Needles read aloud from one of Davies’ novels that the show turned from marginally captivating to utterly mind-numbing. The existence of a stage and an actor and an audience seemed frustratingly pointless. A certain dozy audience member and I shared a transcendent connection for an ephemeral moment when a loud, satisfied snore floated into the universe before being snuffed out by a mortified wife: my thoughts exactly, my friend.
The only truly interesting aspect of the play was Davies’ emphasis on his hatred of critics, a despicable bunch with “empty souls” and a “physiological malady” that prevents them from using the bathroom while attending productions. It seems only right that the most engaging and comedic part of the play would come at the expense of the critic: this was infinitely fitting of Davies’ fiery persona and timeless wit. I laughed heartily and wished I could have met him, but it was pretty stressful to hide my notebook from everyone around me.
One-man shows are not for everyone, especially not for those with short attention spans and an incessant need to be visually stimulated, the kind that borders on neuroses. The minimal set, consisting of office furniture and giant books piled on top of one another, was not a point of interest in the least. I struggled for something entertaining to look at and ended up settling on the disturbingly shiny bald head of a fellow audience member, whose intermittent seat-shifting forced the reflection of the light to shift from time to time.
So, if having the thoughts of the late U of T icon Robertson Davies read aloud to you by an actor who has a deep understanding of who this storied figure was—and the influence he continues to have on the university community and beyond—Robertson Davies: The Peeled I is the play for you. But if you’re looking to be entertained in the process, just be sure to situate yourself beside a round, sleepy-looking man and perhaps also behind a bald one.
