Where There's Smoke...: Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man, a Memoir (21 page)

And so David Rittenhouse became the Administrative Director and Festival Lennoxville was often described as a theatre started by the two of us, though it was hard for me to see the equivalence. Fortunately I continued to have, or to assert, a free hand artistically, choosing the plays and artistic personnel. After a year or two we created the position of General Manager and engaged Thomas Bodanetsky. Why would we need both a General Manager and an Administrative Director? Perhaps because the Administrative Director lacked the requisite experience to do the job. True, the Administrative Director had some responsibilities in relation to the Board and fund-raising not shared by the GM, but internally there was overlap and friction. I would have loved Thomas to have stayed in the organization, but his detail-oriented style could not deal with a largely redundant Administrative Director. His more relaxed successor, Christopher Banks, was more able to ‘go with the flow,’ however convoluted.

In 1972 the list of Canadian plays we had to choose from was really quite short; I could list them on one page. A contemporary Festival Lennoxville would have hundreds of plays to choose from. While our pioneering purpose was to say, ‘Look, we have a repertoire of our own, by us about us,’ a modern version of such a theatre could collect and celebrate the very best of the copious Canadian work that has since been written. We could use some arrogant young thirty-year-old with more ambition than sense to launch the idea anew. It can’t be in Lennoxville, though, as the Anglophone population has shrunk below the necessary critical mass. And it won’t be me who is the Artistic Director. Too much sense, not enough arrogance. Not anymore.

In our opening 1972 season, Frances Hyland directed Mavor Moore’s adaptation of Gogol’s
The Government Inspector
, known as
The Ottawa Man
, with Douglas Rain and Sandy Webster; I directed George Ryga’s
Captives of the Faceless Drummer
with Donald Davis and Roger Blay; and John Hirsch directed Ann Henry’s
Lulu Street
with Ted Follows and Nancy Beatty.
Captives
and
Lulu Street
were more successful with the press, but
Ottawa Man
was such a romp it was popular with the audience. We achieved the high standard we had sought; how could we not with those actors and directors?

Getting audience in sufficient numbers would always be a struggle for the theatre, the English-speaking base being small and shrinking, the location not that accessible, and, truth to admit, “Canadian plays” not being a surefire draw. 1976 likely struck the death blow for the theatre though it struggled on for a few more years. The Parti Québécois was elected that year as government of the province of Quebec; René Lévesque came to power determined to take Quebec out of Canada. While that was not to happen, the trickle of anglophones out of Quebec and down the 401 to Toronto became a flood and with it many of Lennoxville’s audience members, both actual and prospective. The faint hope of a major English-speaking theatre in the heart of Quebec became a lost cause by 1980.

For all the tensions in the province and the country, Festival Lennoxville seemed to maintain good relations with even the most partisan separatists. Paradoxically, Quebecers seemed more at ease with the conflict than Canadians in the rest of the country. Canadian playwright George Ryga, who had considerable success with his first major play,
The Ecstasy of Rita Joe
, first at the Vancouver Playhouse and then at the National Arts Centre in Ottawa, wrote a second play intended for production at the Vancouver Playhouse,
Captives of the Faceless Drummer
. Loosely based on the FLQ kidnapping of James Cross, the centre of the play is the claustrophobic room where a revolutionary kidnapper is holding his middle-class diplomat hostage. The centre is flanked by memory figures from the diplomat’s life and a chorus whose purpose, other than to be poetic, is not quite clear. With such echoes of the actual political crisis, the Vancouver Board got cold feet and cancelled the production. Not only did we in Lennoxville forge ahead with a production despite being in Quebec, the cauldron of the controversy, but we set the play in Quebec while Ryga had kept the situation generic. We set the play within an image of the FLQ flag and we cast a leading Quebec actor to play the rebel and had him speak in French to his cohort. We also reworked the chorus to take the sting out of its pretentious poetry. I should add that Ryga was not present for rehearsals and when we sent him the prompt script he was puzzled by what we had done. We worked together more closely on the second play of his that we did,
Sunrise on Sarah
, two years later.

Canada’s leading theatre critic, Herbert Whittaker, had this to say about our production:

The eclipse of the sun arrived one day late for the new festival of Canadian plays here, but it was in time to be applied as a favourable omen for the second production, William Davis’s sensitive, poetic staging of George Ryga’s beautiful
Captives of the Faceless Drummer. . . . Captives of the Faceless Drummer
, not only in being an important play, made more so by being played in this province for the first time, restores Lennoxville’s claim to attention as a Canadian event of significance.

Five years later, Michel Tremblay, a strong separatist, gave us permission to do the first English language production of his play in Quebec,
Forever Yours Marie-Lou
, which we were delighted to do with leading Quebec actors Monique Mercure, Gilles Renaud, and Sophie Clement.

George Ryga was a phenomenon. Unfortunately he was not a very good playwright. So excited were we at the time to have a writer dealing with issues of our time and place, and passionate about them at that, we were reluctant to see weaknesses in the work. When I directed
Grass and Wild Strawberries
with the students at Bishop’s, Ryga’s rock musical that captured the spirit of the time, I nearly came to blows with my old friend and colleague David Calderisi. So sure was I that he would love both the play and my production, I was humbled when the best he could say was he liked the theatre space. He then went on to speak of Ryga’s “rubbishy lines.” As happened other times with Calderisi, he would prove to be right. When the glare of Ryga’s fireworks subsides, what remains is pretentious, self-conscious, and what we would now call ‘on the nose.’ I recently played the Magistrate in a revival of
The Ecstasy of Rita Joe
. Not only does the play creak, it is really impossible to say some of the lines truthfully. While we should be forever grateful for Ryga’s contribution to our developing theatre culture, we should not confuse that contribution with good playwriting. There is a reason these plays have not been performed on the major international stages.

I was Artistic Director of Festival Lennoxville for six years, from 1972 to 1977. During that time we had some successful productions and some duds, the duddest of all being Herschel Hardin’s
The Great Wave of Civilization
. Considered by some at the time to be the finest Canadian play ever written, it seemed de rigueur that we should do it. With its broad Brechtian canvas and its potential for imaginative staging, Paul Thompson was a natural choice for director. The founder of Theatre Passe Muraille and a director of successful collective creations,
The Farm Show
in particular, I hoped he would bring his irreverent imagination to bear on this large canvas. Wrong. Contrary to his usual style, possibly intimidated by the presence of a live author, he gave it a reverential, lifeless production. Whatever people thought of Thompson’s work I never thought he would be boring.

Meanwhile, back at the campus, I had another life to lead as Associate Professor of Drama at the university. In truth, for nine months of the year the two jobs ran in parallel, as the planning for the Festival continued throughout the year; the Festival was only an entity in its own right for three months in the summer. In the first year I was trying to start the Festival from my windowless office in the theatre without so much as a direct phone line, never mind a computer, or internet, or other trappings of the twenty-first century. Later, when the Festival was established and a general manager hired, year-round offices were found in the adjacent student union building. But in the meantime I was teaching classes, lighting and directing productions, and catching up with the Sixties.

If the seventies was a turbulent time in the worlds of Canadian theatre and politics, it turned out to be no less turbulent in the personal life of William B. Davis. I rolled into 1970 in the process of divorce number two and in my new relationship with Judith. By the end of the decade I would be living in Toronto with Francine; my daughter Melinda was born and Rebecca would follow shortly.

Was it the spirit of the Sixties? Was it the natural instincts of a male primate to seek variety? Or was it simply deep flaws in my character? Whatever the reasons, I spent a good part of the decade hopping from nest to nest before settling into domestic life — for awhile. I truly loved Judith, but when I went to Newfoundland in 1971 to direct
The Importance of Being Earnest
, I found no difficulty responding to the attentions, or seeking out the attentions, of a few — well, four — interesting Islanders, one of whom enriched my life considerably. The problem arose when I discovered that I had contracted an STD and would not be able to hop into bed with Judith on my return. I had to tell her the truth. While not happy with the news, she didn’t run away and accuse me of “cheating” as seems to be the current advice in such a situation; she actually helped me find an appropriate clinic. Short-term, the storm was weathered. Long-term? Hmm. What’s good for the gander . . .

It turns out that the STD was a medical anomaly. Of course, I had to tell all four of the Islanders that they might be carriers, but all four assured me that they were disease-free. No, the STD must have come from God, a curse for my nonbelief. There is just no other explanation.

One of the Islanders, the daughter of one of Newfoundland’s leading families, introduced me to a lifestyle of the time, the back to the land, free love, rejection of much of modern civilization. Dark, attractive, with a soft earthy Newfoundland voice, Leslie lived in a small primitive cottage filled with jars of natural foods. In her case, it was more back to the sea than back to the land, perched near the shore of the wild North Atlantic as she was. She introduced me to the music, if one can call it that, of John Cage and to the painter Christopher Pratt, who apparently described me as “undernourished.” Her approach to love and sex was open and free of jealousy; our relationship might have continued for some time if my other lovers had shared her attitudes. Alas, they did not. A mere telephone conversation with Leslie years later provoked a minor crisis with Francine. But that was later in the decade and, perhaps, times and mores had changed.

My education into the world of the Sixties continued with my move to Lennoxville; Bishop’s students, who were still living in the Sixties in the early seventies, were happy to help bring me up to speed. When it came to music I was a good learner; when it came to drugs I was a flop. Judith and I tried hash a couple of times and yes, I inhaled, but I just felt mildly sick. From thereon I might occasionally toke if a joint was being passed around, but often declined even that. I never did try harder drugs; perhaps I am too hooked on self-control.

I was, unless suffering from repressed memory, quite faithful to Judith during that first year at Bishop’s and then Festival Lennoxville in the summer, when Judith was a member of the company. No, the gander had had his turn. One day Judith started in on this really boring story about an evening at the apartment she shared with fellow students in Montreal. I kept changing the subject or going off on tangents, but she kept going back to describing the minute detail of this particular evening. Slow witted that I am, it only finally dawned on me that she was confessing to her own act of sexual variety. She couldn’t start the story with, ‘Hey, last night I fucked . . .’ I don’t remember how she started the story, maybe with what they had for dinner; I only remember having no idea what was coming. I can’t say I was happy with the news, but it seemed clear that it was a one-time event. We weathered that little squall. Bigger storms were coming.

By the fall of 1972, the first season of Festival Lennoxville completed, followed by a few short weeks in Muskoka with Judith, we returned to the house in Sawyerville to begin the new academic year at Bishop’s. Judith had completed her time at NTS and was, at least for the moment, living with me. Sawyerville was not a good place from which to launch her acting career; apart from two summer theatre companies there was no work for an English-speaking actor within several hundred miles. Still, this was how we began the new academic year.

Bishop’s decided that year to launch an experimental program called Dialogue. Curt Rose, a ski friend and professor of geography, was in charge of setting it up and he asked me to work with him. The object of the program was to provide the students with the opportunity to learn more about themselves and each other, typical aims of the era. To make it work we had to persuade the administration that there could be no marks in such a program; it had to operate on a strict pass/fail system with fail only for those who didn’t show up or do the work. Whether the students who enrolled were looking for a soft credit or a genuine exploration, there was no way to determine. But whatever their original motivation, a group of curious students did enroll and we pressed forward with the program. As part of this largely student-generated program, we agreed to a marathon encounter weekend at my house in Sawyerville — finally my thirteen rooms could be fully utilized — which I would conduct.

Despite having participated in two such encounter weekends with the noted psychologist Albert Ellis, one could argue that it was a little worrying to put someone of my limited training in charge of such a potentially explosive experience. But humility has never been my strong suit and we forged ahead. While in retrospect I wonder what long-term gains this work might have produced, there was no denying the weekend was an exhilarating experience for most of the participants, particularly in this first year. When Curt joined us at the end of the weekend he was struck by the new spirit of the group; everyone was on a drug free high. It is almost unimaginable that this kind of work would be encouraged in a modern university. A top band at the time was called The Doors. Well, those doors are now closed. Is that a good thing? It’s not for me to say, but I can’t help a feeling of regret.

Doors opened for me that weekend as well. Judith said later she thought I was looking for some kind of release and I guess she was right. Whenever I entered that Ellis-structured world I could feel barriers fall away, a new contact with myself and others, a new kind of freedom. In a marathon weekend we started at 9 a.m. on Saturday and went continuously until 2 a.m. Sunday, starting again at 10 a.m. on Sunday until 5 p.m. It was not called a marathon for nothing, the idea being that people’s resistance lowers as fatigue sets in. Fortunately, we were all young; now I would likely fall asleep. Everyone camped at the house, large enough that people could have whatever privacy or not that they preferred. Well, one student and I preferred not to have too much privacy and my relationship with Sandra Ward began. Heaven forfend if the Human Rights Commission knew about this liaison between faculty and student. Fortunately there was no Human Rights Commission then. I am comforted by the fact that thirty-five years later Sandra and I are still friends; I don’t live in fear that she will bring retroactive charges.

Judith had gone away for the weekend, but she returned Sunday evening expecting a full report. Once again we absorbed the bump in the road and continued on our way. But it was not to last. However right Judith was for me I was not ready to settle, and, in truth, living in Sawyerville was limiting for her. We broke up, sort of. I began to see quite a lot of Sandra, whose company I always enjoyed. Young, perky, with a good sense of fun and humour, she always worried about her weight; there was an extra millimetre on her thighs if you looked really closely, which I liked to do. Coming from somewhat different backgrounds I never thought of her as a potential life companion, perhaps a mistake when, years later, I saw what an intelligent assured woman she had become. As she didn’t ski we only spent occasional winter weekends together when I would take a weekend off from skiing and we would huddle in the winter wonderland of the Sawyerville house that could be surrounded by up to three feet of snow.

For the next year or two I pretty much rattled around my house alone. On frequent trips to plan upcoming seasons of Festival Lennoxville I began to see a lovely actress living in Toronto. Truth to tell, we had seen each other once before when I was at LAMDA in 1961 and she was also studying in London. We had met in Toronto and agreed to meet when we were both in England. We went for a drink and it was soon clear that she planned for us to go to bed together. Awkward for me in a way, as I was keeping regular company with Carolyn at the time, but how could I refuse this tall, attractive blonde? As we headed down Earl’s Court Road towards the apartment I noticed Carolyn and a friend up ahead going in the same direction. Remembering that Carolyn had spoken of going into the apartment to get something — she had a key — I started to walk very slowly, hoping she would have got what she was looking for and be gone by the time we got there. This was turning into a scene from a Woody Allen movie as I tried to walk more slowly and my new friend was impatient to get there. When we finally did enter the apartment, sure enough there was Carolyn and her friend. After an embarrassing introduction they left, and we could get on with what we came to do. Readers of this memoir may get the impression that I was quite sexually experienced, but compared to my new partner I was a virgin. She asked me how many sexual partners I had had, and thinking carefully I could come up with about five at that time. She announced proudly that she had experienced fifteen different lovers. And we were the same age.

Things may have evened out a bit when we reconnected in 1973, but she was still a sexually charged woman. We discussed how we sometimes masturbated while driving, but she outdid me even there, apparently masturbating to orgasm while passing other cars on the 401. But our relationship came to an abrupt halt when I made a key life decision: I decided to propose to Judith.

It seems to be de rigueur for Canadians to walk in the outdoors when they need to make a difficult decision, Pierre Trudeau’s walk in the snow when he decided to continue as Canadian prime minister being the most famous. One autumn afternoon at the family property in King outside Toronto, I went for walk in the woods. Sitting on a bench that my grandfather had had built into the side of a hill, looking out over the now mostly bare deciduous trees, I decided that Judith really was the right person for me, that I was wrong to let the relationship go, and that I would ask her to marry me.

Since we were still friends she expressed no surprise when I phoned and suggested we go for dinner. She still expressed no surprise when I ‘popped the question.’ In fact, her response was decidedly enigmatic. Only later did she tell me that she felt as if I had slapped her in the face. Even I wasn’t conceited enough to expect her immediately to fall at my feet in gratitude, but I didn’t think a proposal would be seen as an aggressive act. Still, once over her shock, she did allow that the idea was worth thinking about.

And so Judith did think about it, and think about it, and think about it some more, and several months later said, “No.” Or did she? Here is what happened. That summer during the season at Lennoxville when she was once again an actor in the company, she became very close to one of the stage managers, whose name I seem to have lobotomized. We were still in an era where we tried not to be possessive, to understand that close relationships with others of the opposite gender were welcome, and where we were open about all aspects of our personal lives. And so as Judith grew closer to her new friend I was kept fully informed but, not to worry, it wasn’t sexual and it didn’t threaten her primary relationship with me. And then, one night she didn’t get back to the house until very late, long after her show had finished. Fearing the worst, I couldn’t sleep and walked the back roads waiting for her to get home. When she did return she was surprised to find I was still up; we weren’t supposed to be jealous or possessive. When I asked if she had slept with him, she admitted that she had.

What should be the next chapter to this story? Now I guess there would be a big fight. She ‘cheated’ on me, the situation is intolerable, she should pack her bags and leave my house. What was the outcome in 1974? After a short discussion we went to bed together. She admitted that sleeping with two men on the same night was quite a turn on. While I don’t think I admitted it at the time, it was a turn on for me as well.

It is fascinating to speculate on the biological imperatives at play. Was she the adulterous chickadee, who having found a partner to help with the nest and the young, wanders afield to pick up some better genes in the hopes that the dimwitted cuckold will raise a young that is not his? Was I attempting to be the alpha male, confident that my sperm would triumph over his and any progeny from the evening would be mine? Whatever the unconscious motives, Judith assured me ours was still the primary relationship and her new friend, lover, was not a threat, only an enriching experience for them both. We believed this stuff at the time.

The season came to an end, Judith and her stage manager said their sad farewells, and she and I headed to Muskoka for our annual holiday. After two or three days at the cottage, with Judith seeming in a daze, I finally said to her, “You don’t want to be here, do you?” She admitted that she didn’t, that she really wanted to be doing a road trip to Mexico with her stage manager. There was nothing for it. We put her things in the boat — there was still no road into our cottage — drove the boat to my parents’ cottage where we kept the car, made some excuse to the family why Judith was leaving, and I drove her into town and put her on the bus.