Almost seven hours of theatre over two nights is an intimidating runtime and I was bracing myself. The Inheritance, Parts 1 and 2, presented by Canadian Stage, is an undeniably epic experience. In a culture that demands such convenience and instant gratification, slowing down to appreciate a story taking its time is a gift. Despite my trepidation—intensified by it, perhaps—this production has cemented itself amongst some all-time favourite theatrical experiences of my life so far. I know absolutely how hyperbolic that sounds, so please trust me when I tell you those words are measured.
I haven’t read Howard End, this story’s structural and spiritual precursor. The only E.M. Forster novel I’ve read is Maurice—over two decades ago, in my late teens—and it lodged itself firmly in my queer, post-adolescent, fledging-adult psyche. It, too, figures importantly here. I’m also a fan of Tony Kushner’s Angels In America, with which this play shares significant DNA—political tensions and class disparity amongst gay men wrestling with the nature of love and reeling from the AIDS crisis. Playwright Matthew López lets these themes fester and blossom, ugly and beautiful, across a unifying thread of legacy and generational connection.
Though this ultimately moved and inspired me, it took a good thirty minutes into Part 1 before I could properly orient myself. Director Brendan Healy’s production—which gradually reveals many textural, evocative theatrical abstractions—opens wide and aloof. The cavernous, warehouse-like space seems burnt-out and abandoned—an ominous backdrop of blackened brick and metal. Michael Gianfrancesco’s set saves its most thrilling reveals for Part 2; but early on, subtle shifts in modular elements hint at the secrets of this space. The placement of chairs, in particular, feels distinctly purposeful. We open on a collection of men lounging on-stage, distracted by laptops, books and their own thoughts until…
A story needs to be told, “rattling about” inside them. And they aren’t quite sure how to launch into it.
Morgan, the great E.M. Forster (Daniel MacIvor, whose casting feels somewhat iconic), saunters in as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As the actors fall into the characters of the story, he becomes their dramaturg and ancestral gay touchstone—interjecting, seeking clarification, keeping it real. Though they all admire him, some resentment eventually rises to the surface. Responsibility, both individual and communal, is a particularly thorny subject.
Summarizing the plot and character relationships is a daunting task and feels rather inadequate. I will, instead, provide you with resonant snapshots that left an impression on me.
Breton Lalama and Aldrin Bundoc’s adorable Jasons—a giddy couple with the same name who are an endearing portrait of a healthy, gay pairing. Lalama in particular has a multitude of nasal one-liners that just tickled the shit out of me.
Stephen Jackman-Torkoff as Adam (a precocious rich kid and aspiring actor) and Leo (Adam’s doppelganger and his destitute counterpart). Jackman-Torkoff is a lanky, intensely physical performer who vividly channels teenage awkwardness here. He has a couple of monologues—an intensely motivic rhyme between his two characters—that indulge our fantasy in fiercely erotic orgy scenes that turn cold and terrifying. He is both exhilarating and devastating here, but an image that really struck a chord—and I’m not even sure I can convey exactly why—is a quietly yearning moment as Leo takes cash for a sex. Desperately wanting a more emotionally significant offering yet unable to ask, my heart leapt at the sight of him—one shoe on, the other foot in just a sock—trying to form a bridge but lacking the means.
Hollywood Jade’s compassionate Tristan taking us on a thrilling journey as he turns AIDS and its biological mechanics into an allegory of America and Trump’s invasive, destructive influence. This is one of the more showy bits in López’s script, self-consciously clever, but it doesn’t feel obnoxious because of a stark aptness; in performance, it has the thrill of discovery and insight. Tristan feels pulled directly from Angels in America; he is, essentially, Belize.
The fraught love between Qasim Khan’s Eric Glass (a deeply empathetic, unassuming friend and lover) and Antoine Yared‘s Toby Darling (an ambitious playwright, burning all his bridges as he struggles with alcohol and frantic sex to numb a painful family history). There is a hilarious sex scene between them that spirals into over-the-top performance art spectacle that drew well-deserved applause. I found their ugly fights particularly brutal and relatable, seeing my own worst impulses reflected back at me. From their vastly different fates, we glimpse the harrowing commitment that healing requires and the heartbreaking truth that not everyone is up for the challenge.
Jim Mezon as Henry Wilcox (a wealthy tycoon who befriends and eventually courts Eric following his break-up from Toby) is a humanizing portrait of conservative Republicanism. The scenes where he holds his own amidst Eric’s social circle—made up of impassioned, younger Democrats—are some of his most compelling. Mezon allows us to see, in his carefully chosen words and restrained gestures of affection—a deep pain that he carries with astonishing grace.
MacIvor’s maturing Walter (Henry’s late husband and a theatrical echo of Morgan), is a quietly funny and comforting presence. He exudes an aura of genuinely benevolent calm. In the later scenes of Part 2, when we are invited into his country house, with its history of gay men finding peace and dignity as they succumb to illness, his presence is fully felt despite his absence.
When Louise Pitre shows up as the caretaker of this house of healing, Margaret, she’s a breath of fresh air. We didn’t even realize we needed a woman’s vibe. Her backstory, which reveals a personal connection to this haunted house, is poignant without ever becoming precious. She is a firm woman who cares deeply, but suffers no fools. And, in one of the more fanciful flourishes of Healy’s production, she seems somehow connected to a fluffy, uplifting white cloud that drifts onto the scene.
Amidst the barren, charred aesthetic of the set, this cloud foreshadows a larger, aesthetically cathartic reveal. Like Pitre’s satisfying maternal presence, the walls revolve to reveal a white interior—a bright, convalescent wash that’s impressively invigorating after so much looming darkness.
The play gets occasionally didactic, with some scenes becoming a staged manifestation of the Socratic method, but its characters are so real and compelling, we invest in these loaded conversations. They feel authentic. Even the play’s meta aspects—including some very cute, self-deprecating digs at its own runtime—feel natural.
This production satisfied a deep craving for two very specific narrative phenomena that are rare and precious to me—sudden, sustained tears that spring from a well I did not expect to be tapped; and characters I care for so deeply that it hurts to leave them behind. The laughter here, and there is a plenty of it, is also easy and genuine.
Community is an intricate, ever-evolving creature. The Inheritance captures its essence, finds space for all its supportive and frustrating humanity. It also expands that communal energy, reaches tangibly out towards the audience and the city beyond the theatre. The production’s inclusion of local community partners (Casey House, ACT and PWA) in Part 1’s finale, seeing men living with AIDS break through the fourth wall to become the embodiment of history, hit with an emotional force that’s still reverberating.