Elena Belyea in “I Don’t’ Even Miss You”, Photo provided by the company
Initially conceived in the spring of 2020, Elena Belyea’s I Don’t Even Miss You candidly echoes the pandemic isolation that inspired it. Even the date of non-binary, computer-programmer protagonist Basil’s “worst day” aligns with the world shutting down. And yet, Belyea makes this an alternate timeline split for a haunting, meditative and disarmingly whimsical sci-fi premise. Presented by Factory Theatre and Tiny Bear Jaws, this intimate solo show—a deep dive into one person’s loneliness, grief and resilience—packs an astonishing amount of ideas and nuanced emotionality into 80 minutes.
This reminded me of The Quiet Earth, mid-1980s low-key, eerie and intelligent end of the world science fiction film from New Zealand. The melancholic what if scenario of waking one day to find you are the last person on the planet is the key strand of DNA the two works share. Basil, not long after declaring their non-binary status and new name—a pivotal event in their individuation that is heartwarmingly embraced by friends and family—they find themselves suddenly alone. In one harrowing sequence, Basil’s increasingly fervent and harried knocking contorts their body into poetic spasms.
Basil negotiates a series of landscapes both rural and urban in their search for other people or some meaning without them. Along the way, they befriend an affectionate and loyal dog, Radish. Equally devoted is their AI companion Orchid, accessible through a smart-watch. Whenever Basil’s heart rate jumps alarmingly, Orchid suggests games or favourite songs to help alleviate their human friend’s stress and heartache. Voiced by Vanessa Sabourin, Orchid is a distinctive presence whose sentience is a poignant gradual discovery.
Designed by Even Gilchrist, the back of the stage is a modular set of projection screens that form the shape of a house. Tori Morrison’s video design provides, in addition to dialogue captions and title cards, an atmospheric backdrop of evocative imagery—from representational environments to abstract patterns of colour and light. Working closely with Belyea on the music, her compositions have a fun, 90s synth vibe. This is, you see, a musical of sorts because the framing device of the whole show is that we are witnessing Basil’s solo show about their life, structured around a list of things for which they are grateful. These intimate, seemly random little joys of a life itemized and stated provides significant relatability. I know I felt particularly seen in many of them, often to my own surprise.
Gianna Vacirca’s choreography has a giddy, self-consciously robotic charm; it feels almost as if Basil’s dancing is informed by an AI who has seen a multitude of music videos and provided an aggregate to help Basil express themself in movement. Whittyn Jason’s lighting further shapes the space around Basil with pulses of colour, adding to the synthetic ambience. A quickly glimpsed live-feed video projection of Belyea has an unnerving pay-off in a later bit of theatrical sleight of hand that is both clever and deeply resonant.
All aspects of this production, under the guiding hand of director Emma Tibaldo, are fully realized and well integrated. I did wish, though, that some of the musical numbers were mixed to make Belyea’s voice more prominent. This production indulges in some cute self-awareness, but this never undermines the very well-articulated humaness of the story. I fell hard for Basil and Orchid and Radish and miss them all so much. While there is a certain aching bleakness to the finale, the cosmic framing of our communal search for companionship is bittersweet and transcendent.
The Wizard of Oz, the Mars Rovers and musician Robyn figure into Basil’s journey, each in their own thematically fulfilling context. Epitomized by Basil’s unfinished sentences that hang in the air around them, there is such yearning in the heartfelt and observant details of this show.
I Don’t Even Miss You
running October 31 to November 10, 2024
Factory Theatre, Studio (125 Bathurst St.)
running time: 80 minutes (no intermission)
Elena Belyea in “I Don’t’ Even Miss You”, Photo provided by the company