If you had an hour, just an hour, and it was your last hour, and there was an audience in front of you, what would you say? This is the brief that James Rowland, the gentle storyteller and sweaty, near-naked man who stands in front of us in a hospital gown and crocs, set himself. This raggedy finale to his trilogy of soft, stark shows (Learning to Fly, Piece of Work) was meant to run before Christmas but had to be delayed for an emergency trip to hospital where, Rowland learned, you do in fact wear pants beneath the gown.
For his sweet, scatter-gun final hour, Rowland chooses love. He hands us a smattering of nature and laughter and the floating first note of a song. Soundtracked by his favourite music, he tells us with the world’s brightest, saddest smile about birds, waterfalls, his cat, his partner. Finding comfort in tales that are handed down so they’re never forgotten, he devotes a large chunk of time to his dream iteration of Robin Hood, his gown flapping as he runs about the stage playing each part. Glowing behind him, a digital clock counts down.
