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    At a Rejuvenated Stratford, Second Chances for Plays and Theaters

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    A smash, a romp, a mess and a mystery are part of this Ontario festival’s 12-play repertoire after two seasons of retrenchment.It’s a joyful thing when a great play that seemed to be lost is found. How much more so when its greatness is confirmed and the play takes root in the soil of a new time.That was my experience seeing Alice Childress’s “Wedding Band” this summer at the Stratford Festival, in Ontario. Written in 1962, and first produced in New York by the Public Theater, in 1972, it had all but disappeared for 50 years when Theater for a New Audience, in Brooklyn, revived it in the spring of 2022. A revelation then, it is even more so now, not because Stratford’s production is better but because, by being excellent in a different way, it confirms the play’s vitality.Second comings are crucial to the restocking and refreshing of the dramatic repertoire; a work may be praised at its premiere or when unearthed as a novelty but must be produced a second time before it can be produced 100 times. Helping new and rediscovered work through that bottleneck is one of the things the noncommercial theater does best.During the week I spent at Stratford last month I saw four plays (and two musicals, which I’ve written about already) that encompass the idea in various ways and to various ends. Two of the plays — “Wedding Band” and a rollicking “Much Ado About Nothing” — were revelations. Another, a “Richard II” set in the disco era, was a mixed-metaphor mess. And one, “Grand Magic,” a 1948 morsel of the Italian absurd, was a stylish mystification.At the same time, returning to the festival for my fifth visit in seven years — it and I were mostly shut down for the two worst Covid seasons — I was heartened by the second coming of the festival itself, and of its recently rebuilt theater, the Tom Patterson.“Wedding Band,” “Richard II” and “Grand Magic” all played at the Patterson, the only one of Stratford’s four theaters with an elongated thrust stage. That made it ideal for the claustrophobic intimacy of Childress’s play, in which a Black woman in South Carolina in 1918 (Antonette Rudder) and the white man who is her husband in all but the law (Cyrus Lane) find the world in which they can share their lives shrinking, eventually to nothing.It was always a tragedy for the couple and, by implication, the country, whose attempts to encompass all races in a loving union have been notably fitful and remain unfinished. But the director Sam White’s production unexpectedly adds another layer of tragedy. Her staging emphasizes the hard-won pleasures of the central relationship, so that something valuable is felt to be lost when the world intervenes. But distinctively it also suggests the tragedy of the white characters — especially the man’s mother and sister — who are nominally the villains.When I saw the play in Brooklyn, those women were brilliantly rendered grotesques. As played here by Lucy Peacock and Maev Beaty, they are no longer monsters though their behavior remains monstrous; we see how the tragedy of racism makes victims of everyone.The production of “Much Ado About Nothing,” with Maev Beaty as Beatrice and Graham Abbey as Benedick, preserves its original 16-century setting but puts the play in an overtly feminist frame.David HouIt is a pleasure of the repertory system, nearly extinct elsewhere in North America, that Beaty, so twisted and tortured in “Wedding Band,” was a witty and emotional Beatrice in “Much Ado” the night before. To my mind the best of Shakespeare’s comedies in balancing insight with laughs, “Much Ado” is frequently updated in various ways. Most recently in New York City, Kenny Leon set it in an upper-class Black suburb of Atlanta during a hypothetical Stacey Abrams campaign for president.At Stratford, the director Chris Abraham has left the original setting pretty much alone, though his version of 16th-century Sicily has a stronger than usual commedia dell’arte accent. (The pratfalls never stop.) Beaty’s Beatrice is notably more heartful than most, not so guarded about the love she feels for Benedick (Graham Abbey) despite their professed mutual disaffection. And Abbey’s Benedick, though sharp-tongued, is a superbly rendered goofball, an overgrown bro who doesn’t know how to get serious about what he wants.Purists shouldn’t mind any of that, but they will surely yelp about the addition of material, by the Canadian playwright Erin Shields, that puts the play in an overtly feminist frame. A new prologue, spoken by Beatrice in a reasonably supple pentameter, tells us, among other things, that in Elizabethan London, “nothing” was slang for “vagina,” thus altering the thrust of the play’s title. And in a revamped final scene, Shields bears down on the harm done to women by male paranoia, the cure for which must be liberation.Since that theme already underlies the play, it hardly needs the underlining; Abraham’s production gets to the same point quite handily on its own. Still, I found Shields’s additions droll, and possibly useful as a kind of welcome, for those not expecting such rutting from Shakespeare, to the three hours of frank sex talk, or at least sex puns, that have always been hiding there in plain sight.Stephen Jackman-Torkoff as Richard II in a production that transports the king to Studio 54-era New York for a celebration of what a program note calls queer Black “divinity.”David HouWhat’s hiding in Stratford’s “Richard II” is, alas, the play itself, so baroquely reframed you can no longer see it. As conceived and directed by Jillian Keiley — with interpolations from “Troilus and Cressida,” “Coriolanus,” “Much Ado” and the sonnets — the tragedy of the 14th-century English king has been phantasmagorically transported to Studio 54-era New York as a celebration of what a program note calls queer Black “divinity.” So Hotspur is a coked-up club kid and, yes, there’s oral sex in a hot tub. AIDS gets what seems to me to be a gratuitous cameo.The problem certainly isn’t the queer part of the mission statement. Many productions have explored the suggestion in the text that Richard (Stephen Jackman-Torkoff) and his cousin Aumerle (Emilio Vieira) were lovers, and that their connection helped lead to the king’s downfall in a court that would have seen that relationship as a sign of his unfitness. And surely in the age of “Bridgerton” we’re excited rather than scandalized by the casting of Black actors in roles previously played only by white ones.The problem is the cultural metaphor that Keiley and Brad Fraser, who did the adaptation, have chosen to superimpose on a history play. The first of a tetralogy telling the “sad stories of the death of kings,” “Richard II” is fundamentally about personal flaws that become political disasters. Celebrating those flaws as fabulousness confuses the issue whichever way you look at it. Was Richard a martyr to a movement in the future? Does the ecstasy of gayness make for bad governance?It did not help, on the Patterson’s extraordinarily long and narrow thrust, with audiences banked closely on three sides, that the actors were staged so densely and busily you often could not grasp what was going on.Geraint Wyn Davies as a washed-up magician, with Sarah Orenstein, in the premiere of a new translation of “Grand Magic.”David HouThat wasn’t a problem for Antoni Cimolino, the festival’s artistic director and a primary force behind the building of the new theater. His production of Eduardo de Filippo’s “Grand Magic,” on the same stage as “Richard II,” is flat-out gorgeous — sets, costumes, music, everything — and always legible.If only the play itself were. The world premiere translation (by John Murrell and Donato Santeramo) is clean and colloquial, but the story of a washed-up magician (Geraint Wyn Davies) working scams on customers at a Neapolitan resort is nevertheless as hard to follow as one of his tricks. Like “Much Ado,” it turns on a husband’s overweening jealousy, and his wife’s need to liberate herself, in this case with the help of a disappearing act.Yet the play finally isn’t very interested in its story or even its characters except as vehicles for big ideas about identity and illusion. Playgoers drawn in by the captivating mise-en-scène may soon feel hoodwinked by the flood of abstractions. As a play, it’s its own disappearing act.I don’t know what will happen to “Grand Magic” next; I barely know what happened during it. But sorting work for the future can sometimes mean letting it go. Re-creation is a constant winnowing, but also, more happily, a constant expansion. “Wedding Band” — and Stratford itself, nearly back to its prepandemic capacity — will both be part of that.Stratford FestivalIn repertory, with staggered closing dates through Oct. 27, at the Stratford Festival, Stratford, Ontario; stratfordfestival.ca. More

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      Gordon Lightfoot’s ‘Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’ Was An Unlikely Hit

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      Gordon Lightfoot’s 1976 folk ballad told the true story of a shipwreck on Lake Superior. One of his old friends called it “a documentarian’s song.”Gordon Lightfoot, the Canadian folk singer who died on Monday at 84, had one hit in particular that famously defied Top 40 logic.“The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” his 1976 folk ballad, was unusual partly because, at more than six minutes long, it was about twice as long as most pop hits. It also retold a real-life tragedy — the 1975 sinking on Lake Superior of a freighter with 29 crewmen aboard — with meticulous attention to detail.“It’s a documentarian’s song, when you think about it,” said Eric Greenberg, a longtime friend of the singer who interviewed Mr. Lightfoot as a student journalist in the late 1970s and later co-wrote a song with him.The plotline of a typical Top 40 hit usually consists of “boy meets girl, boy breaks up with girl, or come back, or you left me, or whatever,” Mr. Greenberg said, speaking by phone from New York City. “Not a five-, six-, seven-minute story — a factual story, in Gordon’s case, painstakingly checked to make sure that all the facts are right.”Here’s the true story that inspired “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” and a look at the song that kept its memory alive.A disappearing shipThe Edmund Fitzgerald was a 729-foot ore carrier and one of the largest freighters on the Great Lakes when it left Superior, Wis., on Nov. 9, 1975, carrying iron pellets bound for Detroit.The next day, the ship was caught in a storm with winds that averaged 60 to 65 miles an hour. Its captain reported 20- to 25-foot waves washing over the decks and water pouring in below deck through two broken air vents.That night, the Edmund Fitzgerald sank near the coasts of Ontario and Michigan, in water that was only about 50 degrees. A nearby ship reported seeing its lights disappear in the driving snow.The Coast Guard later found lifeboats, life rings and other debris from the ship. But the lifeboats were self-inflatable, so their discovery did not necessarily indicate that they had been used. None of the 29 crew members survived.An unlikely successThe morning after the Fitzgerald went down, the rector of Mariners’ Church of Detroit tolled its bell 29 times, once for each man lost. An Associated Press reporter knocked on the church’s door, interviewed the rector and filed an account that was published in newspapers.Mr. Lightfoot read the article. Soon afterward, he started singing a song about the wreck during a previously scheduled recording session. His band joined in, and the first version of the song that they recorded was later released, according to “Gordon Lightfoot: If You Could Read My Mind,” a 2020 documentary.There was no expectation that the song would become a hit single, because its length made it too long for airplay on the radio. But it would spend 21 weeks on the Billboard charts and peak at No. 2, one notch behind Mr. Lightfoot’s only No. 1 hit, “Sundown.” It also turned the tale of the sinking into a modern legend.Yet unlike songs that use a real-life story as the basis for embellishment, Mr. Lightfoot’s ballad hewed precisely to the real-life details. The weight of the ore, for example — “26,000 tons more than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty” — was accurate. So was the number of times that the church bell chimed in Detroit.Decades later, Mr. Lightfoot changed the lyrics slightly after investigations into the accident revealed that waves, not crew error, had led to the shipwreck. In the new lyrics, he sang that it got dark at 7 that November night on Lake Superior — not that a main hatchway caved in.“That’s the kind of meticulous, looking-for-the-truth kind of guy that he was,” Mr. Greenberg said.An enduring legacy“The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” like its creator, endured as a Canadian classic long after slipping off the Top 40 charts. The bluegrass guitarist Tony Rice (who also released an entire album of Lightfoot cover songs) and the rock bands Rheostatics and the Dandy Warhols were among those who sang covers over the years.“The melodies are so powerful and he’s such a good storyteller and such a beautiful lyricist,” the Canadian singer-songwriter Sarah McLachlan said in the 2020 documentary. “And the combination of those things just really makes for a great song.”Mr. Lightfoot remained proud of it for decades, and he kept newspaper clippings and items given to him by the crew members’ surviving families in his home, Mr. Greenberg said.The song’s success had one downside: It turned the wreck, which lies in Canadian territory at a depth of about 500 feet, into a trophy for divers, upsetting the lost sailors’ families. In 2006, the government of Ontario adopted a law protecting the site. More

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      Rosalie Trombley, Who Picked Hits and Made Stars, Dies at 82

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      As music director for CKLW, a major radio station in the Detroit market, she furthered the careers of Alice Cooper, Bob Seger, the Temptations and many others.Whatever story you have about the high point of your junior high school years, Tim Trombley has a better one. The rocker Alice Cooper once picked him up at his school in a limousine to take him to lunch.That was one of the perks of having Rosalie Trombley for a mother.From 1967 into the early 1980s, Ms. Trombley was the music director for CKLW-AM, a radio station based in Windsor, Ontario, with a signal so powerful that it was heard in dozens of states in the U.S., dominating the markets of Detroit and other Midwestern cities in the days before the emergence of FM. A 1971 headline in The Detroit Free Press called her “The Most Powerful Lady in Pop Music,” because her tastes went a long way toward determining what was played on the station, which in turn went a long way toward determining what was played in the rest of North America.Sometimes, Mr. Trombley related in a phone interview, his mother would bring demo records home, and he would be allowed to play them. She noticed that he was playing one quite a lot: Mr. Cooper’s “I’m Eighteen.”“She made it known to the label, to Warner Bros., ‘Tim has been playing this song over and over,’” Mr. Trombley said, and she slipped it into CKLW’s rotation. In late 1970 it became Mr. Cooper’s breakout hit. And so Mr. Cooper, a Detroit native, took young Tim to lunch one day as a thank-you.“I knew that mom had a really cool job,” Mr. Trombley said.Ms. Trombley died on Nov. 23 at a long-term care center in Leamington, Ontario, where she had been living for some time. She was 82. Mr. Trombley said the cause was complications of Alzheimer’s disease.Ms. Trombley seemed an unlikely starmaker. She was a single mother of three when she started at CKLW as a part-time switchboard operator. The Free Press once wrote that she “looks like Doris Day’s next-door neighbor.” But she was, as newspapers often described her, “the lady with the golden ear” who, with her no-nonsense demeanor, could hold her own in the male-dominated music business of the day.The list of stars who owed her a debt of gratitude was long.“You’d come in in the morning,” Keith Radford, a former newsman at the station, said in an interview for a video series produced by Radio Trailblazers, an organization promoting women in Canadian radio, “and there’d be big bouquets of flowers at the front desk, from Elton John or the Rolling Stones.”Ms. Trombley would hold court on Thursdays for record promoters who hoped to get their new songs onto CKLW’s “Big 30” playlist.“If they wanted the record really bad, they would bring the act with them,” Johnny Williams, a former D.J., said in the video. “So it wasn’t unusual every Thursday to see the Four Tops, the Temptations, Gladys Knight, Stevie Wonder, Sammy Davis Jr.”One artist who made such a pilgrimage was Tony Orlando, who in the video recalled that Ms. Trombley had heard him out that day and offered him an invitation.“Rosalie said, ‘I’ll tell you what: If your next record comes within the ballpark of a commercial record, a playable Top 40 record, because you took the time to come here — but only if it has the goods — I’ll give it consideration big time,’” he said. “And that next record was ‘Yellow Ribbon’” — that is, Tony Orlando and Dawn’s “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ’Round the Ole Oak Tree,” the top-selling record of 1973. “And she was the first to put it on the air.”Ms. Trombley with the singer-songwriter Bob Seger holding gold record plaques for his 1978 album, “Stranger in Town.” “Seger never had any problem getting on CKLW,” she said. Detroit Free PressRosalie Helen Gillan was born on Sept. 18, 1939, in Leamington. Her father, Shell, was a general foreman at the Ford Motor Company of Canada, and her mother, Katherine Piper, was a switchboard operator.After graduating from high school, she worked at Bell Canada for a time. She married Clayton Trombley in 1958. She took the switchboard job at CKLW in late 1962, working in that capacity for several years and, as The Vancouver Sun put it in a 1973 article about her, “inadvertently picking up the politics of the music business simply by learning to handle sometimes troublesome record-promotion people who arrived at the station to ply their wares.”Around 1968, Ms. Trombley and her husband separated (they later divorced), and at about the same time she was offered the chance to take over for the station’s record librarian, who was going on maternity leave. The station’s program director soon took note of her ear for hits and made her music director, a job she held, Tim Trombley said, until she was laid off in the early 1980s in a downsizing effort.Ms. Trombley didn’t rely only on her own tastes; she would call R&B stations in the area to see what they were playing, which led her to give CKLW’s 50,000 watts of exposure to Black artists. She similarly boosted the careers of Canadian artists like Gordon Lightfoot and the Guess Who, as well as a number of Detroit-area stars, including Bob Seger.“Seger never had any problem getting on CKLW,” she told The Detroit Free Press in 2004 when Mr. Seger was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. “Look at the songs. Listen to the lyrics. I’m a lyric freak. When someone is saying something in a song, I can’t be the only person interested in it.”Well, Mr. Seger almost never had any problem getting on the station. Some of his new material came her way in the early 1970s, and she panned it. He sat down and wrote a song about her, called “Rosalie,” that had a winking snide streak.“He was pissed off when he wrote that song about me,” she said. “He told me!”Payola — offering payoffs to get a song played — was part of the radio business during Ms. Trombley’s reign, and her son said it was common knowledge in the industry that she was a single mother, so some promoters would make it subtly known to her that there was money available.“She made it less subtly known,” he said, “that if they wanted to continue to meet with her every week, that was not something that was going to get their record on the radio.”She had her musical favorites, especially Neil Diamond. But that didn’t necessarily win him radio time.“I’m not playing his current release,” she told The Sun in 1973, tactfully not naming it, “because it looks like a midchart record, and I won’t go with it when I know out front that it’s only midchart.”In addition to her son Tim, she is survived by another son, Todd; a daughter, Diane Lauzon; and a grandson.In 2016 Ms. Trombley received a special Juno Award, the Canadian equivalent of a Grammy. Radio Trailblazers has an annual award recognizing women who have “blazed new trails in radio.” She received the first, in 2005, and it is now called simply the Rosalie Award. More

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      How Canada Has Become a Pilgrimage Site for 'Schitt's Creek' Fans

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      #masthead-section-label, #masthead-bar-one { display: none }What to WatchBest Movies on NetflixBest of Disney PlusBest of Amazon PrimeHoliday TVBest Netflix DocumentariesAdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storyCanada Dispatch‘Schitt’s Creek’ Fans Arrive in GoodwoodThe hamlet that was the backdrop for the hit television series Schitt’s Creek has become a pilgrimage site for fans, to the joy and consternation of locals.Chantel Lambe, 29, in front of a building in Goodwood, Ontario, that was used as the Rose Apothecary in the television show Schitt’s Creek.Credit…Brett Gundlock for The New York TimesDec. 24, 2020Updated 7:04 p.m. ETGOODWOOD, Ontario — Joe Toby was recently giving a young couple a tour of his workshop, when the man sprinkled rose petals on the concrete floor and got down on one knee.The woman was a big Schitt’s Creek fan, it turned out, and was ecstatic to get engaged in the building, which doubled as a mechanic’s garage in the series, he said.“And here I was thinking it’s just my workshop,” said Mr. Toby, a retired machine maker who uses the space to build specialty beds for disabled children. “I guess it is special.”A satire about a fabulously wealthy family that loses all its money and is forced to settle in a town the patriarch bought as a joke because of its name, Schitt’s Creek has become a cult hit for its quirky humor, haute couture costume design and the fictional town’s unlikely embrace of gay love. It won a record nine awards at the Emmys, including one for best comedy.Nowhere has its sudden popularity been felt more intensely than Goodwood, a sleepy commuter hamlet 28 miles north of Toronto that was the main location for filming over six seasons.The hamlet feels like a postcard from antiquity, with heritage homes on less than a dozen streets and farmland on either side. The last census put its population at 663 — mostly retirees and young professionals with families who commute to the city for work.Downtown Goodwood, with the building, right, that doubled as Café Tropical. The blue building served as Bob’s Garage.Credit…Brett Gundlock for The New York TimesBefore Schitt’s Creek, Goodwood’s claims to fame were decidedly more pedestrian — potatoes grown on nearby farms, and the surrounding gravel pits, which produce the raw material to build highways and downtown buildings.Now, it has become a pilgrimage site of fans, who call themselves “Schittheads” and arrive in droves to the hamlet’s main intersection to take selfies in front of the buildings that served as the series’ set. Some arrive in character, dressed as Moira, the dramatic matriarch who has named her precious wigs like children, or Alexis, the socialite daughter. They spend money at the local bakery and general store, but also peer into windows, clog parking spots, and in a few cases, walk into homes, locals say.“They are rude,” said Sheila Owen, whose house doubled for the home of the supporting character “Ronnie.” “They come and expect us to be the same people portrayed in the show — that we are hicks who are stupid.”That feeling is not universally held. Eleanor Todd, 87, got dressed up with her granddaughter to stroll up to the now-famous corner and take photos like all the tourists. It’s the busiest that intersection has been since Goodwood’s glory days, when it boasted two hotels, four general stores, a skating arena and both a cobbler and tailor. That was in 1885.“I’m getting a kick out of it,” said Ms. Todd, a former teacher who wrote and self-published the hamlet’s authoritative history, “Burrs and Blackberries from Goodwood.”Joe Toby, a retired machine maker, speaking with Schitt’s Creek fans outside his workshop, which was the set for Bob’s Garage. Credit…Brett Gundlock for The New York TimesDevelopment in the hamlet has been greatly limited because it sits on ecologically sensitive land, the Oak Ridges Moraine. As a result, it has retained its quaint smallness and avoided the sprawl afflicting so many towns in southern Ontario. That’s what attracted Schitt’s Creek creators, Eugene and Dan Levy, according to their location manager Geoffrey Smither.“They liked that feeling — here’s the town, there’s the country,” said Mr. Smither, who toured 28 small towns scouting for the perfect backdrop to the show. “None of them arise and depart like Goodwood.”When he appeared before the local township councilors to ask for a filming permit, they burst out laughing and agreed.“It was going to put us on the map,” said Bev Northeast, a former longtime councilor who lives in Goodwood.Locals says fans started to appear in 2016, a year after the show premiered on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, the national broadcaster, but really ramped up after Schitt’s Creek was taken up by Netflix in 2017. By the summer of 2019, two chartered buses arrived to the intersection, spilling out people in matching T-shirts and lanyards that said “SchittCon.” (That’s short for Schitt’s Creek Convention.)Schitt’s Creek, created by Eugene, left, and Dan Levy, swept the Emmy’s in September.Credit…The TV Academy and ABC Entertainment, via Associated PressBut no one was prepared for the deluge of fans that descended after Schitt’s Creek swept the Emmys in September.So many people streamed into the local bakery, Annina’s, that the owner, Marco Cassano, hired two security guards to do crowd control. Since Annie Murphy — who plays Alexis, the socialite-daughter-with-a-heart-of-gold — told the late-night talk show host Seth Meyers about the bakery’s delectable butter tarts, he’s been fielding orders from across the United States.“It’s meant I stayed open throughout Covid and kept most of my staff,” said Mr. Cassano, who catered for the crew over five seasons.Across the street, Mr. Toby was inspired, by the crush of Schittheads asking for tours of his workshop, to build a donation box by the front door. In one weekend, he raised $270 for the local hospital and historical center, he said.“For years, I was the best kept secret in Goodwood,” said Mr. Toby, 75, who is a natural storyteller and enjoys holding court. “Nobody knew what I did in here.”Samantha Kenyon, 24, center, serving customers at Annina’s. The bakeshop has seen a surge in sales since the cast member Annie Murphy talked about the store’s butter tarts on “Late Night With Seth Meyers.”Credit…Brett Gundlock for The New York TimesHe knows some of his neighbors feel differently, and in part that’s because of the pandemic. In the window of the building across the street, a residence that was transformed into a cafe for the series, a handwritten message is taped in a window: “Please stay off property during pandemic, we are immunocompromised.”At the beginning of the pandemic, the show’s co-creator Dan Levy pleaded for fans to keep away. “The towns where we shot Schitt’s Creek were so lovely and accommodating to us,” he tweeted. “Please show them the same respect. Visiting right now is a threat to the residents’ health and safety.”That didn’t stem the pilgrimage any more than the mounting layers of snow.Marilyn Leonard owns the building that for more than a century, was Goodwood’s general store. In Schitt’s Creek, it was transformed into the hipster “Rose Apothecary,” selling body milks and cat-hair scarves. Ms. Leonard decided to shut it permanently last month.“It’s too exposing for me,” said Ms. Leonard, 74, who plans to convert the space into an appointment-only gallery. “I need to stay away from people.” Marilyn Leonard inside her building, which was used for the Rose Apothecary in the show.Credit…Brett Gundlock for The New York TimesThe motel that served as the set for the family’s new residence in the series is not in Goodwood, but in Mono, about 50 miles west. One day, so many people crowded around the motel that the owner called the police.“At least 100 cars an hour were trying to get in,” said Jesse Tipping, pointing out that his motel, which hasn’t been operational for years, has garnered dozens of satirical reviews on Google maps. “ At one point, I saw somebody on the roof. They were stealing numbers off the doors, taking the welcome mats.”Mr. Tipping, who is currently selling the motel, said he asked Dan Levy about selling paraphernalia at the site. The show, however, has signed an exclusive merchandise agreement with ITV Studios in London.That means no one in Goodwood is getting rich off the sudden fame. Plans to run a Schitt’s Creek tour on the local heritage railroad were scuttered by the pandemic. The 145-year-old yellow brick town hall, which hadn’t hosted a council session in almost 50 years, would have the perfect place to host tours, conceded Dave Barton, the mayor of Uxbridge Township, which includes Goodwood. Unfortunately, the township sold the building a year ago to a couple who is converting it into a private home.“Nobody expected that Schitt’s Creek would be the most famous Canadian show in forever,” Mr. Barton said.Simona Taroni, left, and Rebecca Farronato taking a selfie in front of a motel in Mono, Ontario, which served as the Rosebud Motel from the television show Schitt’s Creek.Credit…Brett Gundlock for The New York TimesAdvertisementContinue reading the main story More