The lobby of the Imperial Theatre in Sarnia smells faintly of stale popcorn and industrial adhesive. It is a fitting scent for the arrival of the man who turned a roll of silver tape into a national religion. Steve Smith is currently hauling his suspenders across North America for one final lap, and the 519 area is about to get a heavy dose of Possum Lodge logic. This is not some half-hearted victory lap. It is a calculated, sharp goodbye from a man who understands his brand better than most CEOs.
The schedule is punishing, the kind of routing that would break a younger comic. Smith hits Sarnia on Oct. 11 before dragging the show to the Blyth Memorial Community Hall for two performances on Oct. 19. From there, it is Migration Hall in Kingsville on Oct. 20, the Sanderson Centre in Brantford on Oct. 22, Centennial Hall in London on Oct. 23 and a massive finale at Centre in the Square in Kitchener on Oct. 24. Most of these rooms are already dark, the tickets long gone to fans who grew up watching the "Handyman Corner" on grainy CRT monitors.
For those who spent the 1990s under a rock, Red Green is the fictional, bumbling host of an outdoorsman show that ran from 1991 to 2006. Smith, the architect of the character, turned a low-budget spoof into a cultural juggernaut. He has sold books, filled theatres and moved a staggering amount of merchandise. But the "This Could Be It" tour title feels heavy, echoing the doomed residency Michael Jackson never got to finish.
"Well, I’ll tell you what, this is it, April. It is it," Smith says, leaning into the finality of the moment. "When I came up with the name for the tour, that was a couple of years ago when I decided I might do two more tours, so I’ll call this one This Could Be It, and the next one would be This Is Definitely It, but I toured the US in the spring, and it just went so well that I just... I can’t top it, and I don’t even want to try, so this is it."
The show itself is a technical pivot from his previous outings. While the plaid shirt remains the same, the delivery has evolved. Smith is not just standing behind a podium; he is integrating multimedia elements to bridge the gap between the old TV format and the modern stage.
"They usually do, mainly to get it autographed," Smith says regarding the fans who show up armed with duct tape. "Yeah, well, I mean, this is my fourth tour, and when you’re trying to make people laugh, you got to always do new things, so it’s 100% new, for one thing. And I shot some video just for the tour. I’ve got three of the characters from the show phoning in during the show, so it’s kind of neat. And I end it off with a wish for the fans that’s gone over pretty well, so the undercurrent really is, number one, gratitude and number two, you know, goodbye."
There is a psychological weight to inhabiting a character for nearly three decades. Red Green has been Smith's shadow since the early 90s, a rugged alter ego that allowed him to bypass the usual politeness of Canadian discourse. It is a symbiotic relationship where the line between the performer and the mask has become increasingly blurred.
"He’s my best friend, you know?" Smith says. "He says things I want to say but can’t get away with. He does things I only dream about, and every time he makes money, he puts it in my bank account."
It is a lucrative friendship. When I suggest that everyone needs a friend who pays their bills, Smith does not miss a beat. "Yeah, we could all do with a Red Green," he says.
The origin of the character is rooted in the droll, hyper-local programming of 1970s Ontario. It was a time of slow-paced television and earnest men in fishing vests. Smith saw the comedy in the mundane, specifically in a show that most people took far too seriously.
"There was a fishing show in Ontario called The Red Fisher Show," Smith says. "I mean, he had Scuttlebutt Lodge, and he used to read his own poetry and stuff, and he was kind of a droll character. When I would watch his show, it seemed like he thought nothing would bore you. So, I was really kind of making fun of him. That was 1978, when I created the Red Green character as a kind of, a spoof of Red Fisher and then away it went. I mean, started the TV show in 1990, did that for 15 seasons, and I thought that would be the end of it. Well, here we are. I mean, this is 41 years since I created the character."
The endurance of the character is baffling to some, but it makes sense when you consider the DNA of the performance. There is no artifice here. Smith is not doing "The Method." He is simply amplifying parts of his own personality that fit the lodge-dwelling aesthetic.
Comedy in those days was just fun. It was kind of silly, wasn’t necessarily stupid, but it was silly, and it was fun and it was well intentioned. ... I’m not sure that, starting from zero, you could have a career doing that these days. It seems that you have to have an agenda, political or otherwise, to be heard.
"Oh my goodness, yes. All of Red is in me. They’re just parts of me that aren’t in Red," Smith says.
And then there is the tape. Duct tape is the third lead in this production. It is the MacGuffin that solves every plot point and the punchline to every joke. But even a legend like Red Green has to acknowledge the physical limitations of his favourite tool.
"Somebody told me that duct tape can’t be fixed with duct tape, which I never completely understood, but I didn’t want to argue with them," Smith says. "Duct tape has one flaw, which is when it gets really cold, which, once in a while, it does in this country, duct tape does not stick. So then, that’s when you whip out the zip ties."
It is a rare moment of technical critique from the master. But the tape has performed miracles in the past, including some that sound like they belong in a military manual rather than a sitcom writer's room. Smith recalls a moment of genuine mechanical desperation that proved the utility of the silver roll.
"Well, believe it or not, we towed a car out of a ditch and made the rope out of duct tape," Smith says. "I was with a military guy, and he knew how to kind of braid it so that it was really, really strong. And we used about half a roll for a little thing, it was about three feet long, but it did it. It pulled the car out of the ditch, so that was pretty impressive."
When the television show wrapped in 2006, the industry assumed Smith was heading for a quiet retirement in the woods. He certainly tried. He attempted the stereotypical Canadian retirement of endless golf, but the creative itch was too persistent to ignore.
"Well, when I stopped doing the show, and I ended the show, I thought it was time for that to end," Smith says. "And I even... my hat went into the University of Toronto library archives, so I was gone. I played 161 rounds of golf in 180 days. So, that’s not a good sign. That means you’re taking something fun and making it a job. Plus, I would still think of what I thought were amusing things, but I had no audience, so I would just share them with my friends, and they were getting really annoyed."
The return to the limelight was not a grand plan. It was a series of accidents involving the publishing industry and a realization that he could command a stage alone. A chance encounter on a golf course changed the trajectory of his post-TV life.
"And then, the next thing that happened was, I was golfing with the CEO of Random House, and he said any book that I wanted to write as Red Green, he would publish," Smith says. "I guess a compliment, but if I say no, he’ll never ask again. So, that’s when I wrote How To Do Everything."
The transition from author to touring comic was born out of a distaste for the standard promotional circuit. Smith found the traditional bookstore signing to be a soul-crushing exercise in small-scale retail.
"And then, you have to promote, you have to have these book tours, where I would have to go to Saskatoon, to a bookstore, and sell 10 books, and I’d say to them, 'Look, I’ll buy 11 not to go,' you know?" Smith says. "But then, I thought, 'Well, instead of doing just a book tour, why don’t I see if I can do a one man show? I’ve never done that. I’ve never done stand up. I didn’t come out of a theatrical background.' And so, that became the first one man show that I did, that was 2010 by that time. And once I did that, it was like, 'Man, I’m hooked.' These live shows are the most enjoyable thing I’ve ever done in my whole career. So, it was a great way to end it."
But is it actually the end? We have seen countless rock stars announce a final tour only to return three years later for a "reunion" sponsored by a credit card company. Smith seems adamant that he will not be the guy who overstays his welcome.
"No. I’m definitely not going to do that because you know what happens?" Smith says. "In most cases, they’re kind of a diminished version of their greatness, and it makes you feel like, 'I’m probably in the same boat.' If I do another tour, it won’t be any better than this one, and chances are, it won’t be as good, and then the audience will think, 'Well, maybe I’m not as good either.' And I don’t want to disappoint the fans after they’ve been so good to me for all these years."
The affection he holds for the character is genuine. There is no resentment for the plaid-clad ghost that follows him around. Instead, there is a deep appreciation for the way the show resonated with people during their darkest hours.
"I like him. Yeah, I got no problems with him at all," Smith says. "And the people... I do a meet and greet after these shows, and so, I mean, I meet literally thousands of people. And the stories I get that how... this show helps them through a tough time and just gives them a break from the drudgery of life and so on, it means a lot to people. Red Green is a friend of theirs too, and that’s pretty neat."
The fame is lopsided. Smith has lived a long life as himself, but the public only wants the man from the lodge. It is a strange existence to be eclipsed by your own creation, but Smith has made peace with the paperwork.
"Oh God, yeah. I’ve signed my name Red Green more than I have Steve Smith, and Steve Smith had a 45 year head start," he says.
The survival of the brand in the digital age is perhaps the most surprising part of the story. While other 90s relics have faded into obscurity, Possum Lodge has found a second life on YouTube. This is not a lucky break; it is the result of Smith's family keeping the gears turning behind the scenes.
"Well, I’ve got two sons... that’s what they do, they’re into that," Smith says. "And the net result of that is that I’ve been touring for 10 years, and every time I tour, the average age of the audience is younger, you know? More and more young people coming out because they’ve been exposed, through the internet, through YouTube and so on. They don’t even know the show was ever on television. So, there’s been a lot of benefits to that. And when we created Red Green, we also created Possum Lodge. It’s like a world, so, there’s all these little sayings, and they have a mental image of the place. And so, it’s become more than just a character."
Smith is one of the last true originals of a television era that no longer exists. He remembers a time when comedy was allowed to be gentle, a time before every punchline had to be a political statement or a social media grenade.
"You know, for me, it even goes back before I was in my show," Smith says. "I was a kid in the 50s, and comedy in those days was just fun. It was kind of silly, wasn’t necessarily stupid, but it was silly, and it was fun and it was well intentioned. I didn’t see anybody yelling at me from TV. They weren’t angry and they weren’t obscene. Any joke they told or funny thing they said, I could repeat in school or to the family without a problem. Well, that all went away. I mean, I tried to keep that going with the Red Green Show, and even now with this tour, there’s nothing that the audience is going to see or hear that will make them twitch? But, I’m not sure that, starting from zero, you could have a career doing that these days. It seems that you have to have an agenda, political or otherwise, to be heard.
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