When the lights go out

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Jonah McIn­tosh was a ris­ing theatre star when he sud­denly, in­ex­pli­ca­bly took his own life in July. J. Kelly Nestruck writes about the mark the young ac­tor leaves, both on and off the stage

Ac­tors don’t get week­ends. In­stead, theatre com­pa­nies tend to have one day a week when no per­for­mances are sched­uled, tra­di­tion­ally called the “dark day.”

At the Shaw Fes­ti­val, the eclec­tic reper­tory theatre com­pany now in its 56th sea­son in Ni­a­garaon-the-Lake, Ont., Mon­day is dark day – and it was on just such a Mon­day this sum­mer that some­thing dark took a pop­u­lar, out­go­ing 22-year-old ac­tor named Jonah McIn­tosh.

The pre­vi­ous day, Sun­day, July 9, Jonah and his part­ner, Mar­cus Tut­tle, so­cial-me­dia man­ager at the Shaw, had taken ad­van­tage of rare, over­lap­ping time off to go on a hike around the Ni­a­gara Es­carp­ment. Then, they saw the new Spi­der-Man movie – which Jonah, a Marvel fan, pro­nounced his favourite ver­sion to date – had din­ner and drove home lis­ten­ing to songs from the Broad­way mu­si­cal Hamil­ton, singing and danc­ing along in their seats.

Af­ter drop­ping Jonah off at home, Mr. Tut­tle ex­changed good­night texts with him – and that was the last any­one would ever hear from the young per­former.

It was only on Tues­day, the day af­ter dark day, that any­one grew se­ri­ously con­cerned about unan­swered texts to Jonah’s phone. Mem­bers of the Shaw ensem­ble started try­ing to con­tact the ac­tor af­ter he un­char­ac­ter­is­ti­cally missed a re­hearsal that af­ter- noon. Then, he didn’t show up for the call for his evening per­for­mance of the mu­si­cal on the main stage at the fes­ti­val: Me and My Girl.

Later that evening, Mr. Tut­tle was home with his fam­ily when his boss reached him to tell him that his part­ner had been found. “She had to tell me three times what had hap­pened, be­cause I didn’t be­lieve her. I didn’t want it to be true.”

The dis­ap­pear­ing act

Theatre is, in a way, all about dis­ap­pear­ance – it’s an ephemeral art form that van­ishes in front of your eyes. That makes the theatre critic a kind of a eu­lo­gist, try­ing to find words to de­scribe some­thing that will never be again.

I didn’t re­al­ize how lit­er­ally that would be the case, how­ever, when I be­gan cov­er­ing the theatre for The Globe and Mail al­most a decade ago now.

There are a tremen­dous num­ber of peo­ple who have made a mark in theatre, in this coun­try and else­where – and, like ev­ery­body else, they die af­ter long ca­reers, or short ones, and of­ten too soon. I’ve be­come ac­cus­tomed to snap­ping into ac­tion, work­ing on obit­u­ar­ies or trib­utes when an ac­tor passes on, and it has be­come, like any­thing, a rou­tine of sorts.

But Jonah McIn­tosh’s death this sum­mer was en­tirely dif­fer­ent from any I had en­coun­tered be­fore. For one, it came right in the mid­dle of the Shaw sea­son; the two shows the ac­tor was per­form­ing in had opened a lit­tle more than a month pre­vi­ously and were sched­uled to run well into the fall.

And then there was the guarded re­lease from the Fes­ti­val – fol­lowed by a out­pour­ing of grief marked by dis­quiet on so­cial me­dia that even­tu­ally made it ap­par­ent that he had taken his own life.

“No­body can re­mem­ber this hap­pen­ing, ever,” Tim Jen­nings, the ex­ec­u­tive di­rec­tor at the Shaw Fes­ti­val, told me later.

The shock of the sui­cide was in­ten­si­fied by peo­ple’s per­cep­tion of who Jonah was, a mu­si­cal-theatre per­former who had made friends not just with fel­low artists in Ni­a­gara-on-the-Lake, but the box of­fice work­ers, ush­ers and even the staff at the gym where the ac­tors worked out – a “bobby daz­zler,” in the words of artis­tic di­rec­tor Tim Carroll, “who was al­ways smil­ing and mak­ing every­one around him smile.” His In­sta­gram ac­count fea­tured video clips of him singing hymns and show tunes at his pi­ano and photos of sun­rises and sun­sets. “I’m liv­ing in a paint­ing,” he posted along­side one shot where you could glimpse the Toronto sky­line in the dis­tance across Lake On­tario.

My first im­pulse was to not write about Jonah at all – it seemed im­pos­si­ble to do full jus­tice to who he was as a per­son, and also write about his death and its im­pact. I feared that one story would over­whelm the other. It’s tempt­ing, nat­u­ral even, to want to search for an­swers or a clear sin­gle story in a sit­u­a­tion such as this, but that would be a fu­tile mis­sion – one of the defin­ing qual­i­ties of Jonah’s death was the ex­tent to which it seemed in­ex­pli­ca­ble.

But that some­thing can be two things at once is the core les­son of theatre – an ac­tor and a char­ac­ter are both there on a stage, and it’s only the per­son at the cen­tre of it who can re­ally say where one ends and the other be­gins. It’s only a critic who would be fool­ish enough to think that he can pull a mys­tery such as that apart.

“He had that some­thing spe­cial”

First and fore­most then, let’s re­mem­ber Jonah McIn­tosh in life. It’s not an ex­ag­ger­a­tion to say he was a star in the mak­ing – and his path to the Shaw Fes­ti­val was an ex­cep­tional one. Jonah, who grew up just east of Toronto in Cour­tice and Ajax, had im­pres­sive raw tal­ent as a singer, dancer and ac­tor when he ap­plied to Sheri­dan Col­lege’s com­pet­i­tive Mu­sic Theatre Per­for­mance pro­gram in his fi­nal year of high school.

But the son of two po­lice of­fi­cers didn’t have the years of pri­vate train­ing of many who get ac­cepted right away, and ended up on the wait­ing list – and, though his fa­ther, Dan McIn­tosh, feared he was due for a dis­ap­point­ment, Jonah waited and waited with un­canny con­fi­dence all through the spring and to the very end of the sum­mer.

He re­ceived his ac­cep­tance just two days be­fore ori­en­ta­tion in the fall of 2012. His mother, Lisa Daugh­arty, scram­bled to help him pack and find him a place to live near the school in Oakville, Ont., at the last minute.

By the time Jonah fin­ished his stud­ies in the spring of 2016, how­ever, he was at the top of his co­hort. He landed a se­ries of pro­fes­sional gigs right way. By Au­gust, he was at Nep­tune Theatre in Hal­i­fax per­form­ing in Beauty and the Beast – and so when it came time to au­di­tion for the Shaw Fes­ti­val for the first sea­son un­der Mr. Carroll, he had to do so over the In­ter­net.

Ash­lie Cor­co­ran, di­rec­tor of the mu­si­cal Me and Me Girl at the Shaw this sum­mer and in­com­ing artis­tic di­rec­tor at the Arts Club in Van­cou­ver, told me about the day she and Mr. Carroll watched Jonah’s call­back. “He com­pletely ex­ploded out of that Skype screen into the room with us – so spir­ited and joy­ful,” re­calls Ms. Cor­co­ran, who went on to give him a num­ber of small roles in the thir­ties mu­si­cal, fea­tur­ing his danc­ing in its show-stop­ping num­ber, The Lambeth Walk. “We all knew we wanted him as part of the com­pany – he had that some­thing spe­cial that’s go­ing to

make some­one a star in the fu­ture.”

In­deed, Jonah was in the en­vi­able po­si­tion of get­ting more of­fers than he could ac­cept. He had, for in­stance, lined up a role in Joseph and the Tech­ni­colour

Dream­coat for the com­ing hol­i­days – but then turned it down af­ter he was cast in a big­ger show, the com­mer­cial Christ­mas pan­tomime at the El­gin Theatre in Toronto.

At the Shaw Fes­ti­val, Jonah was not just in Me and My Girl but also Rick Sa­lutin’s 1837: The Farm­ers’

Re­volt – the first time he had acted in a play rather than mu­si­cal. Off stage, he joined the cricket team, was part of the Shaw gospel choir and showed up reg­u­larly to classes that Mr. Carroll has been run­ning for the com­pany. There were al­ready plans in place to bring him back for the 2018 sea­son.

“Jonah was ev­ery­body’s friend,” says Travis See­too, a com­pany mem­ber who was in the same shows (or “on the same track,” in reper­tory theatre jar­gon) as Jonah in this sea­son and had grown close to him, record­ing mu­sic with him in their spare time. “He was the heart, soul and life of the party.”

The im­por­tance of ensem­ble

Mr. Carroll was about to turn off his cell and walk into a play in Toronto on July 11 when he got word of Jonah’s death. He made the call to can­cel that night’s per­for­mance of Me and My Girl, then got in his car and drove the 21⁄

2 hours back along the shore of Lake On­tario to deal with the cri­sis. “It’s just a play,” he said to me, when I sat down to in­ter­view him in Ni­a­gara-on-the-Lake a few weeks later.

The small, colo­nial-era town floats in the mid­dle of a sea of fruit farms and winer­ies, and the close-knit com­mu­nity of artists who work there at the Shaw Fes­ti­val make up a siz­able por­tion of the pop­u­la­tion. The On­tario reper­tory com­pany op­er­ates out of four the­atres and em­ploys more than 60 ac­tors each sea­son, al­most year-round – and about 600 employees in to­tal at in the sum­mer tourist months.

There’s no pro­to­col for what to do in a sit­u­a­tion such as this – but Shaw’s lead­er­ship did its best to man­age news that was trau­matic for them­selves as well. At the 15-minute call for Me and My

Girl, the show’s stage man­ager called the cast, orches­tra and crew out of their dress­ing rooms and into the green room of the Fes­ti­val Theatre where Shaw’s plan­ning di­rec­tor, Jeff Cum­mings, de­liv­ered the news. “I can’t re­ally de­scribe the dev­as­ta­tion, loss, sad­ness and shock that rip­pled through the room,” Mr. See­too says in an e-mail. “We all stayed in the green room for a long time cry­ing and con­sol­ing each other, tak­ing turns sup­port­ing and be­ing sup­ported.”

Shows at the Shaw Fes­ti­val in other the­atres around town were al­lowed to go on, their cast and crews as yet un­know­ing – but di­rec­tor Meg Roe shut down the dress re­hearsal of the Will Eno play Mid­dle­town, which was tak­ing place in a build­ing at­tached to the Fes­ti­val Theatre. The newly re­named Jackie Maxwell Stu­dio Theatre was trans­formed into an in-the-round gath­er­ing area with cof­fee and tis­sue boxes.

As cur­tain calls took place else­where around the bu­colic tourist town, ei­ther Mr. Carroll or ex­ec­u­tive di­rec­tor Mr. Jen­nings tried to let the rest of the com­mu­nity learn the news face to face. About 80 per cent of the staff was told in per­son – and a phone tree filled in the gaps as best it could be­fore Mr. Carroll sent out an e-mail, one of many he has since sent to the com­pany.

“The one thing that one has learned over sim­i­lar events in one’s life – not that there’s any­thing quite com­pa­ra­ble – is that you can’t com­mu­ni­cate too much,” says Mr. Carroll, whose best friend took his life 12 years ago. Pres­ence, he felt, was the most im­por­tant thing – in grief, as it is in theatre.

From the Stu­dio Theatre, ac­tor Marci T. House in­vited every­one over to her house – and the Shaw fam­ily filled it, over­flow­ing onto her porch and front lawn. Her neigh­bours, new­ly­wed ac­tors Kristi Frank and Jeff Irv­ing, lit a bon­fire in their back­yard, and any­one who wanted to sit in si­lence sim­ply watch­ing the flames did so late into the night.

By the next day, pro­fes­sional grief coun­cil­lors were on site at the Shaw Fes­ti­val, as they would be for weeks to come – but the com­pany con­tin­ued to look out for each other as well. A few ac­tors took it on them­selves to fill the green-room fridges with pre­cooked meals to make sure every­one was eat­ing, while a pair of In­dige­nous cast mem­bers led a smudg­ing of the the­atres Jonah had been per­form­ing in, at­tended by the full com­pany.

Only af­ter Mr. Carroll had con­sulted with the ensem­ble – the word does, af­ter all, come from French for “to­gether” – did they de­cide to start the process of get­ting the shows Jonah had been a part of back on stage. Me and My

Girl went first, just a day later – with David Ball, the as­so­ci­ate chore­og­ra­pher, step­ping into his fea­tured roles for the short term un­til an­other ac­tor could be hired.

Mod­i­fi­ca­tions nev­er­the­less had to be made: A stand­out num­ber early in the show called Think­ing

Of No One But Me, in which Mr. Ball, Mr. See­too and Jonah had orig­i­nally tossed the ac­tress Élodie Gil­lett around while she sang, had to be re­chore­ographed for two men and one woman. “I found it very dif­fi­cult to do it be­cause Jonah’s pres­ence was so keenly ab­sent,” Mr. See­too writes.

Since of­fi­cially tak­ing over the Shaw Fes­ti­val this sea­son, Mr. Carroll has made it a more ca­sual, friend­lier place – and, as part of that, he’s in­tro­duced a new ritual in which an ac­tor or a stage­hand or a front-of-house staff mem­ber gets up on stage be­fore each show to say hello to the au­di­ence. The day af­ter Jonah’s death, the artis­tic di­rec­tor took on that role him­self, ex­plain­ing to the Me and

My Girl au­di­ence that the mu­si­cal com­edy was miss­ing one of its youngest per­form­ers.

“It’s cer­tainly the tough­est per­for­mance I’ve ever gone through,” re­calls Ric Reid, a vet­eran ac­tor with the Shaw Fes­ti­val who acted along­side Jonah in both Me and My Girl and 1837 and had grown close to him. “It’s re­ally some­thing to see a cast of 23 peo­ple strug­gling so hard and yet putting out a show that is so en­ter­tain­ing that it makes peo­ple laugh un­der those con­di­tions.”

1837: The Farm­ers’ Re­volt, a more in­ti­mate show with just eight ac­tors play­ing mul­ti­ple roles, was even harder to re­sume. The drama about the Up­per Canada Re­bel­lion was cre­ated, in 1973, with in­put from the orig­i­nal cast. In the Shaw Fes­ti­val re­vival, the ac­tors were equally in­volved in shap­ing it. “Jonah’s creative fin­ger­prints are all over the piece,” Mr. See­too says.

Di­rec­tor Philip Akin came back to town to re­work the end­ing, where two of the rebels are ex­e­cuted – the stag­ing of the deaths were now too dis­turb­ing to en­act. “You have to do your first per­for­mance with­out him. You have to do your dance rou­tine with­out him,” Mr. Reid told me, when I talked with him a few weeks af­ter­ward. “Even this week, we’re still go­ing through firsts.”

I can’t imag­ine ac­tively feel­ing an ab­sence on stage next to you day in, day out through to Oc­to­ber – but Reid tells me per­form­ing can be ther­a­peu­tic. “The late [ac­tress] Joyce Cam­pion used to say: ‘When tragedy hits, you need Dr. Theatre,’ ” Mr. Reid says. “It’s a way of pay­ing trib­ute and fo­cus­ing and putting your en­ergy in a good spot.”

No clear an­swers

I went to visit Jonah’s par­ents at his fa­ther’s house in Ajax a month mi­nus a day af­ter their son’s dark­est day to learn more about him.

Daniel McIn­tosh and Lisa Daugh­arty, po­lice of­fi­cers both, sep­a­rated when Jonah was 5, but main­tained joint cus­tody and re­main close. Of­ten, Dan and Lisa would go to church to­gether on Sun­day with Jonah and his younger brother, Cody; Michelle, Dan’s wife and Jonah’s step­mother; and a grand­par­ent from one side or the other. “For peo­ple at church, we were the Mod­ern Fam­ily,” Dan says.

When I ar­rived, there were pic­tures of Jonah lined up on the kitchen table around a bam­boo box con­tain­ing his ashes dec­o­rated with mu­sic notes and a gui­tar. More photos cov­ered every inch of a fold­ing card table: In­fant Jonah, cap­tioned “Au­gust 16, 1994, 7 lbs, 6oz”; Jonah as a lit­tle boy, hold­ing baby Cody; the brothers as boys leap­ing over rocks to­gether. Nearby: a pic­ture of Jonah danc­ing joy­ously with his grand­mother, who in re­tire­ment has be­come an in­struc­tor and has taught ev­ery­thing from belly dance to ball­room, and an­other of Jonah, shirt­less with sus­penders, that re­minded his fa­ther of Leroy John­son in Fame.

From the later years of his life, Jonah’s par­ents have com­puter fold­ers full of dig­i­tal photos – as well as au­dio and video files scat­tered be­tween hard drives, In­sta­gram and Face­book. Theatre may be ephemeral – but young theatre per­form­ers now doc­u­ment so much of them­selves on­line that traces linger.

Lisa has found some so­lace in these mov­ing images ever since she learned of her son’s death, but Dan was only be­gin­ning to be able to find plea­sure in his son’s voice and move­ments again when I met with him; at first, he had to go out for air when some­one would press play.

Lisa showed me many of her favourite videos – a beau­ti­ful tune Jonah wrote about the melan­choly of the Christ­mas hol­i­days; a gor­geous per­for­mance by the slen­der, 6-foot-1 bari­tone of John Leg­end’s All of Me from his third year at Sheri­dan Col­lege in front a full band and back-up dancers; an In­sta­gram of him singing How Great Is Our God not long be­fore he died – which Dan, a Chris­tian, finds par­tic­u­lar com­fort in.

As we watched, Dan – who also de­scribes him­self as a “sports guy” – told me about Jonah’s al­laround ath­leti­cism as a boy, his sweet swing in the base­ball di­a­mond. It even­tu­ally be­came clear, how­ever, that his son’s main in­ter­ests laid out­side sports. He re­called once stand­ing in a line of dads at a foot­ball prac­tice as Jonah did pliés and pirou­ettes on the side­lines in full uni­form.

“I re­al­ized af­ter, if he’s coura­geous enough to do that at 14, 15 years of age in front of a group of mid­dle-aged men,” Dan says, “he knew where he was go­ing.”

At the same time, Jonah’s par­ents tell me that their son re­sisted be­ing de­fined by others grow­ing up. He would say he was both black (like his fa­ther) and white (like his mother) – and when he came out to his mother as a teenager, he didn’t want to be put in a box. “You know, Mom, I just want to be able to like who­ever I want,” is how he put it.

There were in­ci­dents of bul­ly­ing ow­ing to his skin colour and sex­u­al­ity. Dan once dropped Jonah off at a bus stop, and a boy made him cry by ask­ing him if his fa­ther was a rob­ber. In high school, boys he’d been play­ing foot­ball with for years called him a ho­mo­pho­bic ep­i­thet and com­plained that they didn’t want him in the locker room. In his young adult­hood, he also had to deal with com­ments in that vein from time to time, mainly on­line – dur­ing a long-dis­tance job in­ter­view, or on his Face­book page.

But Lisa has the screen­shots of her son’s smart, sen­si­tive re­sponses to the ig­no­rance he oc­ca­sion­ally en­coun­tered on the In­ter­net – and is proud of his com­mit­ment to so­cial jus­tice. She also showed me a Face­book post from Jonah’s 22nd birth­day: “Hap­pi­ness is a choice. It’s taken me my whole life to be happy with who I am. I know it’s al­ways go­ing to be a process, but now at 22, for the first time, I’m not afraid to say I’m proud of my eth­nic­ity, my sex­u­al­ity, my body, my dreams, things I fool­ishly was ashamed of.”

So, when a group of col­leagues from Lisa’s di­vi­sion showed up at the door of her home in Cour­tice at 10:20 p.m. on July 11, while she quickly knew it was a death no­ti­fi­ca­tion – “We’ve done the no­ti­fi­ca­tions. We know what it looks like” – she would never have guessed the cause of death. “Never in a mil­lion years,” she says.

Jonah’s par­ents wish, of course, there were clear an­swers. His mother won­ders if some blame can be placed on the de­mands of his cho­sen ca­reer, the steady adrenalin lead­ing up to open­ing nights fol­lowed by a with­drawal. (The Shaw Fes­ti­val has a num­ber of well­ness pro­grams al­ready in place for its artists – but Mr. Jen­nings tells me they’re work­ing on mak­ing them more pro-ac­tive and craft­ing bet­ter men­tor­ship pro­grams for young com­pany mem­bers.) His fa­ther notes, mean­while, that his son had episodes of what he would call anx­i­ety since he was a boy. Jonah also ex­pe­ri­enced a trauma when he was around 16 years old – one that he talked about only with his clos­est friends and his mother, who helped him get coun­selling. Later, in his sec­ond year at Sheri­dan Col­lege, he had flash­backs and his fam­ily helped him get pro­fes­sional help again.

He was pri­vate about this, and Lisa wants to con­tinue to re­spect that. I can un­der­stand – it’s im­pos­si­ble to know its rel­e­vance to the sui­cide. Jonah left no note, no ex­pla­na­tion, and of late, he told his mother only how happy he was in Ni­a­gara-on-the-Lake – in a job he said felt like a va­ca­tion, in an artis­tic com­mu­nity that he loved and with a ro­man­tic part­ner he thought might be “the one.”

“I was heartbroken be­cause Jonah used to tell me ev­ery­thing, al­most too much; every time he needed some­thing, he would call me,” she says. “I held out hope that maybe he put a let­ter in the mail. And noth­ing came.”

“Mys­tery is a part of life”

The day be­fore he died, Jonah and his part­ner, Mr. Tut­tle, vis­ited Brock’s Mon­u­ment, a col­umn that rises above Queen­ston Heights on the es­carp­ment. Jonah posted a photo of it to In­sta­gram. There’s some­thing beau­ti­ful in the un­re­mark­able cap­tion that was his fi­nal mes­sage to the world: “Statue right here is larger than it ap­pears.”

Writ­ing about Jonah’s death threat­ens to de­fine him by just one dark day, rather than the life he lived be­fore some­thing in­side him over­took him.

In his obit­u­ary, Jonah’s fam­ily thanked Mr. Tut­tle for mak­ing “Jonah’s last day on earth so very spe­cial” – but, when I talked to Mr. Tut­tle, he wanted to em­pha­size that what made that day so very spe­cial for him was how or­di­nary it was, how much smaller it was than it may ap­pear now. “We just had din­ner – it wasn’t like a mag­i­cal can­dlelit din­ner, it was just din­ner,” he says.

A mo­ment in time can be both or­di­nary and deeply sig­nif­i­cant at the same time; even the tini­est, most com­mon hu­man in­ter­ac­tion can also be mys­te­ri­ous and un­set­tling and tragic. To me, no re­cent play has man­aged to de­pict the way life can be both ba­nal and baf­fling – how just slightly out of the reach of un­der­stand­ing its joys and its tragedies can be – like Will Eno’s Mid­dle­town.

I saw Meg Roe’s gor­geous pro­duc­tion of this Amer­i­can play set in a small town dur­ing my last trip up to the Shaw Fes­ti­val in the Stu­dio Theatre at the end of July – and, even with­out know­ing the role that phys­i­cal space had played ear­lier that month, it turned me com­pletely up­side­down. I wept as I haven’t in years.

The cruel com­edy of Bene­dict Campbell’s po­lice of­fi­cer hold­ing a ba­ton to the neck of a lo­cal ad­dict and de­mand­ing: “Be filled with hu­mil­ity. With won­der and awe. Awe!” The beauty of the theatre fill­ing with tiny LED stars as Karl Ang’s as­tro­naut whirled around on a rolling chair and spoke of rocks and words and breath as be­ing “sa­credly and pro­foundly and mys­te­ri­ously – yeah, well – earthly.” The em­bar­rassed yet grate­ful look on Gray Pow­ell’s face when he runs into a friend at the hos­pi­tal af­ter at­tempt­ing sui­cide. The deep sad­ness in Moya O’Con­nell in the scene af­ter her char­ac­ter gave birth as she lis­tened to clas­si­cal mu­sic on the ra­dio with her baby and a nurse came in and silently filled her wa­ter glass.

I had seen Me and My Girl di­rec­tor Ms. Cor­co­ran af­ter the cur­tain call, look­ing stunned, and, when I talked to her about Jonah, we talked about Mid­dle­town as well. “For me, that play was a big part of griev­ing,” Ms. Cor­co­ran said to me. “There are some things that you can’t un­pack – mys­tery is a part of life.”

Sheri­dan Col­lege and Jonah’s fam­ily have set up The Jonah McIn­tosh Me­mo­rial Schol­ar­ship fund, a fundrais­ing cam­paign launched on Aug. 16, on what would have been his 23rd birth­day – it can be found at gofundme.com/jon­ahm­cin­tosh­memo­ri­alschol­ar­ship.


Top: Jonah McIn­tosh re­hearses with the rest of the cast of 1837: The Farm­ers’ Re­volt for the Shaw Fes­ti­val this sum­mer.

Bot­tom: From left, Jonah, at three years old, with his baby brother, Cody, at home in Ajax, Ont., in 1998; Jonah, left, with his fa­ther, Dan, cen­tre, and Cody in 2015; Cody, left, and Jonah at the gym; Mar­cus Tut­tle, left, and Jonah in Ni­a­gara Falls in July; Jonah with his mother, Lisa, in 2013; Jonah in Ni­a­gara-on­the-Lake, Ont., home of the Shaw Fes­ti­val, ear­lier this year.

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