I Am Not Margaret Mahy at BATS Theatre is a charming, if underbaked, portrait of a New Zealand icon. Adapted from the beloved children’s author’s essay Notes of a Bag Lady by Jane Waddell, who also performs the piece, I Am Not Margaret Mahy is an affectionate tribute to the eccentric writer but does little to challenge the public perception of her. 

The play opens with Waddell as Margaret (we assume, though occasionally the text gestures towards a metatheatrical framework which is never fully fleshed out) pottering around Lucas Neal’s cosy set, a beautifully rendered artist’s studio/living space full of books, pinecones, suitcases and other bric-a-brac. As Margaret interacts with the space, playfully re-appropriating the objects around her for use in the stories she tells, we discover that the set’s deceptive realism holds magical secrets – a desk that’s full of water, books that glow when opened.

Director Stella Reid keeps Waddell moving constantly throughout the play’s hour-long runtime, exploring new props and set pieces with each anecdote and continually transforming the space around her. What could have been a fairly static piece in the wrong hands is enlivened by energetic direction and an inventive use of space.

As a performer, Waddell has an easy rapport with her audience. She is at her best when personifying Margaret as a cheeky, rebellious child, a stage in the author’s life which Waddell narrates with mischievous energy. Waddell neatly captures Mahy’s wicked sense of humour, and is able to laugh off a few opening night flubs with a wry comment or two, which only endear her more to the audience. Waddell’s narration style, however, can become a little repetitive as she tends to use the same vocal cadence for every sentence – some more modulation would make the text seem less ‘memorised’.

Most of the play is spent recounting amusing episodes from Mahy’s past: her childhood as an aspiring witch and Jungle Book-style wild boy, her half-hearted attempts at a nursing career and joining the police force, the brief experiences that inspired some of her more well-known stories. These little tales are funny, but rarely add up to anything beyond the surface-level; no attempt is made to complicate the portrait Mahy paints of herself as New Zealand’s eccentric Nana – a little cheeky, a little naughty, a child at heart. A short reference is made to Mahy’s 2009 drink driving conviction, but this is brushed aside; Margaret briefly mentions that she has two children, but we never delve into her family life at all.

What is frustrating about I Am Not Margaret Mahy is its lack of ambition as a piece. It is content to entertain the audience with diverting anecdotes, without ever exploring anything of substance. We never get a sense of Margaret Mahy as a human being with loves, pains, fears, hopes and sadnesses – just the image of herself she’d like to project. The problem may lie with the source material; I assume that the original essay is itself nothing more than a collection of anecdotes and musings rather than a full autobiography, and perhaps it is unfair to demand any more from an adaptation. Still, after the play comes (very abruptly) to an end, I leave the theatre feeling unsatisfied.

I Am Not Margaret Mahy is by no means a bad play, and despite the lightness of its content it is an easy, enjoyable way to pass an hour. As a collection of delightful stories, told by an engaging performer and supported by inventive design, it is a success. As a theatrical exploration of one of New Zealand’s most well-known literary figures, I Am Not Margaret Mahy barely scratches the surface. 

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