Having caught this at Fringe last summer, I was curious how the production had developed since then. Despite a significant 45 minutes added to the run-time, I can’t really identify the new material. My feelings towards the show—its strengths and weaknesses—remain the same. Though Promise Productions, in this new staging by director Erin Jones, has increased the production values; I feel this throws some of its issues into greater relief.
Things We Lost in the Fire is written by Deon Denton, who also plays the role of Miss Effie—den mother to a community of building residents in an urban low-rise. Deon has given herself some of the best zingers and her warm, eccentric portrayal make her an endearing central figure. Like the characters she looks after, she’s a bit of a cliché—a wise and wisecracking spinster with her menagerie of broken humanity.
After their building succumbs to a devastating fire, an Investigator (Brooke Friendly) questions each of the residents. Structured like a true crime procedural, we flash back and forth between these interrogations and the sordid interpersonal dynamics that lead to the blaze. An aspect of the Fringe production that I miss is the live presence of this investigator. Planting him in the audience gave us a better sense of his personality and we empathized with him as their cagey responses caused frustration. As a disembodied voice, he feels more like a plot contrivance.
That plot involves the interconnected lives of seven residents whose names are withheld for most of the play—a choice later revealed to be thematically relevant. There is a young Busker (Lucy Ellis), struggling to establish herself as a musician and, with her mother, The Compliant Wife (Lizette Mynhardt), survive the Abusive Husband’s (Joshua Bishop) violence and vitriol. A Police Officer (Kayne Wylie) withdraws from his Good Wife (Marie MacDonald) and their children after a deathly mistake on the job sends him spiralling into guilt. An Unsatisfied Husband (Matt Scerri) cheats on his wife, the Prude (Jen Hashimoto), when she won’t abandon her morals to satisfy his desire for a threesome.
For the most part, the performances have an affected, overly gestural quality that I found rather alienating. There are ugly fights, attempted seductions, even some heartfelt connection and joy as these people wrestle with their domestic dysfunctions. It’s often pretty hokey, but there are a handful of moments that transcend the soap opera dramatics. Bishop’s convincing portrait of a sociopathic scumbag is legitimately upsetting. Paired with him, Mynhardt’s abject trauma is intensely uncomfortable to witness.
Surrounding brief, inspired pockets of tension and authentic emotion, many of these narrative snapshots feel too much like scenes. And the transitions between these scenes haven’t been finessed, heightening the overall staginess. There are some effective needle drops and a couple of montages that, though cheesy, do have a certain charm.
Harry Dieu’s minimal set—a sofa, a small table and some various chairs—represent all of the various apartments. Silhouettes of fire escapes, window treatments and nighttime cityscapes are projected onto some tall, white fabric panels to add some visual interest. Amy Reuben’s lighting design drenches these panels in blue or red to establish mood, but these flourishes are a little flat and unmotivated.
Despite my issues with the play and production, both its Fringe version and here, I never lost interest. And I fully appreciate how effectively Denton captures that inner-city phenomenon of existing alongside people for years and never even knowing their names. After some heated bickering, their conspiratorial bond to protect one of their number is suitably cathartic, as is a certain character’s just desserts.


