“WHEN EVERYTHING IS TAKEN FROM US, MEMORY BECOMES ENTERTAINMENT, PUNISHMENT, AND PROOF THAT ANOTHER LIFE ONCE EXISTED”

By Charlotte Mason-Mottram | Mason-Mottram ⭐⭐⭐⭐ | Press Invite

There could hardly be a more fitting home for A Slow Fire than Jermyn Street Theatre. In Simon Stephens’ post-apocalyptic new play, directed by Rex Ryan, the audience becomes part of that claustrophobia. Ashton (Ross Gaynor) and Reece (Ian Toner) have spent three years sheltering in an underground bunker. Flickering lights and crackling, nostalgic vinyl welcome us into their strange little safe haven, while the horrors outside remain out of sight.

At first, though, understanding exactly what is happening proves difficult. Ashton and Reece launch into conversations that feel strangely rehearsed rather than lived in. Are they friends? Lovers? Actors? Slowly, we realise they are performing fragments of one another’s memories, endlessly replaying moments from the world before: the death of Ashton’s mother, Reece’s strained relationship with his son. They correct each other when a line or intention isn’t quite right, trying to preserve or reconcile with the past through performance.

It’s an intriguing exploration of human nature, although one that takes slightly too long to reveal itself. The opening exchanges can feel slightly alienating before we understand their purpose. Perhaps that disorientation is intentional? We have, after all, been dropped into a world where the rules and wider context are not yet understood.

What happens beyond the bunker is similarly vague. We never learn precisely what caused the apocalypse, but ultimately, it doesn’t particularly matter. Ákos Lustyik’s soundscape fills in what Stephens leaves unwritten: howling winds, relentless rain, and the suggestion of fire and destruction create an outside world far more frightening because we can only imagine it.

Gaynor is particularly convincing as the increasingly unwell Ashton. Coughing blood, spluttering, sweating, and violently shivering, he makes the cold almost palpable. Sitting comfortably in the warmth of the theatre while watching his body deteriorate creates an uncomfortable contrast.

Then Presley (Fionn Ó Loingsigh) arrives gung-ho (or gun-ho), bursting quite literally into Ashton and Reece’s carefully constructed world with a generator, a gun, and some suspiciously fresh “pork”. His presence changes the rhythm immediately; however, Presley eventually joins the others’ reenactments and, briefly, the possibility of something new hooks us in for the second half.

We then begin tightening towards an unsettling conclusion. One element of the final revelation feels quite predictable, but the preceding twist surrounding the “pork” makes up for it. At its most effective, the tension in this play is tangible.

There are questions A Slow Fire deliberately (I think) refuses to answer. The precise nature of Ashton and Reece’s relationship remains elusive, as do many of the practicalities of their survival. At times, that ambiguity enriches the play; elsewhere, it frustrates.

Yet perhaps certainty is beside the point. Ashton and Reece have reached the end of the world and still spend their days telling stories. They obsess over getting the words right, reconstructing conversations with people who may no longer exist, and returning again and again to the moments they wish they could change. When almost everything else has been taken from them, memory becomes entertainment, punishment, and proof that another life once existed.

A Slow Fire asks what remains of us when the people, places, and possessions that make up a life disappear, and how hope can manifest through stories.

A Slow Fire is running at Jermyn Street Theatre until Saturday 26 September.

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Photo Credit: Alex Brenner