With minimal costuming, little-to-no sound design, and stripped- back, outdoor staging, Cooking for Grief at the 2021 Fringe Fest relies almost entirely on writing and performance to succeed. Luckily for us, Breanna Maloney’s thoughtful, semi-autobiographical exploration of loss does just that.

From the moment Johnnier Mejia’s Rob bursts on stage, late to a rehab group therapy session, his presence is commanding. Not just because he is the lead and this play digs into toxic masculinity, but because he is so real. Mejia’s naturalistic, understated approach is so good I almost forget he’s acting. I feel like I know this dude. I feel like I know all these characters—Junita Thiessen’s Tori, with her bottled-up rage and rightly-held disdain for shitty men, Aixa Kay’s Monique, the caregiving mother neglecting herself—I know these people. I’ve heard these stories. And not in a way that makes the telling of them in Cooking for Grief played out, but in a way that makes me keep chuckling to myself because they’re so relatable.

This relatability sets up a whole lot of catharsis. There’s a particularly satisfying moment where (without spoiling much), Éanna O’Dowd’s Jerome, the group’s therapist, mentions Rob’s “father’s recent passing,” and Mejia sharply cuts him off with: “death. He died.” If you are a fellow member of the Dead Dad Club, you have said that exact thing, in the exact tone of voice Mejia used.

Aside from minor issues with sound (which I imagine will be smoothed over post-opening night), the only element that fractures the realism is the supporting characters’ monologues. In general, it’s hard to land a monologue without falling into the “I am Delivering a Monologue” rhythm (you know the one)—because, well, no one speaks like that in real life unless they’re an asshole. And the “I am Delivering a Monologue” rhythm can work for some shows, but Cooking for Grief is at its best when the line delivery is at its most natural, and the theatricality of the monologues is jarring in comparison. It felt a bit like going from the line delivery of Bo Burnham’s Eighth Grade to the line delivery of Casablanca, then back to Eighth Grade. Thiessen and Kay are both capable actors—they shine in other moments of the show—but the directorial choice to play these moments so theatrically feels a bit off.

However, when every character’s backstory feels cranked up to ten, filled with intense grief and pain, resisting the melodrama seems tough. I believe part of the messaging we’re meant to walk away from this story with is, “see? Addicts are People Too.” To non-addicts, the strife these characters have faced would seemingly “justify” their addictions. But I wonder if that humanizing goal could have been better met by featuring the stories of addicts who have less palatable reasons behind their addictions. 

This show is particularly interesting to watch at the (hopeful) tail-end of a global pandemic, a time in which it’s been difficult for many of us to maintain a healthy relationship with substance use. While the story is set in a rehab—with a couple flashbacks and flashforwards made clear by impressively subtle yet distinctive shifts in blocking and tonality—it seems more to me about grief (as the title would suggest) than about addiction. Although these shifts serve as an effective thematic link for Cooking for Grief, they are not mutually exclusive.

It felt like the ultimate therapeutic session was Maloney’s in writing this play. She is clearly writing what she knows, and is vulnerable and generous to share the realizations one can only come to after living through profound grief. Thanks to a team of capable actors, Mejia in particular, Maloney’s script comes to life realistically and compellingly. For those who relate to the content, Cooking for Grief is a cathartic watch, peppered with moments of dark humour. And for those who don’t relate, this compassionate look into these people’s healing will serve as a tool for empathy and a relevant conversation starter.

Cooking for Grief is on at the 2021 Vancouver Fringe Festival from September 11th to September 18th. Tickets are available at vancouverfringe.com for $15 plus membership.