Theatre review: Women of the Fur Trade is a clever, anarchic take on Canadian history
Every performance, under Donna Spencer’s breezy direction, is consistently funny and fully realized
Women of the Fur Trade. Photo by Jon Benjamin
Firehall Arts Centre presents Women of the Fur Trade to February 23
IMAGINE THREE WOMEN in a small fort on the banks of Reddish River in the late 1800s, gathered around a kettle of tea. What might they talk about? Marriage? What a treaty actually means? Their families? The future of the land they live on? In under two subversive and snappy hours, playwright Frances Koncan sets it all up—and playfully imagines plenty of talk about the hunkiness of Louis Riel, too.
The moment the lights go up and the tune of a cheery jig softly fades, any expectations of a conventional period piece go out the window. On the walls is a haphazard mix of historical figures: Gabriel Dumont, John A. Macdonald (“the A stands for Asshole,” one character points out), and… Keanu Reeves. The dialogue is anything but period-accurate. The characters swear and joke like they’ve wandered in from the 21st century. With cheeky irreverence as one of the layers, Women of the Fur Trade is a clever, anarchic take on Canadian history with no interest in neatly re-creating the past.
The three women are Eugenia, an Ojibwe fur trapper; Marie-Angelique, a young Métis woman; and Cecilia, a pregnant settler. They vow to trade furs “furever” and pinky-promise their friendship, even as they squabble over the men they idolize—Marie-Angelique with Louis Riel, Cecilia with Thomas Scott, and Eugenia with a blunt skepticism about it all. Who has the better vision for the future? Which one of the two guys is hotter? Their debates are both funny and loaded with observations about race, politics, and the way each of them wishes to live their life.
Tensions are definitely there from the start and not helped by the fact that in the outside world, The Red River Resistance is brewing and Ottawa’s grip is tightening. At first, it’s not entirely clear why these three women are tied together, how they came to be friends, or if they’re just stuck in the same place at the same time. There’s camaraderie, there are uncomfortable exchanges, and there’s juicy gossip, sometimes all at once. The play confidently leans into this casualness and lets the three women exist in a messy in-between in the way they relate to each other and in how the play itself toys with the idea of time.
What is clear is that, whether they like it or not, men shape their lives. Cecilia doesn’t mind that so much. Perfectly happy to lay low and fit in by “sitting, rocking, drinking tea, smiling, and keeping quiet”, she is, after all, the prim and proper often clueless settler, still saying words like prithee and mistaking miigwech for a greeting. Kate Beresford plays her with a hilarious bumbling neuroticism that’s a strong contender for the show’s comedic standout.
Marie-Angelique and Eugenia, on the other hand, don’t have the same luxury of detachment. Marie-Angelique, in particular, is impossible to ignore. She’s the queen pin of the action, scheming a plan to start a life outside the confines of the fort or passionately declaiming her views, and Kaitlyn Yott carries that energy effortlessly and impressively.
Eugenia is the quietest of the three, but her presence is perhaps the most interesting. She possesses a dry-as-bone wisdom, shaped by being the only one with the ability to go off to hunt and trade—a way of life that, as the play progresses, we watch slowly being stripped from her. Danica Charlie taps into that looming emotion, and, when the moment calls for it, she’s quick and deadpan in cutting through the other two’s delusions.
When the men do finally show up—none other than the oft-discussed, politically opposing beaus, Louis Riel and Thomas Scott—in this fictionalized version, they’re travelling together, drawn to the fort by a letter from Marie-Angelique.
Their arrival kicks off a chain of events that escalates tensions in Reddish River, but the play isn’t interested in furthering these men’s mythologies. Instead, with the help of two distinctly funny characterizations—Wayne Lavallee as the oddball poet with bravado, Louis Riel, and Evan Rein as the idealist outsider-turned-radical opportunist, Thomas Scott—the show pokes a little fun. Their big fight is less an ideological battle and more of a macho display that does little to help the uneasy futures of our three protagonists.
Every single performance, under Donna Spencer’s breezy direction, is consistently funny and fully realized.
Some poignant gear shifts from comedy to something approaching existential horror (that I won’t spoil) are effectively employed, helped by eerie ambient sound design from Lavallee. Rebekah Johnson’s evocative lighting and the backdrop of vast prairie skies amplify the overwhelming yet distant presence of the outside world. And in Kimira Reddy’s set, the women remain mostly locked in place, only receiving updates from outside through conveniently fast, little red mailboxes.
Koncan’s women in the fort sit, wait, argue, and dream—swaying back and forth in their rocking chairs, caught in a loop that history barely took note of. Smartly, Women of the Fur Trade doesn’t try to break them out of it. It just lets them keep talking, and trust me, you’ll want to listen. 
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