Every Brilliant Thing by UK playwright Duncan Macmillan with Jonny Donahoe, follows the story of the Narrator, who begins the play as a naïve child of around 6 or 7 when they first encounter death, and carries through to early middle age, where they have a sadder and wiser perspective on life. To counter their looming existential dread and depression, the Narrator begins compiling a list of ‘every brilliant thing’ in their life, beginning in the single digits and eventually reaching the hundreds of thousands. The play is delivered largely in direct narration to the audience, punctuated by scenes with other characters. The format was fun, engaging, and easy to empathise with. For my performance, the Narrator was played by Gregory Cooper, but it is clear from the script’s design that gender is unimportant, and the show could have just as effectively been performed by his female counterpart, Harriet Moir. In fact, part of the pleasure of the play would be to view it again with the other actor and a different audience to see which moments land the same or differently. I was surprised by how quickly Cooper and the play pulled me into their touching world with a simple and delicate depiction of loss that at once set the tone, established the straightforward rules for audience interaction and conduct, and sent the narrative forward.

Viewers familiar with South American theatre maker Augusto Boal will know his concept of the ‘spect-actor,’ which is the audience member who witnesses the stage action but also gets to participate in it to an extent, helping to fashion and form the meaning of the piece. While the ideological underpinnings of this work are different to Boal’s, the play encourages certain audience members at certain times to offer contributions to the action. Far from being intimidating or putting audience members on the spot, these moments were often highlights of the show, framing audience members as important pieces of the story that it was impossible for them to fail at. It was a savvy move on director Lara Macgregor’s part to cast experienced comedians as the Narrator, who are already well versed at reading a room and gauging whether an individual is up to the task. They also have the improvisation chops to ‘save’ any curve balls that might come their way. Anyone who is feeling self-conscious or unsure about this kind of theatre setting should immediately dismiss those concerns: there is a simple mechanism for ‘opting out’ before the show begins, should you require it. Near the end of the show, where the setting transforms into a latter-day support group, it is clear that we ourselves are the support group and many of us know each other better than when we walked in. Each audience member has become one of the precious, ‘beautiful things.’ It’s a rare instance of theatre transcending itself to endow us with a sense of purpose and perspective about ourselves, and how we might relate to one another better.

Cooper, recovering vocally from the remnants of a cold or flu on the night I saw him, was a very capable host and performer. He moved easily through a wide range of scenes and emotions, often very funny; often touching and thoughtful too. Playing in the round and moving fluidly, he kept all four sides of the audience engaged and invested in the story. It is a testament to the director’s and actors’ work that the seams between performer and audience, planned event and improvisation, were difficult to make out. Every eventuality appeared to have been accounted for and prepared for. Audience participation, when required for the story, was simple and achievable, with a certain amount of ‘challenge by choice’ for the braver amongst us. Refreshingly, this was a solo performance that never required the actor to play multiple roles and hold a conversation ‘with themselves:’ I found this to be a relief, having become increasingly jaded with that mode of theatre. In one enjoyable moment among many, Cooper recruited two audience members to stand, hold, and slowly revolve an electric piano, as he ‘played’ and serenaded each side of the room: a moment of charming, rough-theatre magic.

The script flirts between performance and confessional; fiction and therapy factoids; between a ‘play’ and audience co-construction / make-believe. Staging the piece in a school hall gave a strong sense of the rough theatre and the metaphor (reality?) of a community support group – and it also connected me tangibly with other members of the audience because of our shared visibility. But the show would also sit just as comfortably in a conventional theatre, played in the round or not. One of the script’s many strengths is it seems so versatile to produce (not to mention, tour). A more formal theatre space with sculpted lighting would heighten the theatrical aspects of the show as it moves from scene to scene and allow the musical sound design to sit more comfortably in the space, which occasionally seemed at odds with the architecture and ambient light of the hall. On the other hand, if we are to ride with the rough theatre aesthetic, I would have loved to see the sound technician (Tabitha Littlejohn) become part of the audience round and deliver the songs on more low-fi, limited equipment.

Overall: a very enjoyable theatre experience, both funny and moving; light and serious. Go and see.

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A school hall on a chilly night. The audience, about 50-strong, sits on hard wooden benches around the performance area, a carpet square. Every audience member can see not only the performance, but also every other person in the audience.

The performer, who minutes before was welcoming the audience as they came in and handing out numbered cards with short messages, switches to the character of a young woman who proceeds to tell us her story.

It begins when her mother is admitted to hospital after doing something her father represents as “something stupid.” In a well-meaning but childish (she’s only 7 at the time) attempt to cheer her mother up, the narrator compiles a list of positive, comforting things such as ice cream, bubble wrap and cycling downhill. After being lost for several years, the list reappears at a bleak time and contributes to the narrator’s own recovery. The original goal of 1000 brilliant things is eventually reached and surpassed, again and again.

On opening night, performer Harriet Moir did a great job, quickly establishing intimacy and rapport with the audience, not a completely easy task with people watching from four directions, but helped by closeness and, sometimes, even sitting down on one of the benches.

Audience participation went well beyond what is usual. Most of us had the relatively easy task of calling out the words on our numbered cards, but a (probably) lucky few found themselves improvising quite specific parts – for example, as a father, a boyfriend, a school counsellor or a university lecturer. Everyone called on in this way responded with commendable willingness and originality.

Despite the play’s subject, there isn’t any real pathos or strong portrayal of the deep misery that depression inflicts. Essentially it’s a comedy and it doesn’t aspire to providing definitive answers, but uses humour and audience involvement to convey its message that little things, even if they seem insignificant in themselves, can bolster resilience by adding up to something meaningful and beneficial. 

Who is the play (written by UK playwrights Duncan Macmillan and Jonny Donahoe) intended for? People with an interest in mental health, including sufferers, parents and health professionals, certainly, but really just about anyone. Suicide is mentioned in ways probably unlikely to be harmful, but may cause some people to consider whether or not to attend. 

Every Brilliant Thing has been produced internationally since its UK premiere in 2014, and already several times in Aotearoa New Zealand. Much of this production’s charm lies in its community focus, and this is shown in the choice of venues (Dunedin North Intermediate School, and Waitati Hall), the use of alternating performers (Harriet Moir and Gregory Cooper, both, interestingly, comedians), minimal props, appropriate music and all-round informality. 

Theatre production company Birds of a Feather was launched in Dunedin last year, and this is its second production. I can’t say it has the polish or audacity that made Prima Facie production of the year at the 2024 Ōtepoti Dunedin theatre awards, but its warmth and relevance make it  worthwhile. I look forward to seeing what producer and director Lara Macgregor does next.

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