Every Brilliant Thing

CONTENT WARNING: This article contains discussion of mental health. If you are suffering from any of the issues that have been discussed or need assistance, please contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 or Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636.

Every Brilliant Thing is simple and heartfelt. It is a solo performance, almost a memoir, in which our protagonist (Steve Rodgers) recounts his life thus far under the shadows of death and depression. When he was seven, he tells us, his mother “attempted” for the first time because she couldn’t see why life was worth living. With the clarity that only a seven-year-old can muster, he begins writing a list. A list of “every brilliant thing” he can think of in life: “Ice cream, things with stripes, bubble wrap.” He leaves it in places where his mum will find it. Because how could she not see? Life is brilliant. Our storyteller relates his changing relationship to the list, from getting help with the list to the throwing out, rediscovery and fanatical rebuilding of it: “Finding a hairdresser that does what you want.” “Sex!” Every Brilliant Thing doesn’t show that there is light at the end of the tunnel. Instead, it shows you all the glimmering things that surround you for every step of the tunnel’s length.

In the pre-show, Rodgers introduces himself personally to a number of audience members. He is warm and welcoming. When the play really begins, the stage lights expand outward and bathe the audience in a wash as if the house lights were still on. It is a clear indication: we are part of this; we are here together. Duncan Macmillan’s script, Kate Champion’s direction, and Rodgers’ rendition ensure that every audience member feels this deeply from the get-go. 

It is rare to see such successful audience interaction. Some of the audience were given a sheet of paper with a number and a “brilliant thing” written on it. Rodgers would call out the number, and the audience member would respond happily, laughing with the absurdity and insight of the list. Props were called for from the audience (“Does anyone have a book? Anyone at all?”) and some even took part in the action. All participation was well-tempered and a group enjoyment rather than inspiring the cringe that forced audience participation often brings.

The play is about suicide and mental illness, but also about all the best parts of life. Through intelligent and unpretentious design and audience involvement, the interrogation doesn’t become bland, but includes everyone because suicide is an issue that can affect everyone. The show hums: 'You are part of this; we are here together.' It is a call to arms. Community is key.

To call this piece life-affirming is to further wring a well-wrung cloth. More than affirming that life is good or worth living, it fills the audience with a sense of elation. Its ethos may well be that even though things are bad, life can be euphoric. American philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson called life “a boundless privilege.” Rodgers’ performance is never melodramatic but consistently vulnerable and affecting. Leaving, the audience feels elated by the possibility of brilliance in life. And as much as life may be a boundless privilege, Every Brilliant Thing (though bounded) is a great privilege to watch.