This is the month when audience participation runs wild across the country, with children, parents and grandparents singing silly songs at the tops of their voices and crying out “Oh yes you did” and “He’s behind you” en masse.
Every Brilliant Thing also uses audience participation, but in a more sophisticated form. As we settled into our seats before the show began, we were handed a numbered sheet of paper and asked if we would read the unique piece of text when our number was called. I jokingly suggested to Jonny that he had cut up and distributed the whole script so the audience would perform the play in his stead. My joke wasn’t that far from the truth – several audience members were called upon to portray characters in the story. This might sound rather scary; but in fact knowing from the outset that practically all of us were going to have to play our small part when our turn came made this supposedly one-man show a comfortingly joint endeavour, with just a frisson of excitement – not that uncomfortable “don’t sit in the front row” fear of being picked on. Moreover, as Jonny moved around the audience chatting and handing out paper, he was able to gauge which individuals might be comfortable to do which parts – he has clearly got this down to a fine art, having performed this show several hundred times already.
The house lights never went down, and we sat together in the round in the brightly lit theatre as Jonny shared with us the story of the seven year old whose mother has “done something stupid” and who consequently starts to make her a list of things which make life worth living.
Every Brilliant Thing is a brilliant play. It evolved over several years, originating from a 15-minute monologue written by Duncan MacMillan, gradually growing – like the list it depicts – over the years via a series of festival readings and installations, and brought to its final reworked shape incorporating improvised material from Jonny Donahoe. The story it tells is so compelling and so powerfully presented, it felt truly autobiographical; but in fact it is a synthesis of stories both real and imagined. The starting point is the seven year old’s perspective, illustrating the child’s puzzlement and attempt to make sense of what is happening and to deal with it, and how this is carried through into adult life and adult relationships.
Jonny portrays this lingering childhood aspect of the central character perfectly and – despite his receding hairline and bushy beard – vividly evokes the seven year old, not just through his clothing (T shirt and shorts, ankle socks and sneakers) but through movement and manner, the combination of energy and playfulness and serious reflection and wonderment. He also manages the audience involvement with great skill and sensitivity, welcoming them into the story with gentleness and assurance, and showing warm appreciation and respect for their collaboration.
The play emphasises the importance of hope – because in order to be able to live in the present “we have to be able to imagine a future that will be better than the past”; and the play’s motivation is the importance of openly acknowledging the depression which affects us all, directly or indirectly – because “if you live a long life and get to the end of it without ever once having felt crushingly depressed, then you probably haven’t been paying attention”.
Depression and suicide are difficult topics but this play explores them in a humorous and inclusive way, and participating in it was a valuable and enjoyable collective experience for all of us. And, interestingly, looking round the rows of animated faces, I saw that the “all of us” on this occasion - like a typical pantomime audience - included all echelons of society, children, parents and grandparents. The play is achieving what it set out to do.