Theatre in Review: Every Brilliant Thing (Hudson Theatre)

	Daniel Radcliffe. Photo: Matthew Murphy

Every Brilliant Thing centers on a list, compiled by the play's protagonist, of the details that make life worth living, and if Daniel Radcliffe isn't on it, that needs to be rectified immediately. Whatever you think about this parlor game/pep rally/group therapy exercise, it unquestionably demonstrates Radcliffe's mastery over the audience. This is not entirely a surprise; quite apart from everything else, it was only two or three seasons ago that he regularly stopped the show at the Hudson with his furious rendition of "Franklin Shepard, Inc." in the hit revival of Merrily We Roll Along. (You can supply your own list of his memorable film and stage performances; I still fondly recall his astonishing work in Martin McDonagh's The Cripple of Inishmaan). This time, the actor appears without a supporting cast, a dramatic conflict, or, indeed, a net, and his triumph is fully earned.

Actually, the part about not having a cast isn't entirely true. Working with a script that leaves ample room for improvisation, Every Brilliant Thing is likely the last word in audience participation. As you enter the auditorium. Radcliffe is already onstage, chatting people up. (Vicki Mortimer's set includes three-sided seating onstage and a set of stairs leading down to the orchestra level.) What first appears to be an extended meet-and-greet with the star is really an extended act of solicitation: Radcliffe intends to make the audience his collective co-conspirator, and a surprising number of individuals will be drafted. Their roles are many: Some will shout out a single line on cue; others will stand in for significant supporting characters, speaking lines fed to them by the actor. (Two are enlisted to hold a Yamaha keyboard while Radcliffe noodled around with it.) Imagine working with a different set of strangers eight times a week, and you can grasp the degree of difficulty Radcliffe embraces.

And he does so joyously. Gifted with a bottomless fund of goodwill and the energy of a terrier on speed, he bounces around the stage like a human Super Ball. A friendly, pop-eyed dynamo, he is the master of the revels, playground ringleader, and crisis counselor, rolled into one. Ironically, all this energy is expended on a story about the crippling effects of depression.

"The List began after her first attempt. A list of everything brilliant about the world," he says. His unnamed character is just a boy when his mother tries to kill herself. In a poignantly innocent gesture, he begins compiling the said list, hoping to restore her relish for life. The initial entries are endearingly childlike: "Ice cream. Water fights. Staying up past your bedtime and being allowed to watch TV. Things with stripes." As the years go by, however, and the number of entries runs to the hundreds of thousands, they become more complicated, even baroque: "Hairdressers who listen to what you want. Buster Keaton, oblivious as a house falls towards him, but standing in the perfect spot to pass safely through a window. Falling asleep as soon as you get on a plane, waking up when you land, and feeling like you've teleported."

Or how about this mini-masterpiece: "The uncanny sensation of being on a train and absent-mindedly watching the world go by as you pull out of the station only to realize it was the train next to yours that was moving and you're back in the station, were always in the station, haven't moved at all, and for a disorienting moment you fully comprehend the fallibility of the mind, how our perception of reality is nothing but a flawed, patchwork interpretation based on assumptions." Yep. I know that one well.

Flawed assumptions are the point: As the narrator grows older and his mother makes another attempt, the list continues to metastasize without achieving its goal. In college, he comes to understand the "Werther effect," a term derived from Goethe's novel, which asserts that "Suicide is contagious." He adds, "Did you know, in the month after Marilyn Monroe's death by overdose, the number of suicides among Americans increased by twelve percent?"

For all his contemplation of the subject, however, the narrator fails to grasp the knock-on effects of a loved one's mental illness until he marries the man of his dreams, only to become increasingly withdrawn and emotionally unavailable. (The script is loose-limbed enough that the narrator can be played by a man or a woman -- a regional theatre production featured the cabaret star Liz Callaway -- who can be played as straight or gay. At the performance I attended, the narrator fell for a man. Your mileage may vary.)

Every Brilliant Thing is notable for its whimsical, glad-handing manner and the grave seriousness of its subject, a strategy that induces a certain cognitive dissonance. And Radcliffe is so accomplished at ensorcelling us that it might not be until after you leave the theatre that you notice the thinness of the script by Duncan Macmillan with Jonny Donahoe. (Macmillan is the author of People, Places, and Things, a harrowing comedy about addiction seen at St. Ann's Warehouse in 2017, and Donahoe is a UK comedian who has done Every Brilliant Thing in many engagements.)

In some ways, the script is more like a roadmap, giving the performer alternate lines and indicating spots where details can be made up on the spot. Possibly because the authors prefer to keep their options open regarding the choice of star and venue, the piece is alarmingly vague with details. We learn very little about the narrator or his family life; despite his insistence that his childhood was filled with happy moments, his parents remain ciphers. His spouse is a saintly figure viewed through gauze. The show's TED Talk manner can be engaging, but its staying power is entirely dependent on the star. Call it a PSA with benefits.

Because Radcliffe is so popular, and he delivers so powerfully, and the message is a vital one, none of the above may matter. Macmillan and his co-director Jeremy Herrin have certainly provided their star with an ideal showcase. Mortimer's set nicely accommodates these interactive proceedings, and Jack Knowles' lighting, featuring rows of exposed bulbs with glowing filaments, is attractive throughout. (I hope the costume designed by Mortimer is made of durable fabric, given the way Radcliffe is dripping with sweat by the curtain call.) Tom Gibbons' sound design is unusually complex for a show of this type, featuring a system for the onstage audience and reinforcement for all the audience members who join the action. Gibbons also delivers the many alluring jazz selections required by the script, including Erroll Garner's "Misty" and Etta James' "At Last." Also featured is a song by Daniel Johnston, who, one is interested to discover, struggled with bipolar disorder, an illness perhaps shared with the narrator's mother.

In a show that runs the gamut from deep grief to enthusiastically partying down, one may feel a tad of whiplash from time to time. Certain naturally retiring audience members may balk at being high-fived by Radcliffe or getting up to dance en masse. If the words "audience participation" make you nervous, I'd give West 44th Street a wide berth for the next couple of months. Still, Every Brilliant Thing is an event, both deeply theatrical and, in its best moments, realistic about its painful subject. If it sometimes coasts on star power, it has a star whose commitment never flags, not even for a split second. Put Daniel Radcliffe high on that list, right above "ice cream." --David Barbour