Jonny Donahoe in 'Every Brilliant Thing' at Barrow Street

Even the most dry-eyed among us get weepy in December. There's something about short, dark days piling up toward another year's end, while carolers trill about comfort and joy, that brings out the Niobe in men and women of stone. Put one of them in front of a television with James Stewart on the brink in 'It's a Wonderful Life,' and you'll need mops to wipe up the tears.

If you've finally had your fill of that movie but are still in search of seasonal catharsis, might I suggest a very charming alternative, one that offers sentimentality without shame? It's called 'Every Brilliant Thing,' and it's pretty much guaranteed to keep your eyes brimming.

Granted, you may have to restrain yourself from out-and-out bawling. You see, even though it's advertised as a one-man show, it's quite possible that you'll be asked to become a cast member of this production, which opened on Sunday night at the Barrow Street Theater. And you wouldn't want to let down its ingratiating star, the British comedian Jonny Donahoe, by blubbering.

Oh, dear. I have the feeling I may have scared you off with that last paragraph since it refers to things that give many New Yorkers I know the willies: one-person shows, British humor and (this is often the deal breaker) audience participation. But 'Every Brilliant Thing,' written by Duncan Macmillan (with Mr. Donahoe) and directed by George Perrin, has a way of turning perceived bugaboos into blessings.

Like 'It's a Wonderful Life,' in which Stewart is talked out of offing himself by a visiting angel, 'Brilliant' (adapted from a short story by Mr. Macmillan) pits reasons to live against the urge not to. In this case, the advocate for team life is our narrator (Mr. Donahoe), who describes growing up with a suicidal mother, who first tries to kill herself when he is 7.

At that time, he begins compiling a list of the greatest sources of pleasure in life, leaving itemized pieces of paper for his mother to find. These correspond to identically numbered notes that are distributed by Mr. Donahoe among the audience before the show. And when he calls out a number - say, 5 - the designated audience member is required to respond with what is written on his or her note. (For 5, it's 'things with stripes'; mine, No. 999,997, was 'the alphabet.')

Our narrator maintains that list throughout his youth. And it sustains him through watersheds that include not only subsequent suicide attempts by his mother but also his going to the university, falling in love for the first time and setting up his own home.

He has inherited a love of music (preferably on vinyl LPs) from his dad, and the list is annotated by fragments of recordings by artists like Ray Charles and Etta James. And monologue turns into dialogue as Mr. Donahoe recruits various audience members to portray his father, a school guidance counselor, an English teacher, his girlfriend and the veterinarian who introduces him as a young boy to the reality of death when the child's beloved old dog is put to sleep.

I am pleased and surprised to report that on the night I saw the show, none of these interactions felt remotely painful or embarrassing. (And kudos to my fellow critics Alexis Soloski and Adam Feldman, who were inspired as the teacher and the veterinarian.) That's because everything about 'Brilliant' is designed to put us at ease.

The reconfigured in-the-round theater exudes the intimacy of an informal living room. Mr. Donohoe presides over it as a host who is skilled in the art of disarming; he generates the illusion that he is somehow our acquaintance of long standing. He knows us well enough to tease us, it seems, but also likes us enough to keep us from making fools of ourselves. This balance between acuity and affability isn't nearly as effortless as Mr. Donahoe makes it appear. The script walks a similarly fine line with unobtrusive artistry.

After all, its premise isn't so different from that of the cuddly scene from 'The Sound of Music' in which a nightgown-clad Julie Andrews sings 'My Favorite Things' to a brood of impish children frightened by a thunderstorm. Mr. Macmillan's play, though often very funny, is less resolutely cheerful.

It is fully aware of the gravitational pull of the darkness that beckons the narrator's mother and speaks to him as well. In the face of great loss and depression, a real effort of will is required to recall why it's worth continuing with life. That will is the force that animates 'Every Brilliant Thing' and keeps it afloat for the captivating hour of its duration. Being an active part of its creative team takes the chill off the depths of a light-starved winter.

Lokasi:

Share :