A one-woman show. A six-year-old’s solution to adult problems. A list of things that make life brilliant, in order to counteract her mother’s suicide attempt. A list on that show (and life in general, as others can always influence a brilliant things list) that has no particular order.
Rebecca Spence as the most delightfully heartbreaking interactive monologist.
Doggie kisses.
An audience full of strangers that, by the end of the show, feel like longtime friends.
Sharing an inspirational ninety minutes with a dear friend.
Tearjerking light work (thanks to production designer Scott Davis or master electrician Blake Cordell) made up of upside-down household lamps.
Crisp autumn mornings.
Duncan Macmillan’s script, which takes depression on a comedic ride while never dismissing the reality of living with depression and the effects it has on those around you.
A good cup of coffee.
The handful of audience members who seamlessly participated in the show despite audience participation misgivings in the beginning.
Vinyl records (the protagonist is totally right, they do sound better).
Jessica Fisch’s light-handed direction, which allowed Spence to embrace the role and the entire room.
Sweater weather that doesn’t get interrupted by a seventy-degree afternoon.
Everything about Eric Backus’ sound design as a character all its own.
Theater in all of its brilliance.
Depression. Although it can make life unbearable, it also makes those bright days a little bit brighter after living through the dark ones.
Walking in the rain with people that you love.
Absorbing the stark realities of “Every Brilliant Thing” knowing personally how devastating depression can be while also being able to laugh in the face of bitter truths.
Sunshine peeking through a cloud-scattered sky.
Spence ad-libbing with folks she’s never met and treating those newcomers as dear friends.
A hug from someone you haven’t seen in far too long.
BoBo the sock-puppet therapy dog (whose name changes every performance).
The undeniable beauty of a child’s optimism.
Spence assigning each member of her audience a specific memory as if she is trying to pinpoint your connection to said memory.
Warm chocolate chip cookies.
Knowing exactly what Spence means when she refers to that gut instinct of knowing something is wrong before you are actually told something is wrong.
Old-book smell.
Seeing Spence masterfully take over a room, compelling the audience to, at times, turn completely around so as to not miss a second of her performance.
Curling up with a soft blanket.
Learning the cues of the protagonist’s father’s moods by the music he plays from his study.
This play.
(Amanda Finn)
Windy City Playhouse (South), 2229 South Michigan, (773)891-8985, windycityplayhouse.com, $55-$75. Through December 8.
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