Every Brilliant Thing Is a Short Solo Play Worth the Time

Why am I crying over a borrowed coat?

We’re barely 10 minutes into Every Brilliant Thing, and I’m already getting misty as the Storyteller, the one and only official performer, clutches an audience member’s folded white windbreaker. Another random audience member approaches the jacket with a pencil, the Storyteller’s lip quivers, and I’m swallowing the catch of a sob in my throat.

I know I’m being emotionally manipulated. That coat is not actually a dog named Sherlock Bones, the pencil is not actually a syringe for euthanization, and the Storyteller is not actually a 7-year-old child saying farewell to their beloved pet. I’m not a fool. I’m a smart, critical thinker who is far too wise to fall for the machinations of a play setting the stakes of death through a child’s eyes.

But there I am, getting caught up in the story. And I have a choice. One: Remain aloof, scrutinize each word and gesture onstage, and skewer their artificial nature. Or two: Accept the world of Every Brilliant Thing. Accept the coat as a dog, the audience as participator filling out the world of memory, and the Storyteller’s gentle guidance throughout the tale. 

Two is a much better option.

Folks may know about Every Brilliant Thing’s current Broadway revival, thanks to Daniel Radcliffe’s recent Tony-nominated performance, but Georgetown Palace throws a slice of the award-winning show right into our Texan laps. I promise, Georgetown isn’t too far for a tale like this. Yes, the drive may be half of the play’s running time. But the food for thought will last far past the journey back home.

First, a quick content warning. The play opens with the Storyteller describing their first concepts of death as a child for a very real reason: The action really begins with their mother’s first suicide attempt. It’s the moment that spawns “the list,” an ever-expanding numerical accounting of the brilliant things in this world. As the Storyteller grows, so does the list. Ice cream may always be No. 1, but the intricacies of falling in love for the first time, of appreciating a haircut done just the way you want, of the word “plinth,” all expand with the Storyteller’s experiences. There are points the list gets set aside, but it serves as a touchpoint as we discover a life grown from pain and beauty, reaching toward hope.

The Palace brilliantly dual-cast this show. Jacob Rosenbaum and Sandy D’Amato switch off performances as the Storyteller, adding an extra level of novelty to each night. That’s heightened by the extreme audience participation (only with consent, of course). Viewers can add to the action on levels ranging from reading aloud list items to embodying characters from the Storyteller’s life. Opening night, Rosenbaum’s shinily sincere Storyteller gently guided participants through lines and actions. He expertly milked the humor of each situation, leaning into silences from an initially unsure father or playing up a sassy professor’s performance. These improvisational interludes lent lightness to the entire production. 

It’s a delicacy that Every Brilliant Thing holds in softly cupped hands. How easily this story could break or crack, how quickly it could fracture and become unpalatable. But instead it glows. Warmth radiates from the Storyteller’s message. Playwrights Duncan Macmillan and Jonny Donahoe crafted a careful, thoughtful, and effervescent script. This could easily go off the rails into cloying saccharine. Some could argue it does! But I believe this play and these performances pull off a remarkable feat. They manage to acknowledge the narratives around suicide with nuance and grace. Wisely, they include statistics and science around depression and children of suicidal parents. There are resources stated explicitly in the text (thank you, Samaritan guidelines) and projected during the bows. 

The list isn’t presented as a one-size-fits-all guarantee to heal any malady. But it can help. It’s presented along with direct appeals to please, not follow through with any actions or plans. Reassurances that things get better. Because life? Can be brilliant.

This article appears in June 26 • 2026.

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