Every Brilliant Thing

This documentary is a bitter sweet journey through the world of depresssion, or mental ilness as a whole. The genuiness of the presentation, of the presenter himself and the pure joy and feelings that can be seen on his face at times makes it so worth watching. In a world most times so disconected from real emotion, it is so rare that someone can be so expressive in language. Simple words used, but deep meanings. Highly recommended for anyone that is not to proud to feel like a little kid again, with all the good and bad things that can shape you in ways you will never fully understand.

A must-watch for anyone who has experienced loss, struggled with mental health, or simply wants to reflect on the beauty of being alive.

Told with humor, vulnerability, and direct audience interaction, the story follows a protagonist who, as a child, creates a list of "brilliant things" to help his mother battle depression. The simplicity of the list contrasts beautifully with the complex emotional struggles faced by the characters.

The play balances its heavy themes with moments of levity, showing how even the smallest joys-like ice cream or the sound of laughter-can make life worth living. Ultimately, Every Brilliant Thing is a celebration of resilience, imagination, and the things that keep us going, no matter how difficult life may seem.

There are many reasons this one-man show is great but my gut says the best reason is because no conclusions were drawn about how to solve depression and suicide. It's one mans approach to coping with bipolar disorder in his family and in himself. It is brilliant in every way. Watch it and if you've ever suffered from depression you'll be glad you took the time.

This play arrived in my life during one of its most desolate chapters. Years later, I still returned to the theater three times to relive it. While Jonny Donahoe cast a spell over New York audiences with his singular brilliance, the production in my country was anchored by Bora Akkas - an actor of extraordinary depth. A haunting symmetry binds their stories: his performance, too, unfolded under a personal shadow, serendipitously aligned with the loss of a dear friend.

From the play's indelible list, Item 45 remains pinned above my desk: "45. Hugging."

I once exchanged letters with Duncan Macmillan, the playwright - a man so analog, he eschews email entirely. Our correspondence unfolded through his British publisher, a relic of an older literary world.

It wasn't until years later that I learned HBO had resurrected the New York iteration. Discovering it on Max felt like unearthing a forgotten photograph, its edges still sharp with meaning.

Certain works - like certain souls - emerge precisely when the universe demands witness. This play is such a creation. Even its soundtrack hums with the same uncanny resonance.

Working with suicidal people, I believe that not only the writing was spot on, but so was the interaction from the actor. It filters loss through the eyes of the innocent.