Unlike most shows staged at Soho Downstairs, Little Brother feels so “conventional” the first sight you see Zoë Hurwitz’s minimalist white cubics stacked onstage easily reminds you of hospital rooms.
They are indeed. In one scene, after Niall (Cormac McAlinden) sets himself on fire at 3am when he’s calling to his big sister, Brigid (Catherine Rees), she accompanies him to the A&E. While she waits, Brigid is informed by the doctor (Laura Dos Santos) that self-immolation cases are far more common than she could ever imagine. Of course, a counsellor is needed. Of course, the waiting list is eight to twelve months long.
Written by Eoin McAndrew and directed by Emma Jordan, Little Brother is a play about mental health and beyond mental health: self-harm, the blurring boundary between care and control, tensions between family and extended family, and the collapse of Northern Ireland’s Health and Social Care system. They intertwine so organically with McAndrew’s unique sense of humour, which not only eases tensions, but is also deeply ingrained with the psychological horror of everyday communication, further helped by Katie Richardson’s hauntingly elusive sound design, such as the beeping sounds in hospital.
In the meantime, McAndrew crafts his richly fleshed-out characters, evoking resonating and touching moments especially when people desire to draw close, but somehow always end up pushing their most loved ones far, far away. These moments are beautifully completed by Bethany Gupwell’s lighting design, whose subtle shifts catch fleeting emotional nuances with precision.
The play also deliberately blurs the boundary between those diagnosed with mental illness and those “seemingly normal” individuals who carry their own emotional difficulties and quiet desperation. I’m not denying the seriousness of clinical diagnoses, but Little Brother lingers in the vast grey area where most of us live and struggle to face our desire for love, connection, care, and recognition, as well as to convey that desire aptly to our loved ones. It’s a universal difficulty that transcends mental health labels. In that sense, Brigid’s partner Michael (Conor O’Donnell) forms a kind of mirror to Niall. While O’Donnell’s self-contained, polite Michael seems mostly “normal”, in contrast to McAlinden’s fragile and restless Niall, they both inevitably hurt Brigid on the pathway to happiness.
However, Brigid has her own inner lesson to learn. Rees excels as the ‘big-mommy’ sister who cannot clearly distinguish between care and control, which in part drives Niall to push her away. She also oversubscribes herself to everyone and everything. Such generosity again paradoxically fuels Michael’s anxiety and frustration because at times, he desires being her priority rather than receiving equal treatment.
The ending may feel a bit rushed off and tantalisingly unresolved without a reflective arc, but certainly all the characters unconsciously or consciously make their honest choices. While we can clearly sense where McAndrew’s true empathy lies, he is kind enough to avoid cruelty to any of them.
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