REVIEW: The Only Thing Worse You Could Have Told Me - Backdock Arts

“It’s better to be hated for what you are, than liked for what you’re not.”

Written by Dan Butler, The Only Thing Worse You Could Have Told Me is a 90-minute one-man play exploring gay life in 1990s America. First performed in the United States by Butler himself, the work now receives its Australian premiere at Back Dock Arts, directed by Timothy Weston and performed by Matilda Award-winning actor CJ de Mooi. With all profits donated to LGBTIQ+ youth charities, there is an added sense of purpose behind this production, particularly landing in Brisbane during Pride Month.

Set in America in 1994, with the AIDS epidemic still casting a long and terrifying shadow, the play is a mosaic of memories, arguments, confessions and character studies. Across fourteen vignettes, de Mooi embodies a range of gay men and people orbiting queer experience, each bringing a different perspective on identity.

A clothes rack of costumes sits to one side, used for swift transitions between characters, while the raised stage area holds a bedroom setting. The costumes, designed by Andrew Cox, do a lot of quick storytelling. A jacket, hat, pair of shoes, or a suit can give us an immediate visual cue about who we are about to meet, often before a word is spoken.

The opening scene places us in a bar with a rough, drunk, opinionated bloke who throws around slurs and “jokes” with the casual confidence of someone who has never had to think too hard about the damage of his words. When his buddy comes out to him, his first response is disbelief. Then come the usual questions, the awkward curiosity, the clichés, and the classic “Were you ever attracted to me?” line that has probably haunted many a coming-out conversation. What makes the scene work is that it is not played as a simple villain moment. He is ignorant, yes, but not cruel. He fumbles his way toward a kind of support. De Mooi plays the scene opposite an empty bar stool, yet the unseen friend is easy to picture. That is one of the production’s biggest strengths. It repeatedly asks us to complete the image, and I easily do.

From there, the play keeps shifting ground. One scene becomes an anxious internal argument as a gay man spirals over how much of himself to reveal at a high school reunion in the American South. Another gives us a man watching his lover sleep, overwhelmed by gratitude, fear and insecurity. He wonders if this is true love, while also quietly panicking that something so beautiful could disappear. The costume choice in this scene is confronting in a way that certainly makes the moment memorable, even if I personally find it a little uncomfortable. Still, discomfort is not always a bad thing in this play. Often, it is the point.

Another vignette reflects on childhood and early sexual curiosity, with a fifth grader discussing “f*ck club” with his friend Tommy. Elsewhere, a man recalls being a child in community theatre and experiencing a gay awakening while watching the West Side Story dancers rehearse. Theatre has long been a place where people see versions of themselves they may not yet have words for.

Butler’s script refuses to flatten gay experience into a single tidy message. Its characters are brave, hypocritical, scared, proud, loving, and flawed. Some have spent their whole lives protecting themselves so fiercely that they now wound others without realising. The script explores the many ways queer people are judged not only by society, but by each other. There are boxes within boxes: masculine, feminine, discreet, loud, political, theatrical, agreeable. The show asks who gets to decide which version of queerness is "acceptable" in a scene where a more flamboyant fellow confronts an acquaintance, also gay, who considers him too excessive and embarrassing. It is a pointed moment, because the play holds the community accountable too.

The story understands that these marginalised communities are still made up of complicated human beings. Being gay does not automatically make someone progressive, kind, or free from prejudice. This comes through sharply in the AIDS protest rant, where a gay activist calls for justice while spewing racism, misogyny and resentment toward other marginalised groups. It is an ugly and necessary reminder that oppression does not magically purify a person.

The title finds its full weight late in the piece, in a scene where a man calmly recounts coming out to his conservative father. De Mooi captures the father’s rage with force, but the most painful part is not just the anger. It is the obliviousness. The father has lived through a world where gay people existed (of course they did), but were hidden, silenced, mocked, criminalised, shamed or lost. The scene holds the generational gap between what was spoken and what was buried. It also reminds us how far society has come, and how fragile that progress can still feel.

One of the most entertaining scenes comes through a drag queen-style sermon on selective religious morality. The argument is familiar, but still satisfying: you cannot cherry-pick the Bible, cling to the rules that suit your prejudice and conveniently ignore the rest. The character points to the cultural loss that would exist without queer artists, thinkers, performers and makers, asking us to “think of the music, the words, the artistry that would be lost.” Imagine all the art never made because someone was told they were wrong before they even had a chance to begin!

Although the AIDS epidemic is central to the era of the play, only a few vignettes address it directly. Mostly, it exists as a constant pressure in the room. It hovers behind relationships, activism and conversations. That restraint helps the play avoid becoming a single-issue history lesson. Instead, Butler lets all the themes rise naturally: gay pride, discrimination, internalised shame, family rejection, community politics, lust, loneliness and the basic human need to feel seen.

De Mooi is an engaging and committed performer, and his stamina is impressive. The show runs close to 100 minutes with no interval, and it asks a great deal of him. He holds the stage alone, moving from character to character, scene to scene, with focus and command. The final scene, featuring a delivery driver in LA who brings food to a man suffering from AIDS and dementia, is one of the strongest moments. It has the rhythm of stand-up storytelling, but beneath the humour sits something much more devastating. I can vividly picture the apartment, the patient, the connection, and the tenderness. It is a beautifully clear piece of solo performance.

That said, the character work is not always as distinct as it could be for me. The costumes provide strong visual separation, but vocally, several characters sit in quite similar territory. Even the more vivacious men and the more traditionally masc figures sound closer to each other than expected. As a British actor performing an American-set piece, de Mooi also has the added challenge of working across a range of American accents, and these are not always convincing. At times, the accent work actually pulled my focus from the writing.

As someone who is not the target audience for this work, I still find it accessible and affecting. For LGBTQIA+ audience members, there is likely recognition here, even when the details belong to a specific time, place and generation. For allies like me, there is empathy and education without hand-holding. For anyone who has ever felt outside the accepted shape of the world, there is something to connect to. And for the bigots - the people who would probably benefit most from sitting through these stories - it is a shame they are the least likely to show up.

The Only Thing Worse You Could Have Told Me is not a polished parade of perfect representation, nor does it try to be. It is messier and more interesting than that. It presents queer life as contradictory and identity is never just one story.