REVIEW: The True Midnight Cry - Minola Theatre

The True Midnight Cry

Presented by: Minola Theatre

Venue: PIP Theatre

Date Attended: 14 August 2026

Written by: Bianca Butler Reynolds

Directed by: Kat Dekker

Set Designer: Regan Ainslie

Lighting Designer: Teegan Kranenburg

Sound Designer: Roosje Harder

Stage Manager: Ursula Heesh

Intimacy Consultant: NJ Price

Production Photography: Kris Anderson (Images by Anderson)

“Eternity is a reality with which I must contend."

Brisbane’s theatre calendar has coincidentally produced a compelling double bill this August. While The Book of Mormon causes religious mischief at QPAC, just across the bridge at PIP Theatre, Bianca Butler Reynolds is taking the apocalypse considerably more seriously. So, a light evening at the theatre, then.

Presented by Minola Theatre, The True Midnight Cry is an ambitious new two-hander written by Reynolds and directed by Kat Dekker. Think of it as two plays in one, with a 200-year gap. In 1840s New England, Inez (Bianca Butler Reynolds) and her husband Thaddeus (Colin W Smith) are raising three children with another on the way. They live off the land in a world where mortality comes much earlier. Their marriage is supportive and loving, until Thaddeus becomes increasingly wrapped up in the teachings of a preacher who claims to know when Christ will return.

The title has real historical roots, by the way. Back in 1844, preacher Samuel S. Snow published The True Midnight Cry, foreseeing the Second Coming. The predicted day came and went (spoiler alert, no apocalypse!), leaving the Millerite movement with what became known as the Great Disappointment.

Fast forward two centuries and we find ourselves in a futuristic Australian society that has been shaped by the ominously named "dark '30s". Mila (Reynolds) works within Arcadia, a government monitoring program that uses personal and behavioural data to identify people vulnerable to radicalisation or violence. Meanwhile, Conrad (Smith) is the ever-inquisitive and talkative security guard stationed to protect her.

The link between these worlds takes time to reveal itself, and I liked being left to piece it together as the story unfolded. I loved discovering the characters in real time, including the lives and histories of people who never physically appear onstage but gradually become important to our understanding of the four who do. And despite how many ideas Reynolds is juggling, the story itself is easy to follow. Her writing gives us enough information to understand each world without drowning the characters in philosophy.

Regan Ainslie’s set begins as a wooden cube structure, framing a modest nineteenth-century home that immediately suggests the hard work of daily survival. Inez and Thaddeus initially seem comfortably matched, with mutual affection and passion. However, Thaddeus’ growing fixation on the prophecy soon creates a religious divide in their marriage. For him, the promise of the Second Coming offers something incredibly tempting: certainty amid life’s difficulties and fears.

“We need not face death!”

Smith adeptly handles Thaddeus’ downward spiral. His excitement mutates into an obsession, responsibilities start slipping, and the practical needs of his family take a backseat to his preparations for an eternity he believes is imminent. Meanwhile, poor Inez might as well be talking to a brick wall...

There’s an infuriating contradiction in hearing Thaddeus describe women as “the wiser sex” while repeatedly disregarding the woman in front of him. Reynolds portrays Inez with such a grounded sense of practicality. She does not mock his faith, nor is she without faith herself, but she can recognise how their beliefs are progressively diverging as their disagreements get uglier.

“I've made you unhappy without knowing how.”

Reynolds developed the play specifically as a two-hander for herself and Smith, and you can feel that in the chemistry between them and in how comfortably the characters sit with each performer. She grants both characters dignity to ensure the play doesn't devolve into a simplistic argument of religious-person-bad versus sceptical-person-good. Knowing the work draws heavily from her own Adventist upbringing adds another layer because that nuance is clearly there onstage. She’s exploring the harm caused, what she still believes, and the complexity of separating the two (especially when those ideas are ingrained in childhood before we’re old enough to think critically).

And during interval, the whole world changes... The timber structure becomes metallic, fluorescent, and institutional. Cold light replaces the warmth of the nineteenth century, computer screens appear, Reynolds returns in a sharp black suit, glasses, and sleek blonde bob as Mila, and Smith swaps Thaddeus’ period clothing for Conrad’s practical uniform and tactical vest. Almost everything changes. Except the mirror. The same ornate mirror sits in both worlds, quietly linking the past and the future.

“I don't believe in things where there is no data.”

For Act Two, Reynolds portrays Mila, a character distinct from Inez yet similar in nature. She is controlled, intelligent, headstrong, and loyal to measurable information. Initially, her worldview contrasts sharply with that of Thaddeus, but the longer we spend with her, the more those two worldviews start to echo each other. Both characters are uncomfortable with uncertainty and place great faith in systems that promise to reduce it.

Arcadia inevitably invites comparisons to Minority Report, as Mila focuses on how our behavioural data could be used to determine who might become dangerous, who might be vulnerable, and who needs monitoring. Reynolds envisions a future two decades from now that's recognisable enough to be unsettling: cancer still exists, trauma still occurs, and people still seek human connection. They carry implanted technology embedded in their arms with periodic "data sync" announcements. After years of instability and violence (after a vaguely stated North Korea situation...), society has apparently accepted increasingly invasive surveillance in exchange for the promise of safety. But human beings, of course, are more complicated.

Smith has an enormous amount of dialogue in this half, but it doesn't feel like pages of exposition. Conrad speaks with the easy rhythm of a friendly debate that occasionally turns into an accidental therapy session. There’s always real thought happening behind his words. Plus, he repeatedly drums his hand against his leg, a small physical tic that hints at the stress underneath all that chatter. And the longer he stays inside this controlled environment, the more the confinement wears on him. The space starts to feel like an office, high-tech bunker, prison, and psychiatric ward all at once.

Regan Ainslie’s set plays right into that feeling, sitting at the centre of the roundhouse seating so the audience surrounds this contained little world from every side. It offers protection from the outside world while still keeping the characters confined and strangely assailable. Teegan Kranenburg’s lighting clearly separates the two periods: the nineteenth century glows with amber and warm earth tones, while the future is under colder blues and harsh fluorescent whites. Roosje Harder’s sound design shifts with it. Birds and natural sounds give way to mechanical rumbles, computerised cues, synthetic tones, and those ambient sounds that remind me of meditation apps trying to convince you everything is absolutely fine. Between scenes, Doretta Balkizas’ violin interludes give us a little musical breathing room.

By the final stretch, things have become much more personal. I won't spoil the discoveries because the gradual exposure of these characters' histories is central to the experience. There is also no pretending that The True Midnight Cry is brief. The program lists a running time of approximately three hours including interval (and apparently this is already the cut-down version). So, get your buttocks comfy in that seat!

There are a lot of ideas flying around here: theology, ideology, psychology, technology, trauma, ethics... sometimes all at once. But I never stopped wanting to know more about the people involved, and that’s what keeps it working. Reynolds builds enough emotional life around the ideas that the play remains about human beings rather than concepts wearing costumes talking at each other. Plus, there are so many brilliant lines scattered through the script that I felt compelled to keep jotting them down. Perhaps the most revealing is Thaddeus' observation:

“The world ended in a whole other way.”

Because an apocalypse may not necessarily arrive with fire, judgement, and graves opening beneath our feet. A world can end when a marriage changes forever, when the belief system you were raised inside collapses, when somebody violates your trust, or when society loses its sense of civility. Reynolds’ play isn’t really asking whether religion or science has the correct answer. It’s more interested in what people do when they can’t tolerate the possibility that there may be no answer at all. Thaddeus relies on prophecy, Mila turns to data, Conrad searches for closure, and Inez embraces nature.

This is a big, deeply personal piece of writing, and exactly the kind of original Australian work that I love to see independent companies taking risks on. It asks a lot of its performers and its audience, but it also gives plenty back: two terrific performances, an inventive production design, fascinating speculative world-building, and enough moral and philosophical knots to keep untangling on the way home.

Content warnings include coarse language, self-harm, references to sexual assault, miscarriage, and terrorism, with haze and strobing lighting also used. If you’re happy to settle in for a substantial night of theatre, this is one call that's well worth answering.