There is a scene in the second half involving a concert and a phone call that is, without hyperbole, one of the most heartbreaking sequences ever written for the stage. It reminds us that while we worry about the future of the planet, we often forget to survive the present moment.
At first glance, the setup sounds almost deceptively simple. A man and a woman—simply named W and M—stand in a bare space (no set, no props, just two microphones). They are in an IKEA. They are having a tense, whisper-argument about whether to have a child. She wants one. He is terrified. But within ten minutes, you realize this isn't a play about baby names or nursery colors. It is a terrifying, beautiful, and devastatingly honest calculus of love, guilt, and the planet we are leaving behind.
The Weight of Air: Why Duncan Macmillan’s “Lungs” Will Leave You Breathless lungs by duncan macmillan
This relentless pace mimics how anxiety actually feels. Time collapses. We worry about the next five minutes and the next fifty years simultaneously.
Duncan Macmillan has written a play for our age of anxiety. It is small in scale (two people, no props) but infinite in scope (the entire future of the human race). There is a scene in the second half
Just when you think Lungs is a political play about the environment, it pivots. It becomes a play about grief. About the things we say to hurt the ones we love. About the silence that exists after a mistake that cannot be unmade.
Go see it. But bring tissues. And maybe a Xanax. Have you seen or read Lungs ? What did you think of the ending? Let me know in the comments below. A man and a woman—simply named W and
M (the man) does the math out loud. He calculates the carbon footprint of a single human life. He counts the flights, the plastic nappies, the energy consumption. He spirals: “Having a child is the single worst thing you can do for the planet.”