In February of 2003, a fire destroyed the Station Nightclub in West Warwick, Rhode Island. One hundred lives were lost. This tragedy, among the worst nightclub fires in American history, had a traumatic effect on the people of Rhode Island. The youngest of the one hundred victims, barely eighteen, was my brother Nicholas. Already an accomplished actor and musician, Nick was a beloved member of the Rhode Island arts community. He was, of course, far more than that to my family. In some families, there is that one child, blessed with a peculiar warmth, humor, strength and intuition, whose existence ties everyone else closer together, one child who is the mover and the standard for measurement of time and space and energy.
For us, that was Nicky. He was equal parts golden cherub and grinning imp, innocent/wise, manic/serene, dazzling/quiet, unassuming/unforgettable, brilliant in all the most unconventional ways. Nick was more than glue for my family; he was its beating, glowing heart, and he was my best friend.
At the age of ten he discovered performing. And when he discovered theatre, we all discovered theatre. That was how it started. Within years Nick had played dozens of roles on dozens of stages across the state, most notably himself – he and his buddy Matt DeThomas were getting paid to do improv comedy from the time he was 14.
than everyone else because of it. His real focus now was on being a fullThere was by now a general consensus that Nicky—our Nicky—could do pretty much anything.—adamant in his refusal to grow up, and smarter time rock star with his band Shryne. Now Nick was fending off groupies; now they were calling him mini-Mick (as in Jagger) all over the Providence clubs. Nick and his rock babe Gabby, Nick the singer/songwriter, the great Nicky O. But still, at home, still just Nicky
Nicky who went from place to place, from crowd to crowd, trying on different masks and playing different roles—and getting each one right—looking, I think, for the place where he’d most belong. Still (now more than ever, in fact), Nicky was the truest real-life Catcher in the Rye (which I tried to get him to read; he wasn’t really the reading type). He was, like Holden Caulfield, hopeful, longing and at the same time bewildered by the world, by people, by the pain they inflict upon one another, and most of all by the appalling inevitability of growing up. Our home, at least, had been an anchor, and now, we learned, we were losing that too. After the death of my father a year earlier, my mom had fallen behind on the payments and could no longer afford to keep up with it. The house went up for sale, and our only prospect was for Nicky and my mom to move in with my grandmother, in a cramped house in Providence. For Nicky, it felt like all the goodness and joy was being suddenly, quickly drained out of his life.
In February of 2002, I received from Nicky the first draft of a play he had suddenly written about three guardian angels—a girl named Grace, a boy named Levi, and a third spirit named Cyrus who was clearly supposed to be Nicky himself. Recently deceased, they meander around New York, chatting and bickering, reminiscing about their funerals, frustrated by humans’ inability to see them, angered by the world’s wretchedness, mystified by God’s seeming inaction, and relentlessly delivering a message of hope to an anguished young man named Adam Tyler and a street corner fortune teller, Mama Marie. The message expressed itself in different forms, but its final delivery was straightforward and simple: “Do not fear to hope.” The play was called They Walk Among Us.
The mysteries that followed from after that time are very much the subject of 41, the documentary that tells Nicky’s story – a story in which his earthly life is only the first chapter.
The pain of loss is beyond the capability of our language to express. It is the most violent, cataclysmic and cruel of realities. Its casualties are motivation, hope, and the past. And the future. It is a dumb,
stubborn thing. It turns the brightest memories against you.
41is not just about that pain, but that needs to be said. This project is also not about my mother, even though so much of what I personally have done in the past years has been for her and in response—dire, desperate response—to her unimaginable misery. We may or may not be strong because of what we have done in Nicky’s name; it was all that we could do. It is the part of me that won’t go gently into a long dark tunnel with only more darkness at its end and call that the remainder of my life, leaving eighteen years of happiness to sit under a coating of dust, allowing my family’s once vibrant and always laughing existence drift into a long extended trite and hollow conversation about “moving on” and “letting go.” We had never known trauma, and now we were there, inside of that word, and that would not stand. This could not be about moving on from, it would be about moving on with, and the world needed to see this, and to recognize this, and to know this. It was for this reason that even a week after the fire, we launched a celebration—celebration—of Nick’s life, greatly to the surprise of many who had come prepared to mourn. But Nicky didn’t want anyone to be sad. In the aftermath of horror, there has been the amazing, stunning blessing of Nick's continued presence; of signs and signals that have defied a thousand times over all rational logic (and on occasion the laws of physics), synchronicities that stand far outside suspicion of coincidence, and miracles that have extinguished our fear of death. It would be impossible to share with you every story, but our hope is that tonight we might share some of the hope. Although our sadness will never end, although we all might wish every second that we could have him back, to see the man he would have become...it is possible to transform sorrow into meaning. —Chris O'Neill (Nick O’Neill’s older brother and co-director of 41)
41 Screens as part of the Woods Hole Film festival program on Thu, Aug 2, 6:00 PM at the Redfield Auditorium.
"41 is a much-needed reminder of all that is good in the world... a heartbreaking and soul-enriching experience...
One of the year’s finest accomplishments” Phil Hall, FilmThreat
Watch the trailer for 41 and see photos from the film at www.41themovie.com/
See the rest that the Woods Hole Film festival has to offer at http://www.woodsholefilmfestival.org/index.php
In February of 2003, a fire destroyed the Station Nightclub in West Warwick, Rhode Island. One hundred lives were lost. This tragedy, among the worst nightclub fires in American history, had a traumatic effect on the people of Rhode Island. The youngest of the one hundred victims, barely eighteen, was my brother Nicholas. Already an accomplished actor and musician, Nick was a beloved member of the Rhode Island arts community. He was, of course, far more than that to my family. 
—adamant in his refusal to grow up, and smarter time rock star with his band Shryne. Now Nick was fending off groupies; now they were calling him mini-Mick (as in Jagger) all over the Providence clubs. Nick and his rock babe Gabby, Nick the singer/songwriter, the great Nicky O. But still, at home, still just Nicky
The pain of loss is beyond the capability of our language to express. It is the most violent, cataclysmic and cruel of realities. Its casualties are motivation, hope, and the past. And the future. It is a dumb,
