The Year of Magical Thinking

Caught The Year of Magical Thinking last week, with the lovely Jeffrey Augustine Songco. I adore the book, and was struck by the way that everything that makes the book so captivating is exactly why the play doesn't work. For an autobiographical book on grief, it's a somewhat unemotional, analytical digestion of the actual process of losing and grieving. The emotional landscape is painted in the bare, isolated, harsh light that feels more authentic than almost anything I've ever read. If you haven't already, just read it.

Unfortunately, the unapologetic coldness of the book's tone makes the piece kind of DOA onstage. I remembered experiencing the book as this intimate sort of confession from Joan Didion to the reader, exposing herself to you from the safety of the pages. Onstage, that exposure became too much. It also didn't help that you could feel the Broadway summertime audience anticipating a weepy tour de force from Vanessa Redgrave, and the following boredom and confusion that set in when they were met with something more quiet and introspective. "Is this worth my $112 bucks?"

Spoiler alert: I did love one clearly dramaticized turn in the play: the reference to a gold bangle on Didion's wrist, which is later revealed as a posession of her deceased daughter. If the creators had used a few more dramatic devices like this, I think it would have made a lot of difference in getting the material to jump from the page into the fullness required in a theater.

All in all, I can't say The Year of Magical Thinking is an effective dramatic piece. However, sitting in row E, not more that 25 feet from Vanessa Redgrave, listening to Joan Didion's words, it was still hard not to be moved.