By Catherine Wagley
By Channing Sargent
By L.A. Weekly critics
By Amanda Lewis
By Catherine Wagley
By Carol Cheh
By Keegan Hamilton
By Bill Raden
On Dec. 30, 2003, just before supper in their New York apartment, Joan Didion's husband and writing partner of almost 40 years, John Gregory Dunne, stopped talking about how World War I had set the stage for a century of world conflict. He stopped talking completely. Didion says she was making a salad at the table. She saw her husband collapsed over that table.
"Don't do that," she said, sure he was making a joke — "slumping over, pretending to be dead."
Didion's one-woman play, The Year of Magical Thinking, which she adapted from her own memoir of the same title, is receiving its Los Angeles premiere by Bright Eyes Productions at Hollywood's Elephant Theatre.
6322 Santa Monica Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90038
"He fell onto the table, then to the floor. There was a dark liquid pooling beneath his face. Within what I now know to have been exactly five minutes, two ambulances came. The crews worked on the living room floor for what I now know to have been exactly 45 minutes."
It's no coincidence that Didion — a journalist, novelist, screenwriter and essayist (The White Album, Slouching Towards Bethlehem) — places in italics the repeated phrase "I now know." Nor is it coincidence that her words now and know are so close in lettering and proximity to each other in each sentence. Among her many talents, Didion is a linguist.
"I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear," she wrote in The New York Times Magazine in 1976.
"Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends," she wrote after Dunne died. After that, she stopped writing for a very long time, she says. Perhaps there are periods when we simply don't want to fathom what our experiences mean.
Upon her return to writing, not trusting her own recollections from her state of shock, Didion needed to verify the sequence of events.
She chased down the documents: the Emergency Department Nursing Documentation Sheet, the Nursing Flow Chart, the Physician's Record. She needed the paperwork with the logs of when the paramedics arrived, of when they transported her husband to the hospital, in order to grasp the unfolding of time, in real time rather than remembered time, which is often more invented than remembered.
Hospital staff referred to Didion as a "cool customer." But Didion explains that her absence of histrionics, and her fastidious attention to detail through the ushering of her husband and his memory from this life into another, of transitioning him from present to past, was not to be confused with acceptance of his death.
Rather, the reason for her calm was the belief that he might just return. She could empty the closets of all his clothes but not his shoes. In case he returned, he would need his shoes. To surrender his shoes would have been to acknowledge the unbearable, that he would never return.
Even signing an approval for his autopsy, and even considering the possibility of witnessing his autopsy (Didion had previously seen autopsies as research for her writing), there remained an open corridor in her heart she imagined him walking through, from the story of his death into the reality of their life, returning perhaps to finish one of their screenplays. And this ancient bargain of "if" — "If I keep his shoes, he might return" — is what she means by "magical thinking."
One day, almost two years later, she realized that she had stopped hoping Dunne might return. The Year of Magical Thinking is Didion's autobiographical and philosophical diagnosis of the process by which she surrendered that hope.
As if the crisis of losing a spouse wasn't bad enough, amidst that grief, Didion's daughter with Dunne, Quintana, continued to suffer from the neurological dysfunction that landed her in the ICU in New York just before her father's death, and would ultimately take her life, too. In fact, Didion postponed Dunne's funeral for a month until Quintana could recover sufficiently from a medically induced coma to attend. And so, while grieving for her husband, Didion was continually on the verge of losing their daughter. This, too, is woven into the play.
Why tell a story of such anguish — to us?
"I'm telling you what you need to know," she warns in the play. It's an admonishment.
"You see me on this stage, you sit next to me on the plane, you run into me at dinner, you know what happened to me.
"You don't want to think it could happen to you.
"That's why I'm here."
Judy Jean Berns plays Didion in a surgically studied performance. (Vanessa Redgrave played the role on Broadway, directed by David Hare.) In this production, under David Robinson's direction, Berns is the antithesis of emotive, avoiding the trap of melodrama.
But the strategy also runs the risk of keeping the drama at arm's length. With the exception of two or three moments when tears well in Berns' eyes, she is, in fact, the embodiment of the "cool customer" in the hospital waiting room. With pixie-short silver hair, the diminutive Berns wears a thin lavender dress and dance shoes, sitting in or standing by a wicker chair next to a table holding a glass of water, some index cards and a couple of books — one on neuropathology. Behind her hangs a sky-blue scrim with subtle streaks of white, like a California sky. There are almost no sound effects, just the subtle crashing of waves near play's end.