Theatre in Review: Wit (Manhattan Theatre Club)

	Cynthia Nixon. Photo: Joan Marcus

Gravitas is a very special quality. Hard to define, it's a combination of presence, personality, and an ineffable ability to suggest a lifetime of experience, a richness of character, and a certain intellectual heft. Not every actor has it -- even some of the very best -- and, in truth, it's not always required. But when it's needed, there's no substitute for it.

These thoughts crossed my mind as I watched Cynthia Nixon doing often piercing and always perceptive work as the fatally ill literature professor at the center of Margaret Edson's Wit. The role of Vivian Bearing is an extraordinary one, and there's every reason why Nixon, an actress of considerable resources, should want to tackle it. But even as she illuminated so many of the play's moments of insight -- and for all the honesty with which she rendered the character's suffering -- I had the nagging feeling that something was missing.

Vivian is one of the most formidable women in contemporary dramatic literature. A specialist in John Donne's metaphysical poetry, she can explicate his difficult theological propositions with ease while holding forth with pointillist detail on the importance of punctuation in "Death Be Not Proud." She has no use for fools or the intellectually lazy; when a student asks for an extension on a paper, she asks, sarcastically, "I supposed your grandmother died?" Informed that this is indeed the case, she is taken aback, but only momentarily, before refusing to alter the deadline.

Even the news that she has Stage 4 metastatic ovarian cancer does little to disturb her sangfroid. "There is no Stage 5," she notes crisply, as if filing away just another fact for future reference. Instead, she uses her powers of ratiocination -- her remarkable ease at picking her way through thorny concepts of life, death, and God's existence -- to analyze the cancer that is eating away at her body. In a meeting with her doctor, during which the bad news is delivered, she maintains her composure enough to savor his use of the word "insidious" when describing her tumor. When it becomes clear that she is to be given an almost unbearably strong dose of an experimental medicine, she accepts her guinea pig status, refusing to dwell on the horrors ahead. Taking us into her confidence, she says, clearly and confidently, "It is not my intention to give away the plot, but I think I die in the end."

Die she does, and it's the wonder of Edson's play that we get such a close-up view of Vivian, a woman who has defined herself entirely by her ability to think, as she faces the failure of her body. Descartian divisions between the mind and flesh disappear when the latter is being eaten up by tumors, and, by the end, Vivian's intellectual powers will prove no defense against an unstoppable illness bringing unbearable pain. Multiple viewings of Wit do little to diminish the power of Edson's account of Vivian's final hours, a fearless portrait of suffering followed by a coup de théâtre that reminds us of the ultimate mystery at the heart of death. Just like Donne's poems, Wit is something of a metaphysical puzzle, an attempt to come to grips with the equally mysterious facts of existence and non-existence.

In the original production, Kathleen Chalfant was an ideal Vivian, her confident bearing, coolly skeptical attitude, and speaking voice suffused with low cello tones all making important contributions. The sight of this powerful woman, in a hospital gown, minus her hair and trailing an IV setup, was a shocking revelation of the leveling effect of grave illness. In contrast, Nixon looks years younger; when first seen, she plausibly resembles an undernourished young boy. (She is, in fact, 47, Vivian's age in the script.) Instead of Chalfant's powerful baritone vocal notes, Nixon's voice is all head tones; in trying to act imperious, she often sounds like an awkward adolescent. The vulnerability of her Vivian is shocking, but, in a way, it diminishes the character. Nixon also misses some of the character's martini-dry humor, born of a lifelong habit of taking the long view of things.

It's also true that Nixon plays the later scenes with a fierce honesty, capturing Vivian's physical weakness, her animal cries of pain, and her dulled consciousness in a way that rivets one's attention, no matter how grisly the details. And, although Vivian dominates Wit to the point that it can be fairly called a one-woman show with a supporting cast, Lynne Meadow, the director, has assembled a fine company who do much to fill out their thinnish roles, including Michael Countryman as a doctor whose detachment almost matches Vivian's; Suzanne Bertish as the tough-minded academic who serves as Vivian's role model; Greg Keller as a cheerfully callous intern; and Carra Patterson as the nurse who doesn't mind sharing a popsicle with Vivian now and then, while casually urging her to sign a do-not-resuscitate order. Meadow's direction is filled with moments of unsentimentally rendered truth, such as when Keller, chatting his way through a pelvic examination with Vivian, makes a most unwelcome discovery, or when Bertish comforts the barely conscious Vivian with a story from a children's book.

The production design is informed by a spare elegance entirely suited to the play's subject matter. Santo Loquasto's setting consists of nothing but a few pillars, a wall, and incidental furniture, set against a black void, but it's more than enough, especially as lit with understated brilliance by Peter Kaczorowski. Jennifer von Mayrhauser's costumes once again show her mastery of contemporary clothing, and Jill BC DuBoff's sound design brings to life the ambient sounds of a modern hospital.

But what's missing from this intermittently powerful production is the sense of a supremely confident and accomplished woman standing naked before the conundrum of death. In the end, a certain gravitas is missing; it's not ruinous, but it is noticeable. This Wit may move you, but it's not likely to shatter you. --David Barbour