After seeing Wit, which will soon end its Broadway run, a once-oncologist and patient wonders if the subject of cancer has grown too tiresome.
Soon Wit, a one-act drama about a middle-aged woman grappling with metastatic ovarian cancer, will end its Broadway run. Cynthia Nixon lends spark to the tale of Dr. Vivian Bearing, a John Donne expert. The English professor, with few friends and absent family, agrees to take harsh doses of chemotherapy in an experimental trial. On stage, her mind toggles between the hospital's reality and flashbacks to lectures on language and poetry. In the end, words prove inadequate to relieve her pain and isolation.
One approach to examining this frank, effective, and slightly frightening production of Wit is to consider the piece in relation to our culture's evolving discourse about malignancy. Margaret Edson, an elementary schoolteacher, wrote her singular, Pulitzer-winning play in the early 1990s. Since then, the conversation has shifted from a quiet, respectful tone about the C-word, to hyped awareness and big media events, to, lately, extreme openness. In 2012, a torrent of blogs, celebrity patients, memoirs, telling videos, and otherwise shared pages leads this once-oncologist and patient to wonder if the topic of cancer grows tiresome. In this context, Nixon's searing performance begs the audience not to turn away.
Nixon, with her freshness and inescapable connection to Sex and the City, renders Wit's central character palatable and even attractive.
For those who might enter the theater not knowing this is a play about cancer, the title betrays its seriousness. The name's alternate, W;t, alludes to questionable punctuation in Donne's 17th-century sonnets. In an early scene, Vivian reflects on an episode when she, as a graduate student in literature, discussed whether a semicolon or comma breaks the final line of "Death, Be Not Proud." The story doesn't lighten up from there. Rather, it's peppered with references to God, forgiveness, salvation, and bits of "Divine Poems." The play, set in an academic hospital, unfolds in just 100 minutes. Those might seem long but for the intensity and relevance to the modern patient's experience.
An oncology fellow, Dr. Jason Posner, is assigned to Vivian's case. The young doctor's refrain, "Gotta go," will be familiar to anyone who's been on the receiving end of physicians' rounds in a hospital. He seems eager to leave her room whenever he enters. The two connect on a personal level, briefly, just before he performs a brutal pelvic exam on stage. Jason mentions to Vivian that he was a student in her literature class. Later, upon her asking, he reveals a bit about why he chose oncology and tells her of his research ambitions. But mainly he avoids talking with his patient. He doesn't struggle to communicate with her, mainly because he doesn't seem to want to do know her.
The senior, more formal oncologist, Dr. Kelekian, shares Vivian's uncompromising posture about attention to detail and precision in language. Both are caught up in jargon. Edson, the playwright, parallels the complexity of words in metaphysical poetry with the daunting language of medicine. "Why does Donne make everything so complicated?" Vivian recalls one of her students asking. The student continues: "[M]aybe he's scared, so he hides behind all this complicated stuff, hides behind this wit."