Presented by THISISPOPBABY in association with Theatre Works and Daniel Clarke
@Adelaide College of the Arts – XSpace
THURSDAY 8th March (until March 18)

In 2005 Joan Didion published The Year of Magical Thinking, a portrait of her grief following the sudden death of her husband. Didion adapted the novel for the theatre and in 2007, the play opened on Broadway. Neil Watkins, writer and performer of The Year of Magical Wanking, told me that when he saw the play, he “didn’t connect” with it. Didion’s affluent existence in New York was, for Watkins, too far removed from his own life; “I couldn’t feel for the character.”

Despite his reservations, Watkin’s play shares a method of enquiry with Didion’s work. In his candid revelation of his mind’s internal workings, his anxieties, desires, and fears, Watkins, like Didion, exposes the depths of the psyche, and in doing so offers himself a chance at redemption.

The title of Watkin’s play is instructive. In referencing Didion — an established literary author — he highlights the high-art desires of his own work. But in substituting ‘thinking’ for ‘wanking,’ Watkins contrasts this with the crass, the low, the vulgar. This contrast is maintained throughout the show. Though the monologue deals with sex addiction, drug abuse, sadomasochism and molestation, it is delivered entirely in iambic pentameter and uses a complex, looping rhyme structure employed in baroque sonnets. As Watkins explained to me, “I raped Shakespeare’s style”.

Watkin’s decision to make poetic his own darkness is not purely an exercise in self-aggrandisement. Though he admitted that, in keeping with the idea of ‘wank,’ he wanted to see “how pretentious can you be,” he also explained, “if it was going to be about murky things, I had to find a way to make it nice.”

Though ‘nice’ is not an adjective I would ascribe to Magical Wanking, it is, undoubtedly, moving. There is a danger with self-penned stories of redemption, especially ones that come in the form of a sixty-minute monologue; it can quite easily slip into painful, boring self-obsession. Luckily, in Magical Wanking, Watkins has been able to strike a balance. Far more than an ‘airing of dirty laundry’, the play acts as a confession, a plea for redemption and, more broadly, an analysis of the issues surrounding sex addiction, self-hate, and shame. In bringing these repressed issues to the fore and by allowing — forcing — himself to be seen and heard, Watkins brings light to bear on the darkness. As we sat outside the Adelaide College of the Arts building he seemed visibly shaken by the performance. “It’s difficult,” he admitted. “I can’t hide.” But, he believes that the difficulty is worth it, not just on a personal level; “I feel like it’s a worthy cause.”

Although the play is bleak, watching it is not simply an exercise in toughing it out. The scenes are littered with humour, offering respite from the gloom. And the writing — the sheer poetry — shimmers in the darkness, lighting the way as we descend into the labyrinths of Watkin’s mind. For the audience, in the unflinching look into the abyss there is more pathos than pain. Part way through the monologue Watkins asks, “Am I emotionally present?” As I sat in the darkness, there was no need to ask myself the same question; the answer is a categorical yes.