Theatre in Review: Wet Brain (Playwrights Horizons/MCC Theater)

	Julio Monge. Photo: Joan Marcus

"Wet brain" is the vulgar term for Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome, caused by an acute deficiency of Vitamin B1. It's a condition associated with alcoholism, and it afflicts Joe, who staggers around his Scottsdale home, unable to speak but primed to vomit or, alternatively, urinate in a corner of the living room. Essentially a sixty-year-old, out-of-control infant with a knack for befouling anything he touches, His daughter, Angelina, has, at long last, had enough. Having signed a lease on an apartment of her own, she informs her brothers that other arrangements must be made for their father's care, thus triggering the fractious and frequently bizarre events of Wet Brain

Angelina's announcement isn't welcomes news to Ron, manager of the family auto body business, who, behind his immature displays of macho bravado, is falling apart, thanks to his cratering marriage. It is even worse news for Ricky, who fled Arizona for New York and an MBA, staying away for years as at time. ("I'm not really good with emails at the moment," he says, lamely explaining his all-around unresponsiveness.) Both brothers have ample reason to resent Joe. Ron offered up a kidney to him, wasting a good organ on his father's self-destructive ways. And then there was the time Joe looked on, doing nothing, while a gang of his employees gay-bashed Ricky. Of course, in this household, sympathy is thin on the ground: Angelina, trying to wave away Joe's ugly attitudes, says, airily, "Dad called everybody faggot back then, not just you. It was his catch-all."

You won't be surprised to hear that all three siblings struggle, to a greater or lesser degree, with substance abuse. (Ron resorts to hiding six-packs of beer in the toilet tank.) Indeed, playwright John J. Caswell has dreamed up one of the most deluxe dysfunctional families to come our way in several seasons. But he doesn't stop with the usual recriminations: Joe has seizures -- cued by zapping sounds and flashes of projection-mapped imagery that vanish before one can fully take them in -- which hint at something unearthly going on. Later, when everyone ends up on the roof of the house, the younger generation pretty well inebriated, Joe stands, his face raised to the sky as if expecting an alien invasion. Then Caswell blasts all four characters into outer space for a reunion with Mona, the family's matriarch, whose tragic death represents the unhealed wound at the play's heart.

This concept -- Eugene O'Neill meets Isaac Asimov -- is a tall order. Then again, in Man Cave, seen Off Broadway a little over a year ago, Caswell deftly blended supernatural elements with mordant commentary about racism, immigration, and right-wing politicking. The crucial difference is that Man Cave is a taut thriller about crime and social issues, populated by characters whose motivations keep you guessing. Applying a similar, highly theatrical, effects-based approach to a deeply psychological domestic drama proves counterproductive. It turns trauma into spectacle, leaving its characters sadly underdeveloped. Kate Noll's astonishing eleventh-hour scenic coup -- an overhead, ultra-forced-perspective view of the family room -- and the eerily effective combination of Nick Hussong's projections and Tei Blow and John Gasper's sound design are far more vivid than anything in Caswell's script, despite its studiedly provocative manner. The trouble with Wet Brain is that it accumulates lists of traumas but never explores or resolves them. As a result, the family's tormented backstory never comes into focus.

Dustin Wills' production is long on technical expertise and short on psychological acuity. (One design aspect is borderline irritating: Cha See's lighting, which relies heavily on practical units and indirect effects, too often leaves the actors in the dark. Apparently, Angelina, who is prone to migraines, likes to keep the lights low, but seeing the actors' faces might provide some much-needed intimacy.) All five cast members have a way with Caswell's serrated-edge dialogue, even if their incessant squabbling becomes exhausting. Ricky is a challenge to realize, being on the run from his family, his job, his boyfriend, and himself, and, in the hands of Arturo Luís Soria he remains stubbornly unrealized. (He is, apparently, the auto shop's business manager, which doesn't make sense since he is never around.) As Angelina, Ceci Fernández gets the bulk of the evening's laughs -- especially when casually admitting she knows all about her brothers' personal lives, thanks to her extensive online correspondence with their partners -- but her character is alarmingly underwritten. The same is true of Ron, although Frankie J. Alvarez leans with gusto into lines like, "I was homophobic way before you turned gay, and I'm supposed to change?" Julio Monge is a persistently unsettling presence as Joe, who could be slipped into an episode of The Walking Dead without anyone noticing. (We're supposed to believe that he retains enough cunning to surreptitiously stash vodka in secret places, a notion that is, to put it mildly, unconvincing.) Florencia Lozano executes a solid double act (or is it?) as Mona, whose unhappiness has poisoned her loved ones, and Crystal, a home health care worker with a sunny, yet faintly mysterious manner. Everyone is a given a distinct personal style by costume designer Haydee Zelideth Antuñano.

Caswell, a real talent, indicates in his program note that Wet Brain is heavily autobiographical and, based on the evidence here, he is still raw from the wounds incurred. For him to tackle such personal material so early in his career is almost recklessly courageous, but he may have taken on a challenge for which he is not yet ready. Still, if this is a misfire, it's a highly imaginative one; we'll be hearing from him again and I suspect he'll return to this subject with a little more distance and, probably, greater assurance. --David Barbour