Pandemics and ordinary tragedies clash in Lauren Gunderson’s overwrought portrait of her husband, the virologist Nathan A. Wolfe.
Theater is not just not science, says the title character in “The Catastrophist”: It’s fraud. “Very nice, well-lit fraud.”
That’s a harsh judgment, especially coming from Lauren Gunderson, America’s most-produced living dramatist. It’s also an acrobatic flip of perspective that, like her new play, deserves high points for difficulty if not execution.
I say that only partly because the title character of “The Catastrophist” is Gunderson’s husband, Nathan A. Wolfe. Wolfe is a renowned virologist who has played a major role in shaping our understanding of zoonotic infection: the process by which viruses — like Ebola and the coronavirus that causes Covid-19 — jump from animals to humans.
So to recap, we have a playwright creating a stage version of her husband, who undermines her work with words she’s given him. That’s some heavy form-and-function sleight of hand, but perhaps Gunderson sees theater as a parasite — a useful one — injecting its genetic material into foreign hosts, much the way viruses do.
Certainly “The Catastrophist,” available to stream through Feb. 28, is as likely as the rest of Gunderson’s plays, many about science, to go viral. She has a knack for writing to the needs of actual theaters — in this case, Marin Theater Company in Mill Valley, Calif., and Round House Theater in Washington. Previous works including “I and You,” “Natural Shocks” and “The Half-Life of Marie Curie” have strong hooks, minimal production requirements and few, if juicy, roles.
That’s the case here as well. Wolfe (William DeMeritt) is the only character, the set is bare, and the premise is timely. Too timely, perhaps. Begun last April but set in 2016, “The Catastrophist” uses the coronavirus as an invisible antagonist and shadow mascot, which means imbuing Wolfe with a kind of heroic prescience. I’d call it self-serving except that in a play that isn’t autobiography the question of “self” has been fudged.
In any case, the baleful tone of the 80-minute monologue — beautifully filmed with three cameras in front of an empty audience at the Marin company’s Boyer Theater — gives “The Catastrophist” the feeling of a staged lecture, as if Cassandra got a TED Talk. But Wolfe’s own TED talks are much less self-burnishing; he seems like your cool 10th grade science teacher. As written by Gunderson, though, he comes off as a science snob with a serious case of I-told-you-so smugness.
That’s especially true in the first half. After a scene that announces the play’s coyly unstable narrative — “Was there a prologue I should be aware of?” Wolfe asks — we are introduced to the science of virology and Wolfe’s history as a bug hunter. His years of research in Cameroon, risking something horrifically called simian foamy virus, are duly honored and unduly exoticized. Later, despite suffering from what Gunderson presents as an equally horrific affliction — kidney stones — he staggers to lunch to warn the head of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention of “this new Ebola outbreak in West Africa.”
“I could tell it was going to bad,” he says, as if he were the only one. “And it was.”
This part of the play is essentially a promotional résumé, poetically phrased and embroidered with metatheatrical doodads. From time to time, Wolfe is interrupted by creepy music, loud heartbeats and a voice in his head that we cannot hear. (The sound design, full of clichés, is by Chris Houston.) It gradually becomes clear that the voice is Gunderson’s, chattily keeping Wolfe and, through him, the audience abreast of her compositional tactics. At one point he tells us that his wife has changed the play’s title, formerly “The Virologist,” to “The Catastrophist.”
It’s lovely that Gunderson loves her husband so much that she agreed to write about him despite initial misgivings, and that she apparently could not keep her distance from him even for 80 minutes. DeMeritt helps you understand why: His take on Wolfe is smart and sexy enough to make the character’s snark compelling and his enthusiasm for science contagious. Jasson Minadakis’s staging and the camerawork by Peter Ruocco do well by the story, too, getting a lot of visual variety out of a rather stiff setup; terrific lighting by Wen-Ling Liao helps.
But by the time the play, in its second half, takes a turn toward the purely personal, focusing on Wolfe’s own disappointments and milestones rather than biology’s, the thread of the storytelling has completely frayed.
Except for an unseemly moment in which Wolfe is permitted to fulminate against unspecified critics who accused him of botching the American response to Ebola, virology now disappears. Instead, Gunderson has Wolfe dive into the death of a parent, the birth of a child and his own medical scare as if these universal human events, however sad or happy, were tragedies and blessings on the order of pandemics and vaccines.
This undermines the whole play: When the ordinary stuff of life is forced to serve as drama, the truly dramatic stuff comes to seem ordinary.
What’s left from the self-canceling content is the form, and if you’ve ever seen one of Gunderson’s plays, with their switcheroo dramaturgy, you won’t be surprised by the surprise near the end of this one. It’s not very original, but it does allow Gunderson to assert her dominance in what is, after all, her own field. Theater may still be a fraud but, by hook or by crook, it’s going to be her fraud.
The Catastrophist
Through Feb. 28; marintheatre.org.
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