In olden days, they were called "family insanities"—mental disorders seemingly handed down through generations like physical characteristics. Nowadays such fears are no longer as prevalent, but if your mother suffered postpartum psychosis so severe as to compel her to inflict harm upon herself and her progeny, wouldn't you think twice before deciding to have a child? And if you were the sister of the optimistic mommy-to-be, wouldn't you keep a watchful eye for signs of erratic behavior? And what about the husband who witnesses his beloved wife transformed into a monstrous hag governed by paranoid hallucinations?
In The Downpour, what distinguishes Fred and Robin Kimball from the latter's destructive mom is that they don't have to face this problem alone. To be sure, Fred's best-buddy Miller lacks parenting skills—an impairment leading to his divorce and estrangement from his pre-teen daughter—and Robin's sister Hazel, author of young-adult novels, greets the news of her impending auntiehood with alarmed forebodings. Still, when Robin goes batcrackers, barely a week after the birth of the eagerly awaited son, the presence of outsiders experienced in dealing with households under stress—who know to hide the kitchen knives, for example—make for invaluable assistance.
This premise could be easily mined for hiding-in-the-shadows melodrama, but the abundance of light in the Kimballs's home, not to mention regular deliveries of fresh flowers from Fred's own garden, tips us off early that this is no cheap camp thriller. Instead, Caitlin Parrish explores her topic with the same procedural tone employed so skillfully in her breakthrough hit, A Twist of Water.
Rather than wallowing in despair, Hazel and Robin's struggle to shine the aforementioned light on the darkness of their past nightmares—aided by the menfolk contributing what comfort or service they are able—is tracked slowly, step by step, from confrontation of their abusive childhood, to recognition of its enduring repercussions, and finally, to the courage necessary to recovery.
Erica Weiss directs a formidable ensemble unswerving in their matter-of-fact tone: as portrayed by Brenda Barrie, Robin's bouts of delusion arise out of lucid moments almost imperceptibly (as such seizures are inclined to do in real life), while Caroline Neff's Hazel, forced to take on the responsibilities of protector, never succumbs to gratuitous emoting. Peter Moore and Stef Tovar likewise find strength in patience and nurturance—traits not often associated with males but essential to playing any useful part in domestic crises. The results forge a refreshingly intelligent reassessment of a centuries-old scourge, concluding in hope for victims of improvident lineage.
