Interview Sandbox Theatre dips a toe in the weird world of the Wandrei brothers

From Mary Reynolds and Tod Dockstader, to Arone Dyer and Patrick Miller, countless artists have spent their formative years in the Twin Cities, moved away, and made names for themselves in the wider world while getting little to no local love. So it is with Donald and Howard Wandrei. Even though, after establishing themselves in New York as pulp fiction authors, the St. Paul natives eventually returned—and even though each still enjoys a small-but-dedicated, international following—most folks in these parts wouldn’t know ’em from Ignatius Donnelly.

With Unspeakable Things, which premieres at the Red Eye Theater tonight, Sandbox Theatre joins publisher Fedogan & Bremer, Wandrei scholar D.H. Olson, and a clutch of like-minded science fiction, horror, and fantasy enthusiasts in an ongoing effort to elevate the brothers’ hometown profile. It isn’t just the ensemble’s 11 members who are immersed in the project: They’ve enlisted the aid of allies, ranging from visual artist Allen Brewer to Barack Obama support act Jeremy Messersmith, for their grand adventure in Wandreiland. Sandbox principle and spokesblogger Matthew Glover met up with The A.V. Club to clarify how the production speaks to the Wandreis’ enduring allure.

The A.V. Club: The Wandrei brothers grew up together at 1152 Portland, and spent the last years of their lives there. Does the house figure in Unspeakable Things?

Matthew Glover: We’ve come as close as we can to recreating it in the Red Eye space. The entire set is the interior of the Wandrei home, walls and all. The entire play takes place in it. We’ve reconfigured the space and the seating arrangement—there isn’t nearly as much as usual—but we’ll have audience members on three sides of the stage. When people walk in, they’ll walk past a very tall curio cabinet. It’s intended to make people feel like they’re walking in through someone’s front door, through their entryway. When they walk through the next doorway, they’ll be inside the house. The Red Eye is an extremely versatile space. People have done all kinds of things there. But I’m reasonably sure we’re doing something with it that has never been tackled—at least, not to this degree and this effect.

We’re hoping that’ll mark the beginning of a transformative experience. We’re hoping to hear some gasps, but even more, we want people to really feel a part of this. You’re going to walk in, and you’re not going to want to bring the outside world with you. We want to pick you up and set you down into this place that, in Donald’s case, was his home on and off for 70 years.

AVC: When it comes to researching historical accuracy, there are dozens of stories from each brother, boxes of letters, the published correspondence between Donald and H.P. Lovecraft, the house itself, a few photos—but also a number of gaping holes—this weird combination of dearth and glut. How did you deal with biographical detail?

MG: What we’re doing is just a sliver, just a curl. To present anything even approaching a true biography, we’d need a 10-hour play, which is one reason we’re calling what we’re doing an “allegory.” Some important events, we completely leave out. While at the U, Howard was part of a burglary ring called the Thrill Bandits who broke into wealthy people’s homes just for fun. They eventually got caught and Howard ended up spending a couple years in prison. Donald co-founded Arkham House—a publishing concern still going today—with H.P. Lovecraft and August Derleth. After Derleth’s death, he spent a couple decades in really nasty litigation over ownership of the company’s assets. Late in life, he became a hoarder. These are all pretty big deals, but we don’t address the Thrill Bandits.

AVC: At what point in the brothers’ lives does the play take place?

MG: That’s something we’re intentionally vague about. Donald is the primary protagonist, and we’ve set the play not long after he returns from serving in World War II. He’s back at home. Howard’s back at home—initially with his wife, Connie, and their daughter. Their mother is there, and their sister Jeannette, too. This is an interesting time among many interesting times in the Wandreis’ lives. After living through real-life war atrocities, Donald really couldn’t bring himself to write tentacle horror any longer. He tried writing in Hollywood, had a short stint in New York, then returned to St. Paul and stayed at 1152 until his death in 1987. Howard had gotten embroiled in a money-laundering scandal in New York and come home, had a nervous breakdown, eventually lost his family, and died not long after—in 1956.

AVC: With the rise of television in the early ’50s, the market for magazine fiction pretty much collapsed. Do you think that might have affected the brothers?

MG: Very much so—that might be why Donald tried his hand in Hollywood. Both brothers worked in the vein of early weird fiction—fantasy, science fiction, and for Donald especially, that Lovecraftian style of horror. For the most part, both depended as much on what wasn’t shown or said as much or more than what was. Television ushered in a new kind of suspense, a new kind of immediacy, and they very well may have felt left behind.

Also, the publication business is fickle. It might have been a case of editors saying, “People are tired of your style. They’re tired of you. They want someone new.” Howard had the benefit of writing in countless pseudonyms. We know he wrote naughty science fiction. He may have even written porn. But we’ll never know how many stories he wrote. There’s a freedom in that sort of anonymity, but it’s not a very effective way to build a long-term following. They had a lot of things weighing on them. Both drank heavily, and Howard may have used other substances.

AVC: You commissioned songs from Jeremy Messersmith, Grant Cutler, Ben Weaver, The Poor Nobodys, and a number of other local artists. How do they figure in the production?

MG: They don’t actually appear during the play, but we very much used them as creative catalysts. In last year’s Sandbox production June Of Arc, we did something similar with graphic artists, with comics. This year we decided to try music, and it couldn’t have worked better. Everybody in the ensemble participates in every part of building a show. We used the songs to provide inspiration through every stage of creation. Our sound designer, Tim Donahue—who just won a Jerome Foundation Grant—will actually be on the set, creating a live soundtrack. Meanwhile, all the tracks we commissioned are up on our site and on SoundCloud, for people to listen to and download, but also to give them an idea of how we work.

The weird thing is how everything has played out. When we started approaching musicians last winter, we had no idea that Grant and Ben would have new releases out just in time for the play. We had no idea that [Messersmith’s] The Reluctant Graveyard would be out and doing as well as it is. We had no idea that Jeremy and Grant would end up collaborating because they only live a block from each other. We couldn’t have gotten luckier, and we couldn’t be more grateful for all our good fortune.