Costa Rehab

Life in a military hospital is pretty much a tired barrel of laughs in Rich Rubin's frail comedy "Costa Rehab." Rubin takes on the timely and crucial subject of battle-maimed soldiers returning from Iraq with a rather jocular hand. And while it's true—as the author is quoted in a program note—that "comedy often sprouts from the seeds of anger and pain," the comedy here is nowhere near ferocious enough to validate his approach, and the pain and anger are barely felt.

Rubin depicts two longtime roommates in a rehabilitation ward: Sergeant Wheeler (Nicholas Urda), left a paraplegic by a bullet in his back, and Corporal Corso (Jacob Michael Thornhill), whose brain injury has him perpetually addled but good-natured. They spend much of their time ogling Penthouse magazine, playing cards, and bantering aimlessly, overloading their bons mots with two words: "fuck" and "asshole." Wheeler also unexpectedly inherits a house in Costa Rica, where he and Corso plan to live once discharged. Giving the play its title, Corso hangs a sign naming their room Costa Rehab.

When the two are joined by Corporal Davis (Peter Cappello), who has lost an arm and part of his foot, they decide in a too-familiar plot turn that he needs a woman to lift his confidence, and they hire a prostitute to do the job. But it's Corso who eventually enjoys her favors. Also on the scene are two caring nurses (Sarah Chaney and Louise Flory), with whom Davis and Wheeler develop unconvincing romantic attachments. Then there's the buxom, scantily gowned hooker (Rachel McPhee), who's such an obvious practitioner of her trade that it's a wonder she got past the front desk.

Despite the play's thinness, the cast manages to exude a general likability. Urda, Thornhill, and Cappello in particular capture sympathy for their characters' damaged lives.

There are a few moments when the play tellingly reflects the potential power of its subject matter, as when Wheeler, who masks his internal nice guy with a wisecracking belligerence, insists on being called by his first name in an angry attempt to reclaim his identity. But for the most part the show, under Shelly Feldman's none-too-subtle direction, plays out like a draft for a sitcom pilot, one whose characters need considerably more development and whose laugh lines need lots of punching up.

Presented by Maieutic Theatre Works at Workshop Theatre, 312 W. 36th St., 4th floor, NYC. Nov. 4–19. Tue.–Thu., 7 p.m.; Fri. and Sat., 8 p.m. (212) 352-3101, (866) 811-4111, or www.mtworks.org.