Cabin Feeble

Ahh, community theater. One always gets a blend of flavors, a potpourri, a conglomeration, a gallimaufry, hodgepodge, olio, or even, dare we say (and of course we do. The Phantom always dares), salmagundi of talent trodding the boards. StageCenter did not disappoint in this regard with their production of Cabin Fever.

Set in the Hill Country, this play had that Texas charm that always delights a hometown crowd. We had the drunken character, the crazy character, the chick with the eating disorder, and the spouse abuser. Oh, and lots of gunplay. Just like Thanksgiving at The Phantom’s lair. It felt warmly familiar.

Unfortunately, the set was not created with StageCenter’s usual aplomb. We didn’t feel like we were in a cabin, we didn’t feel like this was a family gathering place, and we shudder to think someone would actually paint their walls that putrid yellow. We haven’t seen a color like that since the last time we got out of rehab. The set was blocked appropriately, allowing most of the audience a fine view of the action on stage, unless you were unfortunate enough to be seated behind a column or you were in the penguin section where the AC blasts you with a constant stream of frigid air. From that vantage point, one can’t see anything but the icicle haze forming on one’s eyelids.

This was the story of the Beckle’s Memorial Day weekend reunion at the family cabin out in the Hill Country. Our evening opened with Aunt Tammy—mercifully for us—locked in the bathroom. This was a kindness, because it meant that we heard from Tammy only now and then, and that was a very, very good thing. Every line from that character sounded as if it was being read directly from the script, and—mysteriously—read cold, for the first time. We can’t quite figure out how this could be possible, as one assumes that this actor showed up for several actual rehearsals. But wait, and aha! We find that Aunt Tammy was probably at all the rehearsals because she was also the director of the show. And in fact, the direction in this play was nicely done. But Tammy’s acting? Not so much. You know how all those Hollywood types are always saying “Eventually, I just want to direct”? Well, Aunt Tammy, stick to directing. Your directing is great. Acting? Uh, we’d have to use the term loosely for it to apply here.

Georgina, one of the daughters, was also there at the start, and she did a fine job. A little jittery. We couldn’t understand the jittery unless she was trying to interpret the part by channeling a meth addict on a sugar high. Yeah, that must have been it. But she did a fine job and we applaud the ability to stoically tolerate being soaking wet performance after performance. That’s dedication to your craft.

And rounding out our trio of characters in the first scene was an old workhorse, a familiar face this time playing the dad, Aubrey Beckle. This performer is consistently great. We loved him in Best Little Ho house, and we loved his new crusty character in this play. He did a terrific job of getting progressively smashed and a fine job portraying a parent. We imagine that Aubrey is a great dad offstage as well. The Phantom may not be a parent, but he has parents (oh, don’t look so surprised. We know you were probably assuming that, in being so supremely wise and discerning, The Phantom must have emerged from the heavenly, interdisciplinary pairing of Saraswati and Fukurokuju, but in fact The Phantom was born of human parents just like you.) [Well, maybe not just like you, given the genetic engineering, asbestos abatement, and steroids involved, but you get the idea. The Phantom is flesh-and-blood, just like you, and he’s trying to be good. All he needs is a little love.] {Where were we? Oh, yeah:} and this part required Aubrey to do “parenting.” It was a job well done.

Karen Beckle Hoffman was the anal-retentive, mother-hen older sister who enabled her baby sister’s eating disorder by supplying the family reunion with all matter of candies and cookies. By default, she was the organizer, chief cook and bottle washer of the family. She was the head worrier and caretaker and, in her own mind, the most put upon. Anyone with siblings should be able to identify a Karen. If you think you don’t have a Karen, you probably are Karen. Yes, she was predictably written but delightful in that familiarity. Unfortunately, the actress who portrayed our Karen was stiff, rote, and disembodied. We were perplexed because we have seen her before in other roles, and she was just fine. What happened here? We shall not lose heart, dear Phans. Like a phoenix from the ashes, this actress will likely rise again.

And speaking of familiar faces, the last time we saw Cesca Beckle Cody, she was sporting the kind of costume that was so tight it left little to the imagination—but that, happily, did much to fuel The Phantom’s dreams for many a subsequent night. Pardon us for a moment while we wax philosophic about the marriage of a curvaceous, ample body with some forgiving, lycra-enhanced fabric. Oh, yes. But the Phantom digresses. Enough celebration of the past. This character was modestly clad, distressingly so. She also did the jittery business. Did the cast down shots of Red Bull ™ before the curtain went up? It’s a mystery. Anyway, Cesca was the abused wife and she did a nice job in a difficult part. She was easy on the eyes and did an agreeable amount of genuine acting.

And that segues nicely into the part of the abusive husband who was portrayed with all-too-common one-note yelling by a relative newcomer to local theater. Michael Cody screamed and yelled his way at the same level across the boards. (Get it?) Was he supposed to be the fearsome antagonist? Was he supposed to be a fearful victim? There was no clue to be had in the sound of his screaming. Of course, we had our fingers in our ears much of the time.

Okay, then, back to an introductory lesson. Pay attention here, kids. Try to imagine that a non-English-speaking blind person is watching, or, um, listening, to your acting. Would he be able to tell your emotional state from just the tone of your voice, your timbre and pitch? When you’re at an Italian opera, can you figure out what’s going on without being able to speak Italian? You can if the performer is any good. And good actors communicate meaning and feeling—yes, including anger and menace—without yelling all the time. It ain’t just volume. Start by doing the emotion quietly. Find it, own it, inhabit it, and only then—and only now and then—get a little louder.

The play was rambling along and we were treated to some quasi-hilarity from the appearance of Pidge Beckle, family nut-case. Our dad got drunker—showing every lucky patron how to play a good drunk. Hey, kids, if you think that you may ever pretend to be intoxicated on stage, ask Aubrey how it’s done—and Pidge was good. Very good. She gave a lovely little speech at the end of Act II that almost moved us, and given The Phantom’s ample girth, we don’t move easy. Good for you, Pidge, this is perhaps the best we’ve seen from you. Nicely done.

But the author ran out of juice here and the play ended awkwardly with a cop-out, nonexistent third act that literally admitted to being a cop-out. Just because you come right out and say you didn’t know how to end the story is not really a good excuse for not ending it. A feeble end, and we hated it.

Other than that, it was great.

The Phantom