Theater Geek
THEATER GEEK
THE REAL LIFE DRAMA OF A SUMMER AT STAGEDOOR MANOR, THE FAMOUS PERFORMING ARTS CAMP
Mickey Rapkin
FREE PRESS
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Copyright © 2010 by Mickey Rapkin
Unless otherwise noted, all photos: Courtesy of Stagedoor Manor
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First Free Press hardcover edition June 2010
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DESIGNED BY DANIEL LAGIN
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rapkin, Mickey.
Theater geek : the real life drama of a summer at Stagedoor Manor, the famous perorming arts camp / Mickey Rapkin.
p. cm.
1. Stagedoor Manor (Loch Sheldrake, N.Y.) 2. Acting—Study and teaching—New York (State)—Loch Sheldrake. 3. Teenage actors—New York (State)—
Loch Sheldrake. I. Title.
PN 2078.N43.R38 2010
792.02'8071174735—dc22 2009048797
ISBN 978-1-4391-4576-0
ISBN 978-1-4391-5439-7 (ebook)
To Julio
Contents
Prologue
CHAPTER 1: It’s Showtime
CHAPTER 2: Beginners Showcase
CHAPTER 3: Week One
CHAPTER 4: Jack Romano
CHAPTER 5: Week Two
CHAPTER 6: Carl and Elsie
CHAPTER 7: Hell Week
CHAPTER 8: Performance Weekend
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Index
God sets the lonely in families.
—PSALM 68:6
This season I got my first chance to appear on
Broadway and experience what the theater is really
all about: Arguing.
—MADONNA, AT THE 1998 TONY AWARDS
THEATER GEEK
Prologue
I SHOULD PROBABLY START WITH A CONFESSION: IN 1994, seated in the audience of the Imperial Theatre on West 45th Street in Manhattan, I cried during the overture to Les Misérables. I was sixteen years old, and I was weeping before the curtain even went up. It wasn’t sentimentality or a passion for the theater that grabbed me (though I’m a victim of both). It was something purely vicarious. I couldn’t get over the idea that an actor was backstage in costume, preparing to go on awash in that awesome sea of pre-show adrenaline. I was jealous, plain and simple. From my seat on the other side (the wrong side?) of the curtain, I imagined the raw anticipation, the all-for-one camaraderie, the happy thrill those lucky few actors must have felt to do what they loved eight times a week. It was too much for my nerves to handle, and they literally flooded.
There’s this phrase—theater geek—that describes a longing I’ve had since I was young. As far as I can tell, this particular term didn’t appear in print until a 1995 Washington Times tribute to Broadway veteran George Abbott, who died that year (at age one hundred and seven!). But it was certainly in colloquial usage before then. Because that’s what kids like me were. Theater geeks. Performances, and performers, meant the world to me then, and I worshipped the people who could do professionally what I could only attempt in my earnest high school productions on suburban Long Island. I had a great many friends as a teenager, but almost none I could talk to about crying at Les Misérables. In late 1994 I remember taking the train to Manhattan, with some urgency, for a weekend matinee of Stephen Sondheim’s Passion. Why the rush? The closing notice was posted sooner than expected and I felt like I should really see the show. You know, so I could be conversant about it. Conversant with whom? Lord knows. Today, I have only a vague memory of that musical’s plot. But I can still recall exactly how it felt sitting in the audience that afternoon when actress Marin Mazzie put a little extra zing on the end of the lyric, “Imagine that, a whole forty days. Well, forty matinees.” She was winking at the audience, acknowledging the untimely death the show faced. And we all laughed. Forty matinees! The silly general public had once again failed to recognize Sondheim’s genius, but we true fans knew better. Truth be told, I didn’t love Passion, but I certainly loved being in on the joke.
As a teenager, I fantasized about getting a part-time job as a Broadway usher. “You have to join the union,” an elderly woman told me at a matinee of Blood Brothers, a musical I saw four times in six months. (No wonder it held such sway over me; it’s a tearjerker about two boys who never felt comfortable in their own skin.) The old lady leaned in and advised me against pursuing work as an usher. “The money isn’t good,” she whispered. But I wouldn’t have cared. In those years, I never felt alive anywhere except in those cramped, worn-in Broadway seats.
It’s telling that I dreamt of being an usher, and not of a life onstage. It simply did not occur to me that I could make a career of the high school drama club, of those Saturday afternoon rehearsals. Part of the reason I quit acting is that I never found a like-minded community to draw from. Looking back, perhaps I wish I’d had a teacher tell me that something more was possible. That, as Sondheim wrote, I could “make a hat where there never was a hat.”
Recently a good friend of mine told me about a place I would have loved as a sixteen-year-old tacking up Playbills on his bedroom wall. A place where being a theater geek was not some vague embarrassment about an interest in something supposedly uncool. As it turns out, a whole movement of young theater geeks has been convening in, of all places, the Catskills for decades.
They gather at Stagedoor Manor, a bucolic summer camp where children put up thirteen full-scale productions every three weeks. Stagedoor Manor, my friend explained, is a place where talent scouts come armed with business cards—tiny pieces of paper that can change a kid’s life. A place where the love of theater is so pure the kids refuse to employ microphones—even in musicals. (As David Mamet once said, if you’re an actor and can’t make yourself heard in a thousand-seat theater, you’re doing something wrong.) A place where the popular campers are popular because of their talent, not despite it. Since 1975, the philosophy at Stagedoor has always been that it’s a place for kids to be who they need to be in a safe, nonjudgmental environment. It’s an oasis where a six-foot-four, eighteen-year-old boy and a ten-year-old girl walk side by side, talking about the tap class they just took together. Not surprisingly, Stagedoor Manor was one of the first places where a gay kid from the Midwest (or Midtown) could be an out homosexual. But you could replace the word gay with awkward, self-conscious, green, blue, or purple. The camp provides a haven for any child with a love of the arts who, for whatever reason, feels other than.
“As my father used to say, ‘Put it this way: you don’t need to bring a mitt,’” the actor (and former Stagedoor Manor camper) Zach Braff tells me. “And he was right. But at Stagedoor there was constant hugging and snuggling and affirmation. In the world I was used to, there was none of that. It was culture shock to go back to the public school system.”
Thirteen musicals?
Talent scouts? I had to see this place for myself. And so, at age thirty-one, I packed a bag and went to theater camp.
Stagedoor Manor is nestled on twelve acres in the scenic Catskill Mountains. Once the playground of wealthy Jews (as lovingly depicted in Dirty Dancing), these rolling hills have since fallen on hard times, fighting a losing tourist-trap battle against low-cost airfare abroad and the thrill of Atlantic City nickel slots. In the sleepy town of Loch Sheldrake, minutes from camp, the local bar anchors a strip of mostly deserted storefronts, including a movie theater that’s still advertising 2006’s Superman Returns.
But then there’s that sign. In theatrical cursive lettering, it reads: Stagedoor Manor.
The camp sits half a mile off Route 52, on the site of the old Karmel Hotel, a once-popular resort that featured an indoor pool, tennis courts, and a nightclub, among other amenities. The Karmel ultimately went into foreclosure, sitting vacant until a builder from New Rochelle, New York, named Carl Samuelson saw the potential beneath the leaky roofs, and installed a theater camp there in 1977.
Not much has changed since, not on the surface, anyway. There are seven performance venues at Stagedoor Manor, eight if you count the front lawn (also known as the Garden Theater). But most of the action takes place inside the main building. Step through the front doors and into the wood-paneled lobby, where industrial-strength carpet contends with the hyperactive feet of three hundred campers. Kids rush past to the right, ducking into the dining room, where they’ll eat plates of pizza and chicken fingers beneath large paintings—replicas of Playbills from shows like Phantom of the Opera and Miss Saigon. Walk left instead, past a couple of kids playing Ping-Pong and a young girl sight-reading selections from Wicked on a piano, and enter the costume shop, one of the few locations on the grounds with air-conditioning.
The Karmel Hotel, the once-popular Catskill Mountains resort property where Carl and Elsie Samuelson would install a theater camp. Having toured several potential locations. Carl chose the twelve-acre Karmel because it had room for theaters.
Thirty years ago, the costume shop was a modest one-room operation with garbage bags full of clothing piled high to the ceiling. These days, it’s a twisty cavern of seven spaces stuffed to the gills, yet meticulously organized. Period dress is sorted by decade. There are separate closets for fur coats, for wedding gowns, for military dress. Some of these materials were purchased when shows were produced here for the first time (for example, 1920s bob wigs for a 2008 production of The Producers). Other items have been donated. In one closet, there are original costumes from Broadway’s A Chorus Line hanging next to a $10,000 corset from the national tour of Spamalot. It’s an eight-year-old’s dream dress-up closet. Todd Roberts, the head of the costume shop, says that in the off-season months, when Stagedoor Manor is dark, local townspeople have been known to clip the lock on the door. “They break in to steal Halloween costumes,” he says.
Since its inception in the 1970s, the camp’s program has been more or less the same. Over the course of each three-week session, children from ages ten to eighteen will mount thirteen full-scale productions, leading some in the theater community to describe Stage-door as summer stock for kids. The analogy fits. (In 2006, the minimum age for campers was upped from eight to ten. The artistic program was simply too demanding for kids who until recently couldn’t read.)
There’s magic in this place. Stand in the center of Stagedoor Manor and on any given day one might hear Sondheim pouring out of one rehearsal space, Annie from another, Guys & Dolls from a third, Shakespearean couplets from yet a fourth.
But no single day at Stagedoor is more intoxicating than the first. Cars full of eager campers (and their anxious parents) drive up to the main entrance, where staff members greet them with applause. Inside the lobby, the artistic staff waits—in costume. Campers flit about with their friends, discussing room assignments but mostly just hugging each other. At the piano, the camp’s music directors lead these kids in impromptu sing-alongs of Avenue Q, Chicago, Rent, Legally Blonde: The Musical, and even lesser-known works such as Side Show (a musical about conjoined twins). For the first time, I understand what the film director Todd Graff meant when he described Stagedoor Manor as Oz: come to Stagedoor and for the first time your world is in color. This is why the staff often greet returning campers with the phrase: “Welcome home.”
Passing through those doors, I felt like Fame director Alan Parker when he first entered the lunchroom at The High School of Performing Arts. “I could feel the energy and excitement,” Parker told the New York Times in 1980. “It was like a microcosm of New York City. In the lunchroom, one kid was eating salad on his lap and reading Hamlet. Another was playing the cello. All had a common dream.” I half expected Debbie Allen to walk into Stagedoor’s cafeteria to declare: “Fame costs. And right here is where you start paying. In sweat.”
In many ways Stagedoor Manor is like what is now known as La-Guardia, the school that inspired Fame; it’s a summer camp but also an elite training ground for some of our nation’s most talented young artists. And you will recognize the names of many of Stagedoor alumni. One starred as Sally Bowles in a 1995 camp production of Cabaret, which lives on in lore for several reasons. If you happened to be in the audience that night, you would have seen Sally Bowles standing center stage, outfitted in a short red-and-black dress with fringe. The song is “Don’t Tell Mama,” and she and a dozen Kit Kat Klub girls (each armed with her own chair) dance in unison. Until, that is, the girl to Sally Bowles’s left stands up on her chair, loses her balance in mid-song, and wipes out completely, dragging a second girl down to the floor with her.
Natalie Portman played Sally Bowles that night, and a video of the production survives. Watch as Natalie registers the commotion but never breaks character. She doesn’t check to see whether the fallen girl is injured, or whether she’s in need of assistance. And why should she? When you’re a teenage actress starring as a Nazi-era stripper, what choice do you have but to keep on singing? As the emcee says in Cabaret, “So, life is disappointing. Forget it!”
Natalie attended Stagedoor Manor for three summers, even while she was working in Hollywood, starring in movies like Luc Besson’s The Professional. “I read about Stagedoor Manor in The New York Times,” she told the British edition of Esquire in 2004. “It said it taught you how to become a ‘theatre star.’ I begged my parents to let me go.” She was not the only one. Robert Downey, Jr., played Mr. Deusel in a 1976 Stagedoor production of The Diary of Anne Frank. Jennifer Jason Leigh starred as Amanda Wingfield in a 1977 production of The Glass Menagerie. Other Stagedoor alumni include Felicity Huffman (Desperate Housewives), Two and a Half Men co-star Jon Cryer (one of the highest-paid actors on television), Bryce Dallas Howard (The Twilight Saga: Eclipse), Mary Stuart Masterson, Josh Charles (Sports Night, CBS’s The Good Wife), Shawn Levy (the director of the Night at the Museum films), and Amy Ryan (an Oscar nominee for Gone Baby Gone). In the 1990s, Ben Foster (3:10 to Yuma) and his kid brother Jon Foster (ABC’s Accidentally On Purpose) attended together, at ages twelve and eight, respectively.
A young Natalie Portman starred as Sally Bowles in a 1995 Stagedoor Manor mounting of Cabaret. Years later, Oprah Winfrey played a clip from that production on her show.
Lea Michele (a Golden Globe nominee for Fox’s Glee) spent three summers at Stagedoor Manor. By the time she arrived at camp in 1998, she’d already been in Les Misérables on Broadway. Still, she says, “I never had a lead at Stagedoor. I was in a revue, Side by Side by Sondheim. I also sang the ‘Pinball Wizard’ solo in Tommy. My last summer, I was supposed to be one of the friends in Sweet Charity, but I left to do a workshop of Spring Awakening in New York.” One couldn’t exactly blame her. “It was a real job,” she says. And? “I made money.” And? “And I got to play the lead.”
There are so many Stagedoor Manor alumni in Hollywood and on Broadway that the group has its own name: the Stagedoor Mafia. “I don’t want to call it the Mafia,” says the singer and a
ctress Mandy Moore. “It’s more like a secret society. It’s this knowing look you get from people: Ah … Loch Sheldrake.”
With so many success stories, the ground has shifted.* For those who aspire to a career in the performing arts, theater camp can increasingly be a stepping-stone. And the competition among the camps vying for these children’s tuition money is more heated than ever. According to the American Camp Association, the number of accredited camps with an emphasis on arts education grew from 527 in December 2001 to 811 in June 2009, a jump of more than 40 percent. Peg Smith, the organization’s chief executive, said the increase could be attributed in part to the elimination of school arts programs and the popularity of films like High School Musical and reality shows like American Idol. (Not to be left out, 19 Entertainment and Fremantle-Media, the companies behind American Idol, founded Idol Camp—where series castoffs like Bucky Covington instructed would-be teen sensations. However, in a testament to how difficult the camp business can be, despite the name recognition, Idol Camp folded after just a few summers.)
Among the eight hundred camps, three are frequently cited as gold standards: Stagedoor Manor, French Woods, and Michigan’s Interlochen Center for the Arts. Of that lot, Stagedoor Manor is the only one focused exclusively on theater. Stagedoor caps its enrollment at 290 children a session, and spots fill up nine months in advance; campers, from determined small-town tykes to Bruce Willis’s daughter, are admitted first come first served (no audition required, with returning campers getting a first shot).
While the average overnight summer camp costs $400 to $700 a week, Stagedoor Manor charges closer to $5,000 for a three-week session. “Parents want to get quality for their money,” says Jennifer Rudin, who spent several years as the director of casting and talent development for Disney Theatrical Productions and is a Stagedoor alumna herself.