Skip to main content

Ben Platt: "Theater Camp"

 "Theater Camp" has problems: It's a rip-off of an Anna Kendrick movie ("Camp"), and it's inferior to the movie it is ripping off.


It's cute when a little kid tries to sing "Epiphany" from "Sweeney Todd," but we've already seen this joke. Kendrick did "The Ladies who Lunch" in her movie, "Camp."

But there is one lovely, weird story within "Theater Camp," and I wasn't expecting this: Secretly, the movie is about outgrowing a friendship. It's about being in your twenties and recognizing that a certain bond has changed, not because of any kind of enmity, but just because of life. At the center of "Theater Camp," a gay man and his bestie have a co-dependent arrangement ("We're codependent!"); they are not the actors they want to be, but at least they can have a laugh as camp counselors. Each year, they write a new musical together; this one show is the annual prestige project, and the selected children are informed that they're "the most talented performers at our camp."

There is obviously real love in this friendship, so you can sense that something is "at stake" when the bestie starts to drift away. She is missing rehearsals and fundraising opportunities; she is sleeping, at odd hours, in her car. She has neglected to write a final number for the show (and she is lying about her failure). Even on Day One, curiously, she hasn't done any preparatory work. These small discoveries are like little seeds; suddenly, you're aware that you're watching a mystery story, and the payoff is satisfying.

I understand that Ben Platt is a nepo baby--and perhaps another star would have struggled to net Will Ferrell and Amy Sedaris when "shopping around" an unfinished and intermittently mediocre script. But I liked the small gay story that Platt managed to tell. I thought this was worth the ten-dollar ticket.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...