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...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...