Theater Geek

by Mickey Rapkin

  You were, in a sense, discovered at Stagedoor. Right?

  My first manager saw me in a play at Stagedoor when I was twelve. That’s how I started. It was exciting. I remember telling my dad, “Somebody thinks I’m talented.” I’m not a sentimental person. But at the end of the summers, I remember feeling incredibly sad. I still feel that in my life—a melancholy around September, missing those beautiful summer days and cool nights in the Catskills.

  You are still very close with your camp friends. Alexander Chaplin from Spin City, the playwright Jonathan Marc Sherman, comedians like Michael Ian Black and Seth Herzog . . .

  They are some of my best friends. The place changed my life. It’s part of my mythology. I went there in my formative years. I learned about the process of rehearsing and doing plays and collaborating and being part of a community—all of the things that I cherish.

  Was it all work?

  We were kids, too. You do a lot of stupid kid things.

  3.

  Name: Shawn Levy

  How you know him: Directed the Night at the Museum franchise, and Date Night with Steve Carell and Tina Fey.

  Summers at Stagedoor: 1983-85

  Memorable roles: Danny Zuko in Grease, Bernardo in West Side Story

  You grew up in Montreal. How did you come to know about Stage-door? Was it common for Canadian teens to come to the States for summer camp?

  It was quite common to go to camp in Maine. That’s what I did when I was nine years old. I’d done theater from the time I was seven. Performing arts was always in my DNA. I don’t remember how I heard about Stagedoor. But I remember getting out of the van and being greeted by this hugely smiling older kid, who introduced himself: “Hey, I’m Jonny Cryer. Let me show you around.”

  That’s funny.

  Jon Cryer was my welcoming committee. At Stagedoor, I remember, it was like the world opening. Everything was emotionally intense, creatively intense, and you felt you were among your own people. There’s this thing we all experience—this sense of community, where creative drive isn’t this quiet thing in your pocket, but rather something to be proud of and shared. That was really valuable. Particularly in adolescence, where everyone is looking for some sense of belonging somewhere.

  What’s the first show you were in at Stagedoor?

  Grease. Danny Zuko! Thirteen years old! First show! First audition! I could win an Academy Award and I wouldn’t have the pride I still feel over Danny Zuko. I’m fucking forty now. And I’m still proud of that shit. That, and Jack’s Cabaret.

  Yes, Jack Romano and his touring cabaret troupe featuring Stage-door’s most talented kids. What do you remember about Jack? How would you describe him?

  He was a psychotic, lovable, chair-throwing Cuban madman.

  I heard he would scream at the kids. Was it an act?

  I was in Jack’s Cabaret every year. And I was also in Jacques Brel. . . that he directed. And I vividly remember the veins bulging, the crazy Scarface Pacino accent. I remember an aluminum chair being flung at some poor eight-year-old who wasn’t singing with enough passion. In my memory of it, it was without irony, without self-awareness. But strangely beautiful. He really cared that much.

  Did you learn anything from Jack that has stuck with you?

  I took a directing class from Jack when I was thirteen, and I remember him discussing the use of the stage composition. For instance, if you want certain moments to land, you want to think about where you place the actors in the view of the audience. I remember him pointing out how you’d stage things differently in North America than you would in Israel. We read left to right, so you’d want the movement to flow left to right. In Israel, you might do right to left.

  Is that true?

  I know it sounds crazy. I was thirteen! It may be mad Cuban nonsense, or it may have a shred of truth.

  Jack really did throw chairs. As a director, have you done the same?

  I’ve never thrown a chair. I’ve probably had mini hissy fits. But never at actors, only at crew members. Maybe one day, just for fun, I’ll try throwing a chair at Ben Stiller to see what happens.

  Do you treat child actors differently in your work because you’d been a Stagedoor kid?

  I don’t patronize them. I don’t condescend to them. I know their love of it. I had it, and I have it.

  You were at Stagedoor early in its history—before Hollywood casting directors were coming to camp to scout kids. Did you hope to be discovered at camp? Was that at all part of the experience?

  There were rumblings—so-and-so had done a commercial—but in my mind you went there to do what you loved and get better at it. You didn’t go to be discovered. I don’t remember being conscious of it. I remember being conscious of girls and what show I was in.

  I heard that as a camper you dated a counselor. True?

  That is true. I was sixteen and I dated the dance counselor, Katie Lee Wilson. She was British. I’m not sure how much more I should say. I’m married now with three daughters.

  How was that allowed? A kid dating a twenty-one-year-old counselor?

  It was a bit like the Wild West. It was the eighties. We were at theater camp in bumb-fuck nowhere. There was an anything-goes, lawless-state mentality.

  Amazing. By the way: Are your daughters into musical theater?

  My eldest daughter is bitten by the bug. She’s playing Reno in Anything Goes. My daughter coming home from rehearsal, wanting to run lines and work on her songs? I love that. I wasn’t blessed with sons. I won’t know the joy of playing catch in my backyard. But running lines and singing harmony with my daughter is a close second.

  You played Bernardo in a memorable Stagedoor production of West Side Story. Julia Murney, who played Elphaba in Wicked on Broadway, was Anita. And Jeff Sharp—who produced the Oscar-winning films Boys Don’t Cry—was Tony. What do you remember about that show?

  Yes, my French-Canadian Bernardo! I was Bernardo by way of Quebec City. It was the single worst accent in the history of theater. You Jets! We are going to CHUMBLE with you. It was disastrous. But classic.

  That was your last show at Stagedoor. What did it feel like when the summer was over?

  You know when a TV series does its last episode, and you see the actors know, Here comes real life because the run is over? That’s what that show was for me. I knew that there was a magic to those summers that real life would never quite replicate. And it’s frozen gold. The first two summers, I went for six weeks apiece. Then I have a vivid memory: My dad sat all the kids down and said there’d been a downturn in the lawn furniture business, and we’d have to cut back. And I could only go for one, three-week session. I have a sense memory of it to this day. My world was shattered. I could only go for three weeks. It remains, to this day, one of the most intense disappointments I’ve ever felt.

  There’s been a lot of talk about the Stagedoor Mafia—the Hollywood network of alums. Any truth to its existence?

  I guess there’s this cabal or mafia. It comes up in conversation, Someone in the business knows someone who went there and loves it as psychotically as I do. I went to Yale. I remember hearing that if you went to Yale Drama, you had this in. It’s like that. I’ve never found it to translate into actual jobs. But it’s great at a party!

  4.

  Name: Michael Ian Black

  How you know him: Starred in the cult film Wet Hot American Summer; played Stuckeyville bowling alley employee Phil Stubbs on NBC’s long-running Ed. Now he’s one-half of the Comedy Central series Michael and Michael Have Issues.

  Summers at Stagedoor: 1986-87

  Memorable roles: Child psychologist Dr. Martin Dysart in Equus, the Pirate King in Pirates of Penzance

  How did you wind up at theater camp?

  There was an advertisement for Stagedoor Manor in the back of the New York Times Magazine. That’s where Jews go to shop for camps. I think I was fourteen years old. I knew I wanted to be an actor, but I didn’t know how to do it. I didn’t see a clear path. I didn�
�t know anyone in show business.

  What do you remember about your first day at camp?

  This was the 1980s. I remember meeting Alexander Chaplin, later of Spin City fame. As it happened, there was a fad at that time: Jams.

  The surf gear?

  Yes. I was wearing plaid Jams pants. And he was wearing the matching shirt.

  Faux pas! Were you embarrassed?

  If you’re a guy at theater camp, it’s going to be hard to embarrass you to begin with. Also, Jams were cool. The fact that we looked like somebody’s matching drapes didn’t make me embarrassed. It made me feel included.

  Hilarious. The kids at this camp put on plays and musicals—full productions, and a lot of them. What was one of your earlier roles?

  I ended up with a smallish part in Runaways. I played a smarmy child molester. I was quickly pegged as smarmy and that has continued throughout my career.

  Isn’t there a rape scene in Runaways?

  Theatrical kids are happy to enact rape scenes. They’ll do whatever they’re asked. Stagedoor is a pretty special animal. It’s a lavender animal. It’s a lavender sparkly bedazzled animal.

  In the Glee era, it’s almost cool to be in the drama club. But not so back then, right?

  I was not well regarded at home. At Stagedoor, I felt like I found my people. At Stagedoor I was popular. I was somebody in a way that I never was at home. Ever. And my dreams felt valid there in a way they didn’t at home.

  The camp’s artistic director at the time was a Cuban immigrant named Jack Romano. He was famous for screaming at kids who didn’t know their lines. Did you have a similar run-in with Jack?

  He was a chain-smoking Cuban. But he took me aside one day. I don’t remember what he said, but it was something to the effect of “I think you have potential. I think you’re talented. I think you have something to contribute to this.” And that was the first time in my life that anybody had said anything like that to me, had expressed that kind of belief in me.

  Wow.

  It was overwhelming. Even talking about it now, it’s an emotional moment for me. At the time, I had no relationship with him. I hadn’t been in one of his shows, and this was my first summer. After that I wrote this long, rambling letter home to my mom, basically saying, “Hey, this guy who is sort of a demigod where I am said he thinks I’m talented, and this feels like a first step to me. And I think I can do this. I can make it in this business.”

  How old were you?

  I was fourteen or fifteen. It meant the world to me that somebody believed in me, even if it was based on very little evidence.

  Jack had been sick. Were you aware of that?

  He was always hunched over and coughing. He looked sallow. But it didn’t occur to me that he wasn’t healthy. It didn’t stop him from screaming and throwing things and telling everyone what idiots they were.

  When he died, back in 1991, there was a large memorial service for him. Did you go?

  I did. It was like the end of Mr. Holland’s Opus, when all of the students are there to celebrate this guy. It was full of these people whose lives you knew he touched.

  You landed your first manager at Stagedoor. Did you know that was a possibility? That you could be discovered?

  I was hyperaware that if I stood out, if I did my job, I could get an agent. Things were happening. A camper, Richard Panebianco, ended up in a movie called China Girl. And he was on Miami Vice. Another kid was in Les Misérables on Broadway. And these were kids we knew. That was the first time I had any exposure to anybody doing anything in the business. It felt possible.

  Tell me about your first manager.

  Shirley Grant was this classic chain-smoking broad from Jersey. She sat me down and talked to me. I felt like a horse being inspected. She had me look in profile, she was looking at my teeth, feeling my balls. I worked with her briefly. She sent me out for Burger King commercials. My mom was very hesitant, rightfully so, to have me skip school to go into the city for a Burger King audition. Then Jean Fox—from this agency called Fox/Albert—saw me at Stagedoor in Equus.

  Wait: You were in a theater camp production of Equus? That’s a drama about a mentally ill kid who blinds horses and runs around the stage naked!

  I was the doctor. We didn’t have nudity. But we did have horse-humping. Anyway, I worked with her through most of college. I was at NYU and they’d send me out for pilots.

  Did you come close to any?

  I remember very clearly auditioning for Doogie Howser M.D.—to be Doogie. They did the audition at some studio at ABC. It was overwhelming. I didn’t know what that was or how to respond. I never got anything. I wasn’t ready.

  You and Zach Braff were at Stagedoor Manor at the same time. Were you ever in a show together?

  Yeah, Pirates of Penzance. I was the Pirate King—the Kevin Kline role. Zach was twelve. He was in the chorus. I vaguely remember him. I’ve since reconnected with him. At the time, he was a blip.

  Was there much time for swimming and traditional summer camp activities?

  I didn’t swim one time in the twelve weeks I was there. What was I going to do, kick a fucking soccer ball around? I was there to become an actor. I was there to make out with girls.

  Stagedoor Manor was one of the first places a gay teenager could experiment with his sexuality. Was it all out in the open?

  All the guys were obviously gay. Like eighty percent of them. And we knew that. But it wasn’t something anybody really talked about. I’m sure there was late-night circle-jerking going on. But I was unaware of it. The kids who were gay were obviously gay, but they were also there for craft. They were pretty serious singers and dancers and they also did the gay stuff that gay kids do.

  Last question: Kids at summer camps like to complain about the food. How was the food at Stagedoor?

  I suffer from something that I think a lot of actors suffer from, which is the mathematical equation that free food equals delicious. I’ve never gotten over that. I’m sure the food was terrible. But not notably terrible.

  5.

  Name: Zach Braff

  How you know him: Played Dr. J. D. Dorian on TV’s Scrubs for nine seasons. His directorial debut, Garden State, starring Natalie Port-man, premiered at Sundance in 2004 and went on to earn $27 million at the box office.

  Summers at Stagedoor Manor: 1987-89

  Memorable role: Judas in Godspell

  How did you end up at Stagedoor?

  My father was really involved in community theater. And so I got into it at a young age, watching his rehearsals. As a boy I had no interest in sports. Which is quite alienating in the public school system. I just took such a liking to theater. The lighting and the set changes? The idea that a curtain would close and when it opened there’d be a brand-new set? I became fascinated. I had no interest in Little League.

  Stagedoor actually wasn’t your first theater camp, though. Where did you start?

  The first one my parents found was called Bravo, which had been founded by a woman who left Stagedoor to start her own camp. It was in the Berkshires. It was so dilapidated. It was just cabins and roughing it. But I fell in love. I was in a Jerry Herman revue. I was very tiny. For some reason, they wanted me to do a Charlie Chaplin impression. I was ten. I’d never heard of Chaplin.

  How’d you do an impression, then?

  I knew he looked like Hitler and that he walked funny.

  What happened to Camp Bravo?

  The owner didn’t quite figure out enrollment. My second year, it was down to thirty campers. Stagedoor, meanwhile, was the Mercedes-Benz of theater camps. At Bravo, kids would joke, “Don’t say the S word.” Stagedoor was supposedly for rich kids. They lived in a hotel and had real theaters and real teachers and real pianos—whereas we had those lights made out of coffee cans.

  Was Stagedoor different in other ways?

  Stagedoor was very cliquey. There was a total cool kids group—and that usually focused around the kids in Cabaret.

  The Our Time C
abaret, the touring troupe of supertalented Stage-door kids, you mean?

  Yes. In sports camp, the best athletes become the most popular. This was the same thing. The kids that were the most talented and ended up in Cabaret were the cool kids.

  Was it an easy transition for you?

  I was homesick when I first got there. I had a great counselor. But he ended up banging this sixteen-year-old. You’re not allowed to do that. But he was friends with the cool kids, and he introduced me and they accepted me.

  Wow. What was your first show?

  Carnival, I think. Or was it Carousel? Whichever one involves a puppet walrus. My musical knowledge has faded in the last twenty years. But I was the walrus puppet in this play. I got huge laughs. It was the first time I’d gotten huge laughs. Little by little I started getting more attention at the camp.

  What were the campers like?

  The kids were supertalented. There were a lot of divas. Everyone took themselves seriously. There were a lot of leg warmers. It wasn’t a typical summer camp. There was an indoor pool and an outdoor pool. I think I have one memory of being in each pool maybe once. I did take a tennis class. But as my father used to say, “Put it this way, you don’t need to bring a mitt.”

  At the time, Stagedoor’s artistic program was run by Jack Romano, a man known for his temper. Did you have a run-in with Jack?

  Danny Goldstein and I were cast in Once Upon a Mattress. We’d done a legendary Godspell together. We were like Newman and Redford. So we did Once Upon a Mattress together. It was a horrible production in that lobby theater.

  Yes, the lobby theater! Not Stagedoor’s most glamorous stage . . .

  In the lobby theater, exiting stage right meant going into the office. It’s like the dinner theater of Stagedoor. Anyway, the show was a fucking mess and we knew it. Jack came and watched the whole thing and he was so disappointed. When it was time to for him to give his notes, he said: “Zach! Danny! Did you have a lobotomy?” We had to go look up the word. But we knew it was bad.

  Jack Romano was famous for his acting exercises. Do you remember any?