If stuck in traffic on Sunset Strip, drivers typically underestimate how they are only a few sharp turns away from the Greystone Mansion: the scandalous home of the Doheny family and a summer oasis for prepubescent theater kids. Historically, many know the Greystone Mansion for the Doheny’s oil-stricken wealth, political corruption, a double murder-suicide, and a taboo affair in the Roaring 20’s. For a niche subset of Los Angeles students, the Greystone Mansion is home to a public theater camp offered by the City of Beverly Hills.
Every summer, the Greystone pool house becomes the stage for aspiring Broadway stars and children killing time alike (I was the latter). Despite the extravagance of mansion grounds, the theater is DIY—the counselors construct a makeshift stage lining the white lattice columns of the pool house. On top of the former pool now permanently filled with bricks, parents sit in rows of folding chairs.
Every Friday after a sweaty week of running lines, our counselors rallied the musical cast to the grassy hill for an hour of Slip-N-Slide time. This was no typical commercial Slip-N-Slide with a plastic runway and a miniature inflatable pool. Instead, this was a boundless, flimsy piece of plastic descending down the steep hill. While others clumsily hobbled down the hill, I laid on the grass alongside my friend Victoria.
While acting too cool to partake, we could not fathom the uneasiness of changing in front of others. Even worse, sliding down plastic with our developing breasts clinging to our one-piece speedos. After spending minutes watching our peers slide down the plastic and tumble onto the grass, she inched closer and whispered in my ear, “Do you know how babies are made?’
I uncomfortably pried, “I forget, remind me?”
At the time, my only other beacon of sexuality was my friend Rose. Out of the two boys in our entire cast, she managed to snag a date with Max. When he arrived at the movie theater, she glanced head to toe and snarked, “teal skinny jeans DO NOT match with these double D tits.”
She was effortlessly confident, attributing her experience to a fifth grader teaching her how to kiss when she was in fourth grade. While tweens might embellish or fabricate stories of early sexual exploration, Rose’s authentic aura indicated that it was fact, verbatim. I questioned if I could ever be as naturally alluring as her. What would it taste like to kiss her lips after the school bell: tropical punch Lip Smackers or minty Burt’s Bees?
After the movie theater fiasco, my friends and I formed an unspoken yet mutual agreement to crush on the other remaining boy of the camp: Mateo. Crush not as attraction, but merely as a competition. A mindless game imposed by compulsory heterosexuality. Every night once we arrived back home in our respective rooms, we strategically opened our iChat screen until Mateo’s status turned green.
Despite spending eight hour days together in the dry sun, after hours we joined group video sessions to experiment with iChat effects. Blurring and stretching our faces, mirroring our reflections, scratching screens with colored pencil, and riding a rollercoaster. Waiting for others to vanish due to demands from their parents for slumber, we pleaded for five minutes of alone time with Mateo. Exerting all of our energy collectively, as if we wouldn’t rediscover him as an InstaGay a decade later.
Growing up in a city of entertainment, I can’t be surprised that 2/2 of the boys in my theater camp now have IMDB pages. While I haven’t performed in a production in over ten years, I’ll always acknowledge theater camp for providing me with sacred space to belt bumblebeeBumbleBeeBUMBLEBEE and rush thirty second costume changes to balance the roles of three different ensemble characters.
As someone who never grew up playing with Barbies or worshipping Christopher Nolan films, I’m stunned that Theater Camp directed by Molly Gordon and Nick Lieberman has not become a widely acclaimed cult hit of the summer. The film captures the desperation, interpersonal dynamics, and wittiness of theater camp. Without a missed beat, the satirical writing produced an instant classic.
While I often fail to acknowledge my theater origins, in adulthood I’d gladly accept another month where the outside world becomes obsolete. Instead, devoting myself to the creative release of acting, singing, and dancing. More importantly, fixating on meaningless internal drama.
*names have been changed to remain anonymous & spare embarrassment*