After taking in the movie version of Oh Dad Poor Dad Mama's Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feeling So Sad, I walked into the manager's office at the phantasmagoric new Cleveland Circle Theatre to see about a photograph to run with this review.

"What could you possibly want with a still from that thing?" asked the manager's secretary. I explained to her how, on account of Arthur Kopit's being an alumnus and his play's having copped an Adams House play-wrighting contest about a decade ago, the movie seemed to have a Harvard angle. She agreed to go find the manager.

A few minutes later, a short, smooth, manager type strutted into the office and asked who I was and what I wanted. I showed him the chintzy little plastic press card that is the mark of a CRIMSON man.

"Movie's not very good, is it?" he whispered. I smiled noncommittally. "You know the story behind it?" he asked.

I told him I did, but he paid no attention. "After they'd finished shooting the picture," he said, "Paramount got kind of worried--it was one of the worst movies they'd seen in years. So they called Jonathan Winters back to do some re-shooting, and they put in all this narration stuff with the father character making quips from a little hole in the screen. And it's not so bad, if you close your eyes and just listen to the gags."

"Funny thing," he continued. "The older people think it's pretty rotten, but the younger crowd, specially the college students -- the 11-year-olds and the 22-year-olds--they really eat it up. I figure it'll play for quite a while. Whaddaya say?"

I assured him I would mail him a copy of my review, at which point, after looking to make sure no one could possibly overhear, he laid it on the line: "Do you think," he asked plaintively, "you might be able to call it 'camp'?"

Sure, baby, it's camp.