Castellanoville: the beginning

Today was the first day of my last semester at NYU film school. Endings have become times of reflection and I am reminded of the moment I decided to go to NYU.

It all started when Richard Castellano came to town. In Narrowsburg, his is a name that’s only spoken in backrooms, whispered amongst friends, a dark patch in the town’s history.

He dressed well, in dark Italian silks, and was good looking in a Hollywood kind of way, with silvered brown hair. He spoke loudly in a raspy Brooklynized voice.

Castellano was the closest thing to a movie star I had ever seen. Right before he showed up in the Chatterbox Café on Main Street, he had had a role in the movie “Analyze This,” starring Robert DeNiro and Billy Crystal.

Richie, as I would come to call him, was larger than life, and he had a plan to put Narrowsburg on the map: a movie, starring himself, and a film festival, to be run by his wife, Jocelyn. I was excited, impressed and intrigued. This was a dream come true. Could it be my big break?

I landed the role of his son in his film, “Four Deadly Reasons,” which told the story of a gangster, named Bobby, who escapes with his son to a small town in upstate New York, only to be followed by the bad guys, who decide to take over the sleepy town.

We shot for four weeks in the summer; it was some of the best times of my life. I had 20 or so lines and five days of shooting.

One night we shot the climax of the film on Main Street. Richie burst from a social club and held the crime boss to the ground at gunpoint. My character stood in the distance, horrified. In between takes I sat on the curb watching the organized chaos in front of me. It was amazing: the street had been transformed into a movie set. I would never look at it the same way again.

When I wasn’t shooting, I hung out on set, working as a production assistant. I was captivated by the entire filmmaking process and I never wanted to leave. I ran around with a headset helping the crew.

I was disappointed when the movie crew packed its trucks for New York City and I had to go back to my high school life. I started counting down the days to the premiere.

The film was slated to close the following summer’s film festival. I bought a black suit, and hung it in my closet. My big screen debut crept closer and closer.

By now, rumors of the money the Castellanos owed around Narrowsburg started to surface. Many of the film crew hadn’t been paid. A picture of Richie ran in a local newspaper under the headline, “Hey Castellano, where’s my money?” Many believed him to be a con. A big city phony.

I didn’t care; I didn’t find any of it hard to believe. But I kept my mind focused on the suit hanging in my closet.

Finally the day came. I put on my suit and made arrangements to be dropped off in front of the Tusten Theater in a convertible. I found out late in the day that the premiere of the finished film had been scratched and a 20-minute preview would be screened in its place.

Instead of making a grand entrance in the convertible, I hid across the street from the theater at the Chinese restaurant in my new suit, munching on an egg roll while the whole town filed into the theater.

I snuck in as the screening started and I stood with my back pressed against the wall of the packed theater as the minutes ticked away. Scene after scene went by. The preview was terrible. Bad acting and worse dialogue. And the kicker? No shots of me or of Narrowsburg. I could have made a better movie, I remember thinking.

I was crushed, furious and embarrassed. I rushed from the theater, so angry I couldn’t see straight.

Castellano caught up with me and draped his arm over my shoulder, saying something about, “those are the breaks. Some of my best work has ended up on the cutting room floor.”

“This is different,” I remember saying. I would never be the same.

It was the end of my acting career. I decided that I would never again put myself in a position to be so disappointed. I simply couldn’t do it.

I enrolled at NYU a year or so later, and following an embarrassing trial, Castellano was thrown in jail after swindling tens of thousands of dollars from the residents of Narrowsburg. I never heard from him again. There was talk that Castellano wasn’t even his real name.

Richard Castellano was Harold Hill, the music man—without the magical happy ending. But he awakened in me a love for film, whether he knew it or not. He himself loved movies and he told me once that, for him, movies were an escape, a chance to be someone else.

I still think about the things I learned from him. He instilled in me a great confidence in myself, although his praise of my ability was perhaps the best acting he ever did.

Last I heard he was back in Brooklyn, convincing people to let him train their dogs to be in movies.

“Your dog has a great look,” I can hear him say.