You Look Like That Girl: A Child Actor Stops Pretending and Finally Grows Up (15 page)

When Maria went home for her day off every week, I would stand outside the door to her quarters and try to guess what was inside. What do you keep in your work bedroom? What do you need for your halflife? Maybe it was a sad place, covered in photos of the children that she had to leave behind, so that she could dust the original Botero statues in the foyer. Or maybe it was her secret hideaway, removed from the constraints of family responsibilities, where she could decorate to her own taste and keep all the things she didn’t want to share. I never got the guts to go in and see how Maria lived. I would just touch the door to her room, outlining the grooves in the heavy wood and wonder how she managed it. Maybe everyone felt split in two by their work, feeling, like I did, that in either place we were always leaving an important part of ourselves behind. I never was able to explain that I had hoped Maria could teach me how to live with it.

The master bedroom had large, connecting his-and-hers bathrooms. One was drenched in pink marble and the other in black marble. Our producer friend said that she never used the giant pink bathtub. Before she left for New York, she explained that Michael Jackson, who the Menendez family bought the house from, surely used to bathe the monkey in that tub. She also pointed out that Elton John had owned the house before The King of Pop, so who knows what had gone on in there? There was just no way that tub could ever get “clean-clean” even with Maria’s meticulous attention. She advised me to use one of the other nine bathrooms for my bathing needs. The fact that the tub disturbed her more than the patricide/matricide was kind of disconcerting.

Despite the fact that the house was a far cry from anything I had ever known, the mansion became just like any home after a while. I comfortably bounded up the grand curving staircase, taking the steps two at a time. The marble bathroom became less impressive as I realized that it was no more functional than the Formica I was accustomed to. I knew
the exact timing of how to press the button and run out of the ten-foot-tall, mechanical iron gate before it slammed shut. Opening the massive entry doors became as routine as opening the hollow plywood doors of the Oakwood apartment 202 G. My suitcase was there, so I was home.

One day, I was stretched out on the leather couch, flipping channels on the theater screen that acted as a television. There was some Hollywood pseudo-news show that was giving an update on the ongoing trial of the Menendez brothers. Suddenly, a black and white photo of the murder scene flashed on the nine-foot screen; a body lying on the floor, one on the couch, covered in dark splotches of blood. The photos made me catch my breath and my skin got prickly. I started pondering the fragility of life…but, wait. Those windows in the photo…they looked familiar. I glanced behind me. Yep. It was this room. I looked down at the floor next to the couch I was sitting on. Sure, it was a different couch, but it was in the same position. They were right here. Bloody. Swollen. Dead. Massacred. I turned off the TV.

It had been easy to avoid information overload about the murders. This was in the blissful time before the Internet and 24-hour news networks, when getting information actually took some time and effort. I knew the murders had happened in the house, but seeing the details in black and white was something different. It was a little harder to sleep after that. I watched the protesters outside the gates of the house and wanted to invite them in to sit on the couch and look at that photo. I didn’t know what the answer was, I didn’t know if it was prompted by insanity or greed or self defense. All I knew was that something very, very sad had happened in the living room.

The producer had assured us that the house had been remodeled since the murders and somehow that really did make everyone feel better. I’m not sure why. That’s a very L.A. mindset, thinking that a facelift changes the soul. There is an assumption that what something looks like on the outside is the important part. The content, the suffering, and the history don’t matter.

So, we accepted the house for what it was: a place we pretended was home, while I went to work and pretended to be other people. We pretended that the remodel changed the house in a fundamental way while the people crying at the front gate pretended that there could be sense made of any of it.

The audition for
Mrs. Doubtfire
felt serious when they issued plane tickets. I was fourteen years old when Mom and I flew to San Francisco with a bunch of other kids and their chaperones for a screen test. There were a few kids for each of the three children’s roles, and they kept mixing and matching, coming up with new combinations of us, like we were toppings at a frozen yogurt bar. Each new group would go into the studio and try to stay cool while we read with Robin Williams and then wait while the next trio of kids went to have their turn in front of the cameras.

Matt Lawrence, Mara Wilson, and I were grouped together early and instantly connected. We adored each other and I jumped at the chance to have siblings, if only for an afternoon. When we were on the mock-set with Robin and then with Sally Field, we went into professional mode, listening attentively to direction and trying to impress the veteran actors with the fact that we were all “off-book” and had our lines memorized. Robin and Sally proved what I was starting to believe about real movie stars: they are lovely. Legitimate stars have no need to pull rank and shoot others down. They are sensitive and collaborative artists who also mean business. They are as serious about getting the shot and landing the joke as the most hard-assed Fortune 500 CEO. Real stars are stars because
they are good at both the creative and the business sides of the job.

While the other kids were screen testing, Matt, Mara, and I laughed and joked around and confided that we all really wanted to book this one.

“You’ve seen
Mork and Mindy
, right?” Matt asked me.

I confessed my obsession with Nick at Night reruns.

“But have you seen Robin’s stand up? It’s really funny. But like,
dirty
funny.”

I thought Robin’s only gig was playing an alien, so Matt was clearly more versed on the career of our potential colleague.

I didn’t much care about anyone else’s resume, I just held Mara’s tiny hand a little tighter and decided that she was mine to take care of. I already loved her.

When the screen test was over, we all loaded up in a bus full of child actors and their parents and went back to the airport. A somber, emotionally exhausted silence fell over the group. It’s always hard to tell how these things go. You can feel like you totally nailed it, but politics or skin coloring or someone else who just nailed it a little more can leave you unemployed after even the greatest audition. All of us had done our best and now it was just up to the producers to figure out which pre-pubes-cent amalgamation would play the children of Robin and Sally.

Matthew Lawrence, Mara Wilson and me, in the school trailer of
Mrs. Doubtfire.

PHOTO COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR
.

As we reached the airport I saw a rainbow shimmering through the misty San Francisco sky. It was clearly a sign that I booked the gig. I guess my competitors could have seen the rainbow, too, but for whatever reason, I was convinced that none of them did. That rainbow was mine, and the job would be, too.

I went home to Canada and managed to attend almost ten whole days of 9th grade before I left to film
Mrs. Doubtfire
for several months. With my head hung low, I went to my teachers and told them the situation, apologizing that they would have to put together work for me to do while I was away. Some teachers put up a minor fuss, others were downright obstinate. I vaguely remember one saying something supportive, but generally it was the same old battle.

We arrived in San Francisco and Mom and I settled into our new home at the St. Frances Hotel. It was a historic hotel from the early 1900s, that was complete with gold-capped columns and a fancy art collection in the lobby. We dragged in our overused luggage, introduced ourselves to the staff, and settled in for four months of tiny soaps and prompt turn- down service.

On one of the first days of rehearsals, while we were still trying to find our way around from the school trailer to the craft services table, the director, Chris Columbus, introduced us to his mother. She had stopped by to visit the set and she joined Matt, Mara, and me for lunch. She was a sweet older woman, a bit eccentric, but nice all the same. The three of us felt like we had to impress the mother of our new boss and made as much small talk as we could manage at fourteen, thirteen, and five years old. After lunch, we shook her hand and attempted to say
professional-sounding things:

“So nice to meet you,” I said.

“Hope you enjoy your stay in San Francisco,” said Matt.

“Bye!” said Mara.

We went back to the schoolroom to try to get a little educated before rehearsals resumed, and it was only when we returned to set that we found out that we had just had lunch with Mrs. Euphegenia Doubtfire. We had completely fallen for it—hook, line, and latex bosoms. Until that moment, the whole Robin-as-a-woman thing had seemed pretty farfetched and had the potential to be an embarrassing career misstep for everyone. We all wondered if we were just doing a bad
Tootsie
rip-off. But maybe this drag thing could be believable, after all.

Even close up, Robin’s makeup was phenomenal. It was the expert work of Greg Cannom, Ve Neill, and Yolanda Toussieng, who would rightfully win an Oscar for their effort. I was impressed with the fact that when Robin (a notoriously hairy man) was in character as Mrs. Doubtfire, they went so far as to shave his knuckles and the backs of his hands. He once caught me staring at the stubble that grew by the minute on his fingers and called me out on it. I had never been good at being teased but I never knew how comprehensive the mortification could be until a professional teaser mocked me.

The biggest challenge was learning how to deal with Robin’s improv on set. Ad libbing has never been my strong suit and I soon realized that I could not just look to the director with a panicked, wide-eyed expression every time Robin went off-script. Also ineffective was my attempt to just blurt out my line whenever Robin stopped for a breath, regardless of if it was logical or not. Eventually, I learned to ride that wave with him. I would never become a brilliant improv actor, but there were some good lessons in there about being flexible and embracing the moment. Learning to really listen and respond rather than just waiting for my turn to talk was a valuable skill, on set and off.

The whole experience was a blast and there were times I noticed myself,
in the midst of this unusual situation, enjoying regular kid things. Matt brought his dog along to San Francisco and we would play fetch with Jack in the fancy ballroom of the beautiful and historic St. Frances. I’m not sure that the staff really appreciated a golden retriever bouncing off the mirrored walls but apparently no one is inclined to protest when a production company reserves entire floors of rooms for months at a time. Mara and I ordered butterfly chrysalides through the mail and kept them protected in a mesh tent until they were ready to be released. We opened the enclosure and squealed as our monarchs took flight and zigzagged through the trees in Union Square Park. Matt and Mara felt like the siblings I always wanted, and Robin and Sally could not have been more wonderful to us. Sally brought us games and books and smothered us with hugs every morning. Robin sang, “Lydia the Tattooed Lady,” whenever I walked on set. The workdays were long, but no one complained because we knew they were always longer for Robin, who endured hours in the makeup chair.

Although we felt loved, I don’t remember anyone treating us like we were particularly special. We were not put on any type of pedestal at work; people were not constantly telling us how wonderful we were. It was more like we were part of a large extended family and although people were looking out for us, I never felt a sense of being worshipped. We were there to do a job and although we were not expected to be perfect, we were expected to be prepared for work and do our jobs well. We always knew we’d have another take or could ask for an extra moment before an emotional scene if we needed it. When anyone flubbed a line, whether it was Mara or Pierce Brosnan, we all laughed it off and just went back to one to go again. The work was hard, certainly, but we felt supported. There was also a sense that being part of this production had the potential of changing much in our lives. People seemed to be trying to prepare us and keep us grounded because of attention that might come our way after the film was released.

By the time I was fourteen, I had been on catty sets, with weird,
internal competition for screen time and the attention of the director. Older actresses who were losing the battle with time struggled with their age and took it out on me. There had been vicious attacks about trailer size and contractual perks. I had been on shows where kids were an unwelcomed addition, and our cuteness couldn’t compensate for the underlying distain. I had been treated like an adult more than was necessary, being the object of inappropriate affections from producers who left gifts of cashmere sweaters in my dressing room and hugged me for too long. Those men told me how beautiful I was, and how I was so mature for my age, and they just couldn’t talk to their wives the way they could talk to me. Even though I was dying to be grown up like everyone else I was working with, I was not ready for certain types of reality that tended to show up on set. On
Doubtfire
we worked with people who respected us, yet understood we were still children. It was good to know that there were ways to do it right.