Pictured: Rosie on the monitor, getting ready for her big moment.
Wherein our daughter has the shortest professional acting career ever.
by Timothy Rutt
About a month ago, our friend Gail called. She said that there was a cattle call audition that afternoon in Van Nuys for Disney and they were looking for particular types of kids -- and our seven-year-old, Rosie, filled the bill.
Showbiz isn't something our end of the family does. Sure, one brother is a producer for the “Daily Show with Jon Stewart”, and another designs computer animation for the Sesame Street people, and our oldest daughter is a musical theater geek and budding actress. But this Hollywood stuff is kind of off our radar.
Pictured: ever the trouper, Rosie carries her own luggage to the shoot.
So Mom took Rosie to Van Nuys, where she played some games and was interviewed on camera, then went home. Mom said that Rosie spent the afternoon with her finger jammed firmly in her nose. We figured that probably sealed her fate.
But two weeks later, on a Wednesday night when decent people are thinking about bed, we got a call from the casting agency. They hadn’t received our paperwork. “What paperwork?” I asked. Seems we needed to fill out a bunch of forms -- Rosie got the job.
Now, on one hand it’s no surprise she stood out in the auditions, errant finger and all. Rosie is very cute and outgoing, she has amazing red hair, and she lights up every room she’s in. She's the family rock star. But she wouldn’t be an obvious choice as an actress.
Except that she has what Disney was looking for this time around: Down Syndrome. You see, our friend Gail Williamson -- who set up this audition -- is the go-to person if anyone in Holllywood needs an actor with Down Syndrome. Gail is the executive director of the Down Syndrome Association of Los Angeles, and her son, Blair, is an actor with Down Syndrome as well. And Disney, it seems, wanted a whole rainbow of diversity for their new series of promotions -- including kids with special needs.
Pictured: Rosie in wardrobe.
We were totally unprepared for this. We quickly found out we had to have on hand a work permit, birth certificate, social security card, and Coogan account. We weren't quite sure we knew what that was.
But we wanted to go forward. Not that we’re envisioning a great acting career for Rosie, or we want to be stage parents. But one of our personal crusades is to put people like Rosie out in the public, let other folks see them and realize they’re OK. There aren’t many people out there with Down Syndrome anymore, but it’s not because of medical progress -- it’s because 80-90% of kids like Rosie get killed in the womb, “choiced” out of existence because of the bad luck of having an extra chromosome.
Pictured: Rosie in the makeup trailer
Riverstreet, the production company, faxed a bunch of information that night. The next day, Thursday, we started filling out the forms and putting the documents together. Friday we gathered Rosie and her brother after school and drove like crazy to Van Nuys, which is the only place with a walk-in counter for a children’s entertainment industry work permit you can get the same day. (There are lots of signs taped to the wall that say they’ll call the cops if you act threatening. What were we getting into?)
Bright and early Saturday we went into Bank of America and set up the Coogan account. It’s named after Jackie Coogan, who was a famous child actor whose parents and manager burned through his money, leaving him almost nothing when he turned 21. Today, studios deposit 15% of the kid’s earnings into their Coogan account, where it can’t be touched by anybody until the kid is of age.
On Monday morning, we faxed everything to Riverstreet Productions, and waited.
And waited.
Pictured: Craft services -- so worth it!
A week went by. Then we got a call: Rosie had to be on set. The next morning.
So bright and early -- Rosie in her pink dress, us with a suitcase acting as entourage -- we drove to the Pasadena Elk’s Lodge on Colorado Boulevard. Riverstreet had rented it for crew parking, where we would be shuttled to the set.
When we arrived at the Elk’s Lodge, what we found was a line of pop-up tents protecting a breakfast bar worthy of a Las Vegas hotel --- muffins, eggs, bacon, coffee, tea, fruit juice -- it’s called craft services, Despite their famously anorexic appearance, showbiz people like to eat. So we snacked there until the shuttle came by to deliver us to the set.
The “set” was the middle of the block of a lovely Craftsman neighborhood. One backyard was set up for shooting, and other yards, driveways, and much of the street was full of trucks, vans, and equipment. The garage of one home was set up as an improvised schoolhouse, because even kid actors are expected to keep up with their homework. This is where we would hang out between shots -- no trailer for us.
Mariano, an extremely handsome and friendly production assistant, met us there and guided us to the wardrobe trailer. Rosie was to be in two segments -- part of a group of kids playing limbo in the back yard, and part of another group doing a “freeze dance.” The wardrobe ladies chose two “looks” for her, and then we were hustled to the hair and makeup trailer.
Pictured: getting the hair done.
A little sunscreen, a little hairspray, then we were marched to the “school” where we did homework until we were called. Two other friendly production assistants came by to teach her to limbo.
The call came, and we were hustled to the back yard where the limbo was to take place. Parents were ushered into an improvised screening room in the house, where we could see the feed from the camera.
Everybody did the limbo, which looked about as good as limbo could look, then they stopped to reset for another take. As they were resetting, a production assistant brought Rosie in. The PA said she was tired, and we figured she was hungry, so we snacked untl the call came that it was time for the second take.
But once we got outside, Rosie spotted a swing set and ran to it. And didn’t feel like getting off of it, even though an entire crew was waiting for her.
“Rosie, it’s time to limbo,” we said, and she just put crossed her arms. “No no no no no, no limbo, time to swing,” she said. The director said “I think she’s done for the day.” They reshot the scene without her -- her cohorts were experienced child actors, and it went smoothly on the second take. We went back to the schoolhouse, and she didn’t get called for the freeze dance segment.
So by 10:30 AM, our showbiz career was over. We’d been fired by Disney. But we had to spend another four hours doing homework and raiding the craft services table until we could get shuttled back. And she never did get another chance to swing.
Pictured: limbo!
