I lived in front of cameras during the stage when my Tic Tac-sized baby teeth were being replaced with chompers the size of Chicklets.
Being the model child that I was, I loved going to the dentist. Well, at least to “the Flipper King.” Child actors were required to wear “flippers”—false teeth—that covered the mangy condition all developing mouths go through. A flipper was a kid-sized denture that fit in the mouth to fill in the missing teeth or to make teeth appear straight if they were naturally crooked. It was molded to fit perfectly to each specific mouth and give the wearer a smile that would make Joel Osteen jealous.
If it wasn’t snug, the result was a lisp—and only Cindy Brady could pull that off. They were expensive, uncomfortable to wear and required many hours of rehearsal in front of a mirror to learn how to speak without showering people in spittle. Every time the size of my mouth changed (something I had very little control over), my mom had to cart me back to the Flipper King for a new, pricey set of flippers.
It was only the beginning of my education on selling product. Whether it was a food commercial, a detergent ad, a soft drink promotion or a cheesy infomercial, there was so much to learn about the art of the sale.
When I was little, I believed everything I saw on television commercials. Leprechauns made cereal with tie-dyed marshmallows, a bald man was responsible for cleaning products and a Jolly Green Giant harvested my corn. (Okay, I was gullible, but I wasn’t Tracey Gold-gullible! I knew the difference between make-believe and real—though Bigfoot had me goin’ for a little while.)
When I started working in commercials, I quickly learned some rules for hawking products:
1. Audiences like their soda in frosty mugs. It should look straight out of Santa’s Village.
2. People respond to cereal floating in foamy milk.
3. When lapping up soup, viewers like to see kids dressed in cable knit sweaters by a fire.
4. A golden retriever in the background never hurt the sale of anything.
Another phenomenon I observed was the way advertisers embellished products to make them look more alluring. For example, in a cereal commercial, each Cheerio seen on camera was hand selected by a professional in the art of Food Props to ensure there was not a deformed O in the bunch. Sometimes he even sprayed them with shellac to really gloss ’em up. We were often warned not to eat the props.
All food designed to look perfect to the viewing audience was called “hero food.” To create a heaping bowl of chili, marbles were hidden under the gruel to give it that extra chunky vibe. Hamburgers required “hero” pieces of lettuce and tomatoes. The art of melting a slice of cheese over the corner of a perfect burger is something film students can probably major in. The 50 replacement hero burgers were kept under lock and key like precious rubies. Dozens had to be prepped, as food wilted quickly under the bright, hot lights and dry air.
“Mmm, this burger tastes better than the ones they make in heaven!” I said, doing my best to really sell the awful scripted line.
“Cut!” the director barked, and that was my cue to regurgitate the hunk of meat into a spit pail. Instantly a team of professionals jumped into action.
Each person on the crew carried out an important part of the entire production. There were very specific departments, each belonging to their own union. If the food props guy was asked to move a book from one side of the set to the other, he refused—it wasn’t his job. He had to get the set dresser to move it. If the actor touched the book, it became the responsibility of the props person. (Yes, props are different from food props.) There’s a little saying that helped me keep things straight: If it’s on the set, it’s set dressing. If an actor wears it, it’s wardrobe. If someone touches it, it’s a prop. If it’s smoking, it’s special effects. If it forgets its lines, it’s an actor.
Directors had trade secrets for selling product. During my white-water rafting Wrigley’s gum commercial, the director taught us how to insert the gum into our mouths so it would fold in a visually pleasing way. We learned how to take a long piece of gum and get it to hit the tongue just right so it collapsed perfectly between our (fake flipper) teeth.
It didn’t matter what it was we were selling, we had to look perfect and the product had to look perfect. Fortunately, we had lots of tricks up our sleeves to make that possible.
It didn’t take long to learn that in Hollywood, make-up wasn’t just for girls anymore. The bright stage lights made it necessary for even us manly men to put a little color on our faces. I sat in a tall director’s chair, sometimes with my name ironed on the back—I felt Hollywood-cool. (If Evian water had existed in the ’80s, I’m sure I would have demanded it with my bony index finger pointing to the sky.) It was great getting all that attention—people hovering over me to brush my hair or powder my face. I didn’t have to do anything but sit there and enjoy the pampering.
The next room I entered smelled of Aqua Net. Hairspray was all the rage in the ’80s. Even boys were under the influence of blown-out Farrah hair.
At some point, my face ceased to be as clear as a cloudless sky. Zits started popping up left and right, threatening to end my career as a doe-eyed pitchman. It wasn’t so bad during the pre-teen years. But when I reached the age where it looked like sun-dried tomatoes were sprouting on my face, it was far more humiliating. “Wait a minute!” the make-up artist said before dipping into an industrial-sized tub of concealer to cover all my zits.
It only got worse when I became famous. In public, people would come up and say, “Wow, you don’t have that many zits on Growing Pains.” As a result, I spent a lot of time in my room, hiding from those comments and the embarrassment of my face.
Magazine photographers often came to my house on the weekends when I had more time to pose for their hunky photo spreads. My sister Bridgette said she hated waking up on a Saturday morning, bleary and wanting to stumble to the kitchen, to electrical cords snaking through the house. “Not again,” she’d groan.
Some of the clothes they brought for me were cool—Ocean Pacific, IZOD, Members Only—but some of it was dorkier than the uniform my mom used to make me wear for auditions. The wardrobe stylists for these teeny-bopper mags dressed me in a jacket or sweatshirt with one sleeve rolled up over the shoulder to show my muscles. The photographer instructed, “Kirk, put your chin down. Now flex and peer out with a look that says ‘I’ve got a secret.’ That’s it. Hold still, I think I see a hint of tricep!”
It cracked me up. Some of the posters made me look all steamy and sultry. I was a 14-year-old kid! What were the posters implying? I wasn’t Don Johnson or Bruce Willis. I didn’t have hair on my chest, like Hawaii-based PIs or men with talking cars. I’d never even been on a date.
My publicist wanted to break my Mike Seaver image and reinvent a new, edgy Kirk Cameron. When the stylist finished with me, I looked like a young Charles Manson on skid row, with an inclination towards transgenderism.
There are so many misconceptions about life as a celebrity.
False: People think stars are unusual people.
The truth is, actors are just like everyone else with the same vulnerable feelings, the same desire to be deeply known for who they really are.
False: The work is really easy.
There are long, hard days—sometimes 14 to 16 hours long. They can be physically and emotionally exhausting. On the other hand, the work is easier in some respects than many jobs. One director referred to his actors as “meat puppets.” He implied that actors simply stand in front of a camera and deliver the lines someone else has written, performing them under the specific instruction of the director.
False: It’s a much easier life as a star.
Financially that can be true. However, the old Beatle’s song says it accurately: “Money can’t buy me love.” Money can create a zone of comfort but it can’t buy happiness, love, true friends or character. The things that matter most in life cannot be bought at any price.
False: Stars have no self-doubt or insecurities.
If my reflections on my zit issues weren’t convincing, I’ll add this: Celebrities are the most insecure people I’ve ever met—and for good reason. Actors don’t know if they’ll have a job from one week to the next. They don’t know if their eager, loyal fans will suddenly turn on them. Careers go up and down, and hopefully back up again (see Ben Affleck). Famous people don’t know if the people who hang around them are true friends or just leeches trying to grab a free ride.
Hollywood takes insecurities and shortcomings and conceals them like pimples. False, phony images of “cool” are sprayed in the public’s face like a bad gust of Aqua Net. The town shellacs the idea of “the good life” like it does each Cheerio, with the hope that you will buy what it’s selling.