I lifted the receiver of the brown desk phone. I do not want to do this.
I was stuck in a no-win situation any way you looked at it. Pacing my dressing room in 1988 (see chapter 2), I weighed my options and didn’t like either of them. I would either go along with what the producers wanted, or I had to tell them how I felt and stand by my convictions. Both options would be painful.
I wanted to be on good terms with everyone on Growing Pains, and I knew the phone call I was about to make would make that almost impossible. I wrapped the curly phone cord around my finger and punched in the executive producers’ office extension.
“Hey, how’s it goin’?”
“Great, Kirk.”
“Hey,” I said, trying not to sound nervous. “I have a concern about one of the scenes and I wondered if you guys could help me out with this.”
His voice tightened. “Sure. Let’s talk about it.”
“Thanks. When do you want me to come down?”
“Now would be good.”
I hung up the phone, knowing by his tone that the following conversation would only get more awkward.
I drove the half-mile to the producers’ building on Warner Bros. Ranch, turning down my Amy Grant cassette. Even her soothing sound couldn’t calm my anxiety. I pulled into one of the available spaces outside the administrative bungalows, took a deep breath and went in.
I walked past the office cubicles in the musty, stucco building. A few production assistants exchanged curious looks: Why is Kirk Cameron in our building?
I knocked on the producers’ door and entered at their prompt. Sitting on the sofa, surrounded by awards and framed Variety magazines, we engaged in painful, drawn-out small talk.
“So, how’re things going?” I asked.
“Good, Kirk. How’s rehearsal?”
“It’s going well.”
“Alan behaving himself?”
I smiled. “Never.”
Everyone laughed politely, until one producer took the lead. “So, Kirk . . . what’s up?”
I cracked my knuckles, buying myself two more seconds of time.
“It’s about the opening scene,” I said, referring to the part we had been rehearsing that day. It called for Mike to open the show in bed next to a beautiful girl. He was to roll over and say, “What’s your name again?” Later it would be revealed that he was only acting out one of his mother Maggie’s vivid nightmares.
Dream sequence or not, I didn’t like the idea of viewers seeing Mike so casually in bed with a woman.
“Why are you even in here?” one of the writers pushed.
I didn’t know if he meant “Why do you even have a problem with this?” or “Who do you think you are, punk? Let us write the show” or “Why don’t you just tell us what you want us to do, because we’re just going to have to do what you say, anyway.”
I didn’t bother to ask. “Because I’m concerned. I know I have a responsibility as a role model, and parents trust us to be able to watch this show with their kids. I just don’t want to do anything that would give kids the idea that I have a casual attitude about sleeping around.”
They looked at me like they’d eaten some bad ham.
I was a 17-year-old kid talking to 40-ish men, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew how my comments came across. I sounded as though I was implying that my moral standards were higher than theirs.
“I’m not asking for you to can the whole scene,” I hedged. “I’m just asking if there’s another way we can do this so that I’m not uncomfortable and can give it 100 percent.”
They glanced at each other, looking less like comedy writers and more like reporters covering a gruesome strangulation case.
“I’m not trying to create some set of standards you need to live by,” I went on. “I’m saying that for me, this crosses the line in my conscience . . . and since I’m the guy who has to get up there and do this in front of millions of people, I don’t want to do it.”
“We’ll talk about it and let you know,” one of them said, with a sigh.
I stood. I had articulated my feelings as respectfully as I knew how. I muttered, “Have a great day,” though I’m sure no one heard me.
I was not looking to pick a fight to show everybody who was boss, contrary to almost everyone’s belief. I was trying to be respectful and cooperative—to work the creative process with them as a team. Believe me: It wasn’t worth the agony to fight over these things if I was simply trying to throw my weight around.
I find it amazing that actors can throw scripts against the wall, refuse to say lines, demand more money, show up two hours late for work and you never hear about it—but the minute an actor has issues with script content based on moral convictions, it gets blown out of proportion on the set and in the press.
Supervising producer Joey Scott tried to help me understand what the folks behind the show were trying to do. He explained that the writers wanted to be edgier now that Mike was older. They wanted to show a kid growing up and exploring the issues that develop during adolescent years. The writers wanted to be real about sex, drinking and drugs. “If Mike Seaver is a popular kid—not a bad kid, but edgy—he gets into mischief and doesn’t always do the right thing at first,” Joey said. “Kirk, Mike is a better guy if he is tempted, goes right to the edge and backs off, doing right by the end of the show. In the long run, he makes the better choice.”
“Joey, I totally agree with you.” I said. “I have no problem with that. You’re misunderstanding me. I have issues with only the details of a couple specific scenes, not the entire character of Mike Seaver. Why is that so hard to understand?”
John Tracy, our director, pulled me aside and we talked. He found a compromise for the scene. I was fine with the changes. I agreed to do it and the show came off fine.
Over time, however, I became more introspective and even pulled away a bit from the cast. My former M.O. was to be a prankster—I had no problem joining in on off-color jokes or rude stories flying around the set.
But things started to change when my conscience began to kick in. The cast and crew didn’t understand what was going on inside of me—only that I was withdrawn and antisocial. The once fun-loving prankster was now oh-so-serious. I became very guarded, careful and deliberate—not nearly as carefree—because I was trying not to make mistakes with regard to morality.
People thought I had another agenda than I did. They felt I went off the deep end or that I was flexing my celebrity power—or both. I never wanted to do that. I never wanted to be seen as an egotistical idiot. The reality is that I was struggling to take steps of integrity, trying to do the right thing.
Generally speaking, I only spoke up over issues that my character faced.
In one episode, Mike’s girlfriend, Kate, was doing a photo shoot for a swimsuit calendar. There were about a dozen girls who were wearing . . . well, let’s just say they weren’t dressed for a trip to the North Pole. I watched as a dozen very scantily clad girls became the subject of rude comments and the gawking of a few salivating writers and crew members. (Some of these girls had obviously augmented body parts that were barely contained by the skimpy suits.)
I thought of the families who would be watching at home.
I rehearsed the scene all week with the girls and thought the sexy-factor was over the top for an 8 o’clock family show. I didn’t ask that the girls dress in 1940s bloomers and bathing caps, but I also didn’t feel that our show needed to resemble the Victoria’s Secret catwalk. I spoke up.
Rather than understanding my motive to protect our show’s family-friendly reputation and the dignity of the actresses in the scene, some people got very upset with me.
“Now Kirk’s making wardrobe decisions for other cast members?”
“Where is this heading? Is he going to tell us what we can and can’t say or what I can and can’t wear? Is he going to make decisions for my character? C’mon, producers . . . nip this in the bud.”
The last thing I wanted was to be anyone’s personal censor. The reality is that I was struggling to take steps of integrity and trying to do the right thing. Unfortunately, when I made a move, it affected a lot of people. I was in an unnatural position. Most 17-year-olds aren’t put in a position of power that can influence an entire company—but in a sense, that’s where I was.
It would have been far easier to go with the flow. I would have made a lot more money—not just on Growing Pains, but for offers after the show ended—if I had played the game. It’s not easy to stand up for what you believe. I learned that at a very young age.
Contrary to popular gossip, I had nothing to do with the firing of Julie McCullough as my TV girlfriend because she posed for Playboy magazine. But don’t take my word for it. According to Dan Guntzelman, the head show-runner for Growing Pains: “The truth is, Julie was let go because Mike being in a committed relationship was a dead end—he was, after all, an immature imp who was ill-equipped to deal with a grownup world on all levels. That’s where the conflict and comedy came from: The maturity to have and maintain a lasting relationship fought against this. . . . Julie was to play the part of Mike’s first serious relationship—the first time he was swept up in something larger than himself, but she was never intended to be his mate for life, even the life of the series.”
Producer Mike Sullivan confirms Dan’s comments: “It was a guest star role; she wasn’t hired as a series regular. There was never any intention of the Mike character being married or in a permanent romantic relationship.”
Some people today question why Growing Pains ended or why the producers quit the show. Some say it was because I was difficult to work with due to my personal convictions. Again, Dan Guntzelman: “As important as Kirk’s struggles were to him, they were not the primary focus for me. Most successful sitcoms have a life of five, six or seven years, then the pressures to end it start to mount: Actors want to move on, the show gets top heavy. (How many executive producers does it take to screw in a light bulb? About 10 in the fifth year of a series.) A family sitcom has an even greater incentive. (Kids grow up and there goes the family.) Leaving Growing Pains was the logical thing to do. Also, selfishly, coming off a hit show made you ‘hot.’ It was the perfect time for me to get a new deal and try to ‘do it again.’ ”
On the set of the Growing Pains reunion movie, I approached the producers and said, “Hey, I wanna let you know . . . a lot of years have gone by. I’ve thought a lot about what happened during those years and I know that I could have handled those situations more graciously than I did when I was 17. We had a lot of great years together and I hope you can forgive me for any frustration I caused you.”
One producer replied, “We’re sorry. We probably didn’t handle it the best way, either. We really could have tried to help you out here instead of just hammering you every time you asked for something.”
I talked to the cast as well. As time gave us a better perspective, I think we all were able to look at the situation with more understanding. I’m glad we had that time of reunion and reconciliation.
We enjoyed shooting another reunion flick in 2004, Growing Pains: Return of the Seavers, which Joanna directed. The whole cast assembled to shoot a special feature for the Growing Pains DVD set, in which we enjoyed a marshmallow roast and a fun walk down Seaver memory lane, reminiscing about all the fun times we shared. We saw each other recently at Alan’s ranch outside of Santa Barbara to celebrate his son’s birthday. And Jeremy occasionally comes over to our house to prepare some of his famous gourmet dinners for our family.