by Mario Lopez
My mom had never shown an interest in my auditioning. That is to say, not until that moment backstage at Grossmont High School when she overheard the other mothers talking about the talent agent and wanted to know more. Her face lit up and it was as though I could see the wheels mentally turning, with thought bubbles practically forming: “My Mario can read and memorize; he’s in the advanced class at school. Maybe he could do this commercial stuff?”
Obviously, the fact that I’d been reading since the age of three had been helpful for me in school. No, none of it was literature, certainly no Shakespeare, but my teachers had encouraged me to read aloud in front of the class whenever the opportunity arose. Over time, I’d learned to read and articulate just about anything you put in front of me—whether or not I could comprehend the big words and concepts. But, frankly, as I’d later realize, you don’t need to understand when you read off a teleprompter.
Probably the real reason Mom wanted to investigate the possibility of getting me an agent was because, as anyone in my family could attest, I wasn’t afraid of the spotlight. Shy I was not. Mom also knew that I could talk to anyone and everyone, carrying on conversations with adults about all kinds of subjects. More than being just a kid who sought attention—which I loved, of course—I cared more about the approval that came from being really good at something like wrestling. So, in her ongoing quest to find ways to keep me active, she most likely saw this as yet another outlet.
After the recital was over, Mom found the opportunity to approach Christine Guerrero, who, it turned out, had been impressed with my dancing. She invited me to come to her office to read for her. And that’s how I was discovered: ten years old, in full-on makeup at a dance competition somewhere outside San Diego.
Even though I’d been invited to what to anyone else could have been my big break, I was in no rush to meet with the agent—frankly, I didn’t care one way or the other. Knowing next to nothing about show business, I didn’t necessarily want to be an actor or performer on TV. Who even knew what being on TV meant or what it would be like?
My mother didn’t push it. She asked me, “Mijo, do you want to talk to this lady and do a scene? You can see if you like it and if she likes you, and it might be something you can do?”
If my mom asked, I was going to do it. See what I mean? That’s the kind of son I was.
At the meeting, Christine Guerrero began by matter-of-factly talking about the ins and outs of the business. Then she smiled and asked, “Mario, would you read something for me?”
That didn’t sound too terrible. I agreed and she handed me a dirty, wrinkled piece of paper with commercial copy on it. No doubt she had used this same script for countless auditions. The commercial was for an insurance company and the copy told a sad story about a boy who lost his dog in the rain. Reading it, I knew to lift my eyes from the page and, as I did, I saw the agent staring at me intently.
When I was done reading, she made a note and then looked up, turning first to my mother and then to me, saying that she would very much like to work with us.
All these years later as I think back to how this played out, from the moment in the wings before the dance recital at the high school to this meeting with my first talent agent, I still think it’s ironic that I broke into show business at the age of ten because of dancing.
My dad thinks it’s ironic, as he says, that I’ve never had a real job. Because I started acting so young, I’ve basically always been a professional, except for one part of a summer when I worked for one of Dad’s landscaping businesses. Well, that was short-lived employment and he did it mostly to help me during a lag in my performing career. So I guess he’s right. I’ve never had a real job. But as far as non-real jobs go, I’ve been working since I was in the fifth grade, in multiple arenas of the entertainment industry. Bottom line? Working as a child served one very important purpose: it kept me out of some trouble.
• • •
After I signed with my new San Diego–based agent, she immediately began submitting me for local ads and I went right to work doing print. It happened fast and I didn’t have time to think too much about the process. I’d just show up and they’d take pictures of me. Next thing you knew, I’d see the pictures in a little catalog.
The first gig was a catalog ad for a bank. The graphics read, “Sonríe”—smile—“you’re in bank country.” With a baseball theme, I was dressed in a catcher’s uniform and wore a catcher’s mask on top of my head, while I had my arm around this little white kid, who was the pitcher. We were both smiling.
As the print jobs added up, Mom collected copies but never put my pictures on the fridge or on the wall, or anywhere in the house. She kept albums, but unlike awards from competitions or commendations from school, she didn’t put anything on display—maybe so as not to make Marissa feel left out. My sister probably wouldn’t have minded, though, with all that she had going for her. Very smart, funny, and really pretty, my sister excelled at everything. Besides being a dancer too, she was a star student, went on to be captain of her cheerleading squad in high school, and later would go on to graduate college on the dean’s list. The joke remained that even though I was the older brother, I had to keep up.
For his part, Dad was supportive of this new activity, just as with everything else I did—which now also included karate. He took me to auditions sometimes too, depending on his and Mom’s work schedules. He didn’t discourage what I was doing, but neither he nor Mom made a big deal out of it. Their attitude was that as long as I was enjoying the modeling and acting thing, they approved. The upshot was that I was allowed to have a normal, well-rounded childhood. If I wasn’t wrestling, I’d be happy dancing. If I wasn’t dancing, I’d be happy doing karate. If it wasn’t that, I’d be happy doing a little play. I never wanted to be a star. But here I was, within a short amount of time, a child working in the business.
Before long, my agent had built a name for the agency and began to get commercial calls from casting directors outside San Diego. Then the calls started coming in from Los Angeles casting offices, which meant better and bigger bookings, with the potential to book a higher caliber of commercial—regional or even national—that could pay well and elevate exposure. But the drive from Chula Vista to Hollywood was two hours or more in traffic. That was four-plus hours round-trip after school that Mom or Dad would have to arrange to drive me, juggling their own work schedules.
They could have decided against making the trek. Instead, Mom figured, “Why not?” Dad thought it was worth a shot.
Thankfully, they cast blindly back then. Unlike later commercial casting sheets that specify ethnicity—African-American, Asian, Hispanic, white, and so on—the calls back then were often for children and youth of a specific age range. Agents would submit headshots or photo composites of their top talent in those categories and the casting people would go through hundreds if not thousands of submissions, pick out the kids who looked like they could possibly fit the bill, and then notify the agent of an appointment for the young client. Most calls were initially for every type under the sun—cute kids, offbeat kids, charmers, wisecrackers, annoying show-offs, and even shyer kids who just happened to maybe have a memorable look that the camera liked. Most of the time, as we waited outside to be seen by a casting director, there would be copy to read and rehearse, or a storyboard to study so you would know the setup when your name was called.
Sometimes we were asked to read or memorize a few lines or improvise, based on the scenario given. Very quickly, I got the hang of the process—how to slate for the camera and give my name, how to listen as well as respond on cue. After a few trips up the 405 freeway and back, I began to get callbacks before landing my first commercial, and then another one after that. Now, in a very short amount of time, I had made it onto TV. What usually happens next for kid actors in Hollywood is that after getting booked on commercials, you start being sent out on theatrical auditions for role
s in movies and on television series. Or at least that’s what happened for me. One of my first theatrical calls was for A.K.A. Pablo, a new ABC sitcom that was created by none other than Norman Lear—an incredible opportunity.
Producer Norman Lear—a TV legend if ever there was one—was responsible for such groundbreaking shows as All in the Family, The Jeffersons, Maude, and Sanford and Son. A.K.A. Pablo, starring the stand-up comedian Paul Rodriguez, was to be the first show in the history of U.S. television to feature an all-Latino cast. When I arrived at the audition to read for the role of young Tomas Del Gato on the series, I realized at once why an audition like this was described as a cattle call. There were hordes of actors being seen for the different parts and we were being herded in and out of the casting director’s office like cattle. Because I didn’t realize the importance of the opportunity at the time, I didn’t know to get nervous. When my name was finally called, I went in, slated for the camera, did the reading, and after almost no time emerged from the room and went to find my mother so we could drive back to San Diego.
Casting directors would often say, “Very nice” or “Thank you, Mario; that was great,” which translated as “Don’t call us; we’ll call you.” So I learned early on not to expect a callback to come in—until it did. But for a big prime-time show, it’s not just one callback. It’s like March Madness, where you go from cattle call to a callback with the casting director and the rest of the casting associates for the network and then to a second callback with the director, to a third callback with all the producers and writers in the room. If you make it that far, you get to go to the big semifinal round where you meet executive producers. And last but not least, when you have gone the distance, you go in front of the network. The suits. You don’t know their names or their exact positions, but they have the ultimate say-so. Going to network is where many an actor’s career has been made or gone up in flames.
So at long last, after six round-trips from Chula Vista to Hollywood, I went to the network and the word came back that I was cast as a regular on A.K.A. Pablo. From the very first table reading, where I got a chance to get to know Paul Rodriguez and the rest of the cast and crew, I felt like this TV family wasn’t so different from mine. The story line was based on Paul’s real-life journey as a stand-up comic and incorporated his use of humorous stereotypes about his own Mexican background—but that didn’t always go over well with his TV family. Everything was exaggerated: a huge Mexican family, all twenty-five of us, living in one house, complete with noisy chickens in the family room and piñatas in the front yard. I mean, every bad, insulting Mexican stereotype. The one that stands out for me was a scene that featured Paul Rodriguez doing a comedy bit where he would say, “People ask me for my American Express card . . . this is my Mexican Express card,” and then he’d produce a Rambo-type knife.
Here’s another classic line, for example, that Paul might say jokingly, only to offend his family members: “Latinos are black, white, brown, beige. What does that say about our ancestors? We’ll sleep with anybody!”
Norman Lear, a genius known for pushing both the cultural and political edges, understood that A.K.A. Pablo was important for advancing the representation of Latinos on television and in media in general. Even at ten years old, I knew that there were very few Hispanic actors on television back then and even fewer Mexicans, unless you want to include some of the Clint Eastwood movies that came on TV now and then. In the early days of comedy, we had Cuban-born Desi Arnaz, who with Lucille Ball and their I Love Lucy pioneered the genre of sitcoms. Then there was Puerto Rican Freddie Prinze, a brilliant comedian and actor, in the seventies. And then, in the eighties, A.K.A. Pablo showed up as the first Mexican-American show ever and helped put Paul on the map, as well as featuring such gifted actors as Hector Elizondo and Joe Santos. As Tomas, I played one of Paul’s nephews. Working on the show was like being part of one big family party—the perfect foray for me into the world of TV acting.
On one of the episodes, I was told that Bea Arthur would be guest starring and I was going to do my scenes with her. Of course, I knew who she was and what an amazing comedic actress she was. But then meeting her in person, I found that her warmth and humor filled the room. When we started to rehearse, I had a hard time keeping a straight face, even though I was one of those kids who could also be serious. She was just masterful with timing and delivery. Besides being an exceptionally talented woman, she was so nice to me on set. When I’d ask her questions and get her feedback on my delivery, she was helpful and sweet, and then she’d invite me to join her for lunch so we could continue the conversation.
During the shooting of the thirteen episodes ordered by ABC, I continued to go to regular public school at home in Chula Vista. Industry insiders have always been shocked to hear that. Actually, I’m one of very few kids who grew up in the business and remained in public school all the way to graduation. When I was needed on the set on days when I was supposed to be at school, I’d go to school on the set. My feeling is that the attention I was given ultimately led to a better education. We went for a minimum of three or four hours straight, and then we’d call bank hours for later on. The advantage was being able to study one-on-one with personal tutors on all the subjects, as opposed to being in a class with forty kids where you don’t have to really pay attention. On the set, there were no recesses, no playtime. The message was implicit but clear: you were there to go to school and you focused. Then, of course, when that episode’s filming was over, I just went back to school, to my friends and classmates and all the regular activities that were part of staying active and too busy for trouble.
When I got A.K.A. Pablo, which premiered in March 1984, my contract from the network and production company didn’t cover lodging or any of my expenses. I was making maybe twelve hundred dollars per episode. That seems like a lot of money, and it is, but after deducting agent commissions and taxes, plus the expense of lodging and gas and food, you might only have half left.
But leave it to my budget-savvy parents to keep expenses down. For instance, after doing research, Dad located a couple of forty-dollar-a-night motels on the Sunset Strip.
“Sunset Strip?” Sounded cool to me. Other than the various casting offices around town and the studio where A.K.A. Pablo was shot, I hadn’t seen much of Hollywood at all.
When we drove down the Strip and pulled up to the first motel where we planned on staying, my head was on a swivel as I took it all in—the bright flashing neon signs of bars and clubs, the tricked-out lowriders cruising the boulevard, the spiraling spotlight from Grauman’s Chinese Theatre not too far away, the mix of tourists and seedy-looking characters that were all part of the nightlife.
After we checked in to our room, my dad went to take a shower and I, eager to investigate, snuck out to play in the parking lot with some kids whose families were staying at the same motel. The parking lot was open to the bright lights of the Strip and I couldn’t help overhearing an argument between what turned out to be a pimp and the first hooker I’d ever seen in real life. They looked straight out of 1970s central casting, like a pair you’d see on an episode of Starsky & Hutch. Or the movie Shaft. He was big, barrel-chested, and dressed in a long dark coat while she was a platinum blonde in high platform pumps and a tight little low-cut dress that did grab my attention. The pimp starting yelling about money or something and then began to smack her around until she started to yell back at him. With that, he shoved her really hard, she fell to the ground, and her dress went backward and up, revealing that she didn’t have any underwear on.
Whoa! I must have gasped out loud. That was the first time I’d seen a woman basically naked—and it was definitely an eye-opening experience. Chula Vista was the barrio, for sure, but I’d never seen anything like that back home.
Suffice it to say, I had a lot more to learn about the perils of street life and sex and women and all that went with them. Still, I couldn’t wait to get home to tell my co
usins about the sights on Sunset Strip.
• • •
As fast as good fortune can arrive in show business, it can be gone just as fast, and sometimes even faster. So it was with A.K.A. Pablo. Norman Lear was a visionary who knew that a TV show about a Mexican family was an idea whose time had come. But it seemed that in 1984 he was ahead of his time, or so the network decided. Though we shot thirteen episodes, we were canceled after the sixth episode aired, so the remaining seven episodes never aired. At the time, critics were for the most part brutal. Here’s a fun fact: in 2002, TV Guide ranked the series number forty-five on its “50 Worst TV Shows of All Time.” That’s harsh, considering that many top-rated syndicated sitcoms didn’t gather followings until their second seasons; networks must invest in the time to let that happen.
That said, I was lucky to learn early in the game how to accept the ups and downs and then move on. And in addition to getting a crash course in the basics of being a child actor on a series, I honed some real skills in comedy acting and auditioning. As it happened, whenever the script called for one of the kids to handle extensive dialogue, we would have to audition against each other to be given that scene—even though we were already on the show. On the episode called “I Don’t Want to Be a Mexican,” the writers had written the lines for one of the kids and I really wanted to prove I could handle the acting the role required. After trying out most of the younger actors in the cast, they gave it to me. Winning those additional lines wasn’t a big deal, but it made me so happy! That’s apparently how I was wired as a kid: to win at anything made me happy.
And yet, in the months that followed the cancellation of A.K.A. Pablo, I had a taste of not winning—another reality check that, in hindsight, I can appreciate. Most of the calls I went on in LA at this point were again for commercials. I didn’t go on a ton of auditions, though, because in this period the sponsors were starting to be more specific about the type and look they wanted and somehow I fell through the cracks. Either I wasn’t “ethnic” enough or I wasn’t all-American enough. And I didn’t get a lot of jobs that I auditioned for—more than I could count.