All The Days Of My Life (so Far)

by Alison Sweeney

  Of course, the acting business can knock the wind out of you without any warning at all. Sometimes, you leave an audition convinced that you did a great job, only to learn that you didn’t get the part because they wanted a red-headed kid instead of a blonde, or they were looking for someone taller or shorter than you. They might have been seeking an actor with freckles, or someone without them. It’s also possible that your acting performance just didn’t impress them, and if that’s the case, brace yourself. Casting directors can be brutally honest. They might tell your agent or manager everything they didn’t like about your audition, with the hope that it will help you do better next time. Maybe so, but it can be tough to hear criticism, particularly when you’re a kid. If you’re making acting a career, however, you have to be able to hear the negative comments, and find something constructive in them.

  Believe me, I’ve weathered my share of audition disappointments. Of course, I’ve also been very fortunate to land some great parts (think Sami Brady!). But during those times when I’d crash and burn at an audition, it was nice to have someone nearby to help lift my spirits. Enter my mom. She was always great, even when someone else got the part. Not long ago, she told me that when I was a kid, she’d be so disappointed for me, but all she ever said was, “Honey, they don’t know what they’re missing out on.” She’d find a way to make me feel good about myself.

  I know that 98 times out of 100, even the most talented actors are rejected for roles. But if you have a passion for acting, you learn to persevere, confident that successes are on the horizon. You learn to accept the disappointments because they’re part of the business. If you beat yourself up over them, it’s harder than ever to bounce back. I’ve gotten down on myself from time to time when I really wanted a part, felt I was absolutely perfect for it—but just didn’t get it. I give myself a day or so to be truly bummed about it, but then I try to move on. There will be another audition. There will be another wonderful part. And I can hardly wait to give it my best shot next time.

  Of course, particularly when I was younger, there was something else I had going for me in terms of self-preservation. As I’ve mentioned, I loved auditioning, as though it really didn’t matter whether or not I got the part. I loved meeting new people. I loved getting all dressed up. Of course, it also didn’t hurt that I’d occasionally get to leave school early for an audition. And I absolutely enjoyed spending time with my mom. There’s a lot of “waiting around” at auditions before your name is called, and although I’d usually go over my lines a few times, my mom and I used to spend much more time just chatting and playing word games to occupy ourselves. Some of my best memories are playing Hangman or other games with my mom.

  What was my favorite game? My mom or I would start making up a story, and then we’d take turns jumping in and creating the next sentence of the story line. One time, however, when I was about nine years old, I was sipping on a milkshake as we played the game. Big mistake. At one point, the story got so absolutely funny that laughter got the better of me. What happened next? I accidentally spit up my milkshake all over my clothes. What a mess!

  Rather than panicking, my mom and I took action. Get this: We splattered the rest of the milkshake all over my outfit, hoping it would look like it was part of the attire! It’s not as crazy as it sounds—the part was for a tomboyish little girl, so I’d worn overalls with splattered paint on them. The chocolate ice cream fit right into the look! Even so, it was a wardrobe department’s worst nightmare! Never let it be said that we didn’t know how to impress a casting director!

  Even during moments like this, I rarely felt any stress associated with the auditioning experience, although some of the other kids clearly were dealing with the pressure (especially those whose moms insisted that they “don’t talk to the other kids; just practice your lines!”). I enjoyed performing for the adults I was auditioning for, making them smile and, if I was lucky, even making them laugh. Most of my memories are positive. I don’t ever remember reflecting back on the day and saying, “Well, that was another job I didn’t get!” I looked at it more like, “I had so much fun today.”

  Again, I have my parents to thank for the emotionally smooth ride during much of my acting career. Few things irritated or stressed me out, even when I was juggling a heavy schedule at school along with the life of a working actress. From an early age, my mom and dad taught me that when there are challenges in front of me, I should not look at them as titanic in size and virtually insurmountable, but rather should break them down into smaller goals that can be achieved, one at a time. If you look only at the big picture, it may overwhelm you. But if you take it apart and confront it a step at a time, you can beat it, and not let it defeat you.

  Life on the Stage and Screen

  As valuable as commercials were in my own development as an actress, my appearances on TV shows, in motion pictures and on the stage may have been even more important learning experiences. In 1985, I got my first real acting job in a TV show. It was an episode of St. Elsewhere, titled “Santa Claus is Dead.” In the show, Santa collapses at a children’s party and is rushed to St. Elsewhere (where else?). It was a touching story, and I played a character named Chrissy, one of several children who arrive at the hospital, clamoring to find out about Santa’s well-being as the doctors work to keep him alive. It was a small part, but I did have a few lines (although nothing was more challenging than “Where’s Santa Claus?”). But, hey, I was only five years old, and it was a good stepping stone in an acting career.

  I had bigger parts on other television shows, and at times the episodes dealt with very sensitive and important issues. You probably remember Webster, the TV series starring Emmanuel Lewis, Alex Karras, and Susan Clark (like me, Emmanuel started his career doing commercials, including some national spots for Burger King). In January 1985, when I was eight years old, in an episode called “The Uh-Oh Feeling,” I played a student (named Beth) in Webster’s classroom who was being molested by a substitute teacher. Webster overhears a conversation in which the teacher asks me to stay after class.

  Beth tells the teacher, “I don’t like it when you touch me there.”

  The teacher responds, “Just don’t tell anybody. You’ll start to like it.”

  It was pretty chilling and ahead of its time. It still makes me feel a little creepy just thinking about how terrible that can be for a little kid. It was the first time that a situation comedy—or just about any other TV show, for that matter—had confronted the issue of child molestation.

  The program had an enormous impact. Near the end of the episode, a teacher tells the children, “If anything makes you uncomfortable, tell the principal or another adult you trust.” After the show aired, kids in all parts of the country came forward and, for the first time, told what had happened to them. That’s the power of television. Looking back, I’m so proud that I was part of that show.

  By the way, I recently ran into Steve Sunshine, the executive producer and head writer of Webster. He is a producer for a daily entertainment show, and he remembers that episode of Webster well. He told me how proud he still is of that story and the impact it had. Nineteen years later, it’s still rewarding to hear such nice things from your boss!

  Along the way, I also performed in two equity-waiver plays in the Los Angeles area. I had known that I wanted to be an actress since I was a little child, and so I went on auditions for everything. My mom thought, “Why not try theater, too?”—after all, my acting classes often took on the format of performing in front of a dozen or so other child actors, which gave me a sense of what performing before a live audience was like.

  At the age of six, I was cast in The Wedding Band. I played the part of the daughter in a very poor family who was building a porch onto their house. I had only a couple lines in the play; I remember one line, said in a very bratty voice, was: “My new tennis porch!” (don’t ask me why, it’s been so long I’ve forgotten the storyline!). It was a line that has taken on a life of its own
in my real family; my dad and brothers still sometimes tease me—whenever they think I’m being bratty, I hear: “My new tennis porch!”

  At age ten, I performed in another play, The Traveling Lady, by Horton Foote (one of America’s leading dramatists). I enjoyed doing the play so much, although there was one embarrassing incident that happened after a few months of that show’s run. At one point in the play, the actress who played my mom called my character’s name, which was my cue to come onstage. But one night, I was backstage in my dressing room not paying attention, and I missed my cue—really missed it! My onstage mom called my name again and again for about forty-five seconds, and I was nowhere to be seen. It must have been an unbearable amount of time for her to be standing there, alone on the stage, waiting for her distracted cast-mate to appear.

  Finally and mercifully, I did hear her, and I raced onto the stage. We continued the scene, rather awkwardly as I recall, and then the script called for us to exit down the theater aisle and through the audience. When we reached the lobby, I got such a tongue-lashing from her (which I certainly deserved!). She leaned into my face, shook her finger at me, and said, “Don’t you ever miss a cue again! I know you were goofing off backstage. From now on, you better pay attention!”

  Well, I almost started to cry. But I did get the message: Acting is serious business, and you better take your commitment to heart because everyone else in the cast is depending on you and your performance.

  Despite moments like that, both of those childhood plays were so much fun and were such great experiences. Perhaps more important, they were pivotal in contributing to my growth as an actress, even at such a young age. More than ever, they convinced me that acting was something I wanted to keep doing.

  I also learned that live theater is completely different than acting before the TV cameras. Even though you’re saying the same lines in a play, performance after performance, something completely different can happen every night, and it often has to do with the audience. When you go to the theater, remember that you’re part of the experience, not just a witness to it. The actors are definitely affected by you, whether you’re laughing, crying, feeling tense, or having the time of your life. It can be such an exciting experience for the actors.

  Staying Centered

  There are all kinds of perks that come with acting, and when you’re a kid, even the smallest ones seem pretty spectacular. When I was ten years old, I was chosen as a regular cast member of a new ABC situation comedy called Family Man. It starred Richard Libertini and Mimi Kennedy, and I played Mimi’s daughter, Rosie. (I was starstruck meeting Richard for the first time—he’s in one of my all-time favorite comedies, All of Me, with Steve Martin.) In one episode of Family Man, the script called for me to get my ears pierced. What a thrill! After all, my mom had established some age boundaries for ear piercing and most other childhood milestones, and I knew not to expect to get my ears pierced until I was twelve. So when I saw the script, was I ever excited! My mom was hesitant, of course, but she finally gave in. I got my ears pierced two years ahead of schedule (although the pain associated with the procedure certainly got my attention!). Family Man didn’t last long—it was canceled after only seven episodes—but at least I had a few pairs of earrings to show for it.

  Backstage on the set of Family Man

  One episode of the show was about my character getting an embarrassing haircut and being teased at school. My mom was able to talk the producers into a wash-out perm. Equally embarrassing, but not quite as long-lasting.

  My mom occasionally bent on other issues, but she held her ground on many more. She was a Stage Mom in the best possible sense; she guarded me and looked after me without being intimidated by anyone, and she always spoke up if she thought a script crossed the line. Remember, my mom insisted that I have as normal a childhood as possible, and in an era when kids were being cast in horror movies like Poltergeist, she kept me away from auditions for those kinds of films.

  I remember one motion picture, The Price of Life, which I appeared in at age twelve. It had a futuristic plot in which I played a rebellious girl named Alice, who had a tough attitude and made the wrong turn at every point in life. The script called for me to smoke and curse, which definitely didn’t find a warm place in my mother’s heart. In particular, she is very antismoking, and when it came to a twelve-year-old—particularly her own twelve-year-old daughter—smoking in a movie was simply out of the question.

  My mom dug in her heels with the director of the movie. She was determined to reach some kind of compromise that would keep a lit cigarette out of my mouth—and she ultimately succeeded. They finally agreed that I would be allowed to hold the cigarette and pretend to smoke it. But I never really took a puff.

  It was just one of several incidents where my mother intervened, speaking on my behalf, usually without me even knowing about it. She insisted that I always show up on the set prepared, take the job seriously, and know my lines. But she protected me from the tough negotiations that sometimes went on behind the scenes. She wanted me to enjoy the acting experience as much as possible without stressing out about some of the details and the fine print.

  My mom also did something else that was very important: As I continued to act and was cast in better and better parts, she made sure that I stayed humble. As I mentioned earlier, Hollywood is renowned for egos soaring out of control, but my parents wouldn’t stand for it. In 1989, a year after The Price of Life, I landed a role in a new NBC situation comedy called A Brand New Life.

  On location with the cast of A Brand New Life

  In the show, Don Murray portrayed a millionaire father of three who marries a blue-collar waitress (played by Barbara Eden) with three children of her own (no, we weren’t the Brady Bunch, despite the obvious similarities). Don’s character raised his children in a permissive, free-spirited household, and Barbara’s family grew up in a much more conservative environment. Much of the series’ conflict grew out of the attempts to merge the families (the original name of the show was Blended Family, although that title never got out of the starting gate). I played Barbara’s daughter, and Jenny Garth (pre-Beverly Hills 90210) was cast as one of my siblings.

  One day backstage on A Brand New Life, a hairdresser was brushing my hair, and when I felt she was tugging on it too hard, I raised my voice and complained to her. Bad move.

  Later, the hairdresser took my mom aside, and said, “You may want to talk to your daughter and tell her to get her act together. My job is to make her look good. If she’s going to go anywhere in this business, she needs to treat everyone here with respect.”

  Ouch. That really pressed my mom’s buttons, and she wasn’t happy with me at all (and understandably so).

  “Look, Ali,” she told me, “you aren’t entitled to a ‘star attitude’ here. You aren’t going to be a ‘star brat’—you’re my daughter, you’re a normal kid, and you’re very lucky to be working here. So start treating people with respect, or you’re not going to be here for long.”

  True story.

  My mom was right. And I’ll never forget it. Let’s face it: At age twelve, it’s a rather make-believe life to be on television, have people tell you how special you are, and pamper you endlessly by tending to your hair and makeup. If you’re not careful, it really can go to your head. But I was lucky to have parents who would bring me down a notch or two if necessary, and make sure I kept things in perspective. It was an important lesson, and as I matured, I’ve never allowed myself to think I’m somehow better or different than other people just because of the type of work I do—because I know I’m not.

  Nowadays, my husband, Dave, also helps me stay grounded. He’s not only a wonderful guy, but it’s such a relief to spend so much time with someone not in show business (Dave’s career is in law enforcement). He’s not starstruck. He’s not particularly impressed with what’s going on in Hollywood. Our life together really is separate from my job, and I’ve learned that it’s important for me to avoid immersing
myself in show business twenty-four hours a day. As much as I love the entertainment industry, I also know it’s good for me to go home at night and enjoy time with my husband, play with the dogs, and lead a completely normal, nonshow-business life.

  You Gotta Have Friends

  Both before and during Days, I’ve had the opportunity to work with some wonderful people both in front of and behind the camera, and I’ve learned so much from them. In 1991, I appeared in The End of Innocence, a feature film in which Dyan Cannon not only starred, but served as director and screen-writer. It was a movie about the challenges of growing up female, and I played Dyan’s character, Stephanie, as a preteenager (the late Rebecca Schaeffer was cast as the same character at a little older age). Dyan is not only a talented actress in her own right, but she was a wonderful director to work with—never pushing me in ways that would raise my anxiety levels off the charts, but still challenging me at every turn. She’d say things like, “I know you can do this. You’re the best. That’s why I hired you, Ali.” When she’d talk to me like that, I’d think, “I can do this.” With her support, I did.

  I landed a number of other roles in my pre-Days career, including guesting on TV shows like Simon & Simon, Tales from the Darkside, and I Married Dora. Tales from the Darkside was such a dark show, similar to The Twilight Zone. In the episode I was in, my character would say “goodbye” to people and then they would die. A pretty creepy script. I remember my mom talking to the schoolteacher on the set about all the special effects that would be required to fulfill the writer’s vision. One scene required me to stand in the set while the crew filled the room with smoke. My mom was really concerned about me inhaling all that smoke, as was the on-set school teacher (who was also a social worker and was responsible to help protect minors). Fortunately, this particular production company was very responsible and didn’t question the teacher’s authority. A special kind of smoke was used that isn’t damaging to the lungs, and the camera angles were changed to minimize the smoke that was required. The scene was still powerful, and the show was a success.