Blind Item #10 - The Dancing Boy

I have left this one as is from the person who sent it in because I think their voice is important to the context. Back in the day, there were lots of these Tom Cruise scenes filmed of boys by directors. It was kind of a go to thing they did to get boys half naked.

The story begins when I was seven, and attending the annual school carnival. While I was waiting in line for one of the games I was approached by the mother of one of my classmates, who had with her her friend - a casting agent for "big, young talent" (if I'm rembering his first words to me correctly). He told me I had a "real fresh" look, and could he speak to my parent or guardian about getting some portfolio shots, and possibly some work.

I fetched my mother and he gave her his card, dropping a few names, and flattering her about my "potential." She told him she'd talk it over with my dad, and get back. I could tell she was a little suspicious of him. But, this being the early 80s, and I being a gen xer, dad said I should be able to make my own decisions. I had little concept of it (the closest brush I'd had with fame or rather "fame" was being mistaken by a airline employee for Ricky Schroder a year earlier and then being thronged by fans - he'd just done "the Champ"), but seeing myself on tv sounded fun, and of course all the pizza, soda, and toys.  We didn't even need to call the agent, because within a day or two he called us, presumably having gotten the number from the friend's school directory.

A series of modeling gigs followed, often for mundane things - store circulars, product packaging - most or all of it, I'll guess, lost to time, as well as a few commercials, bit parts, and of course community theater (most of that "family themed" - which was big back then). It wasn't for another six years - I was thirteen by then - that I finally got the Call. My agent said there was an audition coming up for the lead role in a flick by an up-and-coming genre director. I was, he said, on the short list for "special consideration." Not expecting anything to come of it (as nothing of significance had for more than a half-decade), I read for the part, and ad libbed a little. Much to my surprise, I got the Job.

I guess the pr machine revved up after that, because within a few weeks I was getting calls from teen mags for pictures and interviews. Then came a kind of local celebrity, stories in the paper, invitations, and awards (I hadn't even done anything yet). Finally, the shoot.

I had a trailer with my name on the door and a woman who followed me around all day, supposedly looking after my "interests." It all seemed so mundane, people doing their jobs. But I was giddy - almost famous as they say. In retrospect, I realize that certain members of the crew looked at me not with jealousy, but pity. They knew more than I did.

A couple weeks into the production the director took me aside and told me there'd been some last minute changes to the script. Specifically, a scene had been added by the writer(s), and himself. It was not unlike that scene in the 80s Tom Cruise movie minus the shirt, and socks. I was, of course, embarrassed by the thought of it - not least because it didn't seem to have anything to do with the movie - but there was no one around to tell me I might have some choice in the matter.

And even at the time the director cleared the set of everyone but him and the camera man, I thought it was for my privacy, rather than their secrecy. It was only when my agent showed up on set moments later that I got a truly uncomfortable feeling. I did as I was told and there were several takes, after the last of which the director came over - without calling cut - and sat me down on, literally, a couch (this was a living room scene). I'd rather not get into all the details, but when the agent came over and it was clear one of them was there to hold me down (I guess they were going to take turns), I broke free and bolted for the door. 

I ran out through the lot and into a busy thoroughfare, still mostly unclothed. Cars slammed on their brakes, others blared their horns and swerved to avoid me. Finally, two security guards I recognized from the studio - they were on a coffee break across the street - saw me on the median, and rushed over. One of them gave me his coat to put around me. I was rescued, or so I thought.

I told them what had happened, and they seemed understanding. But when they started to lead me back to the lot, I grew concerned. Where were we going? Just to get your clothes, one of them said, and get you home. Once we were back on the lot, though, an ambulance pulled up. Before I knew it, I was strapped to a stretcher and taken to the psych ward. The director, backed by the studio, claimed I had been using drugs, and they'd had to test me regularly for weeks. That my blood and urine tests in the hospital came back negative only meant to the studio and the doctors that I'd switched to designer drugs (which couldn't be detected in tests), and had run out into traffic in a failed suicide attempt.

I was kept in the hospital, heavily medicated, and often in restraints, for close to a month. A girl I met there was an up-and-coming actress about my age also involved with at least one studio project. She had been or rather become uncooperative (stuff had already happened to her), and she was put in the place to "straighten" her out. What they didn't account for was that she feigned continued madness (or maybe it wasn't an act, after what had happened) so she wouldn't be returned to them, and her parents (who didn't object to what they were doing to her). As far as what happened to me, It was only after agreeing to the studio's version of events that I was released.

Of course, my career was over. There was at least one tabloid item about my "bad boy behavior," and the industry press reported that the production was cancelled because it was too far along to find a replacement. You can't expect to cost a studio millions, and continue to work, I remember reading. What that reporter didn't understand was that they had what they wanted, or at least almost - footage of their own private dancing boy (and I'm sure they had further opportunities to fully consummate their fantasy).

The good news is that I found a shrink who believed me, but was willing to humor certain powerful people and their version of events for my protection. He let me off the anti-psychotics, while officially not doing so (they were disposed of secretly by his office), and after a couple years of intensive talk therapy I started to feel like myself again.