That Time I Belly Danced For Macaulay Culkin
Right after he got dropped off a cliff.
Let’s kick off Home Alone season—I mean, the holiday season right. Happy Black Friday, y’all!
Winter, 1993
20 years old
The three of us don’t have the best history when it comes to movies that are being filmed in our stretch of the north woods. The Iron Will Incident™ left a really bad taste in my mouth. I was supposed to belly dance in that movie. Hah. No dice.
(Wait—what?! There were supposed to be belly dancers in a Disney dogsledding—?!)
(YES. There were. But as you know, if you’ve seen the movie, there aren’t. That’s a whopper of a fish tale all unto itself. I’ll reload it here for y’all who haven’t heard it. But not today.)
It wasn’t very long ago that Hala dissed me and left me standing in my parents’ kitchen, costume packed and ready to go, while she drove my best friend/dance partner over to the Iron Will shoot. My punishment, you see, for getting hired to perform at the Greek restaurant.
So did Diana. We auditioned together after believing what Hala had told us about the Greektown, like clueless idiots. Afterwards, Diana was forgiven for “stealing” this job, but I was not.
As such, Hala can kiss my sequin-spangled tushie because I’m currently standing in the back room of said Greek restaurant, about to crank up the music and whirl through the joint for Macaulay Culkin and his family.
Diana is, too. She lurks with the office door cracked open. Every Friday and Saturday night, we put on our costumes back here, crammed in between filing cabinets, bins of holiday decorations, stacked boxes of wine and beer, and the desk with its mountains of paperwork. The stereo system has been wedged in against the wall. I’ve got our specially mixed tape on standby in the second deck. All we’re waiting for is the signal from the owner’s wife to start the show.
“Please,” Janet said when we first got here tonight. Her eyes were huge, her expression grave. “Please, do not make a fuss. They’ve been up shooting on the North Shore and all they want is a nice, quiet evening without people flashing cameras in their eyes and begging them for autographs. We’ve promised them that, so please treat them like you have no idea who they are.”
I popped off my coolest grin. “Absolutely. We’ll give them a great show and whole lot of innocent whistling.”
Not like I’ve never done any acting myself.
“Here we go!” Diana whispers and gives me the nod to start the music.
I slowly turn the dial down on the stereo, push STOP, twist the volume back up to show level, then hit PLAY. The opening track to Janet and Tom’s favorite album, Belly Dancing at the Cafe Feenjon, blares out. It’s got a hefty, lively beat guaranteed to get people clapping in time from the get-go.
As I batten down my ponytail, flare out the metallic gold scarf I’ve got hanging from it, and fluff my bangs, Diana flings the door open. She sweeps out into the restaurant’s upper level with me on her heels. For our first set, we’re in our matching costumes that Hala made for our group dance at the retirement home: black tops and panel skirts. Diana’s is decked with holographic silver; mine’s with gold/red/green.
As is our routine, Diana sails between the tables and straight down the stairs. She takes a quick pass through the middle level, and then hits the bottom floor, while I dance a brief hello to each table on the upper level. We’ll work our way back to the middle for our coordinated stuff in the open space between the kitchen and the bar, then separate again until our departing hurrah before intermission.
As I reach the staircase, Janet greets me with her doting smile and her tambourine. The little David statue in the nook behind her greets me, too. He’s draped in the most lovely metallic belt of bells and chunky turquoise beads. I can only hope to some day afford such a gorgeous piece to dance in! Every time I pass by it, I can’t help drooling over it.
For now, all my costumes are hand-sewn from clearance items and thrift store finds. Oh. And those black MC Hammer pants I wore when Mari and I won a dance contest in eleventh grade. I’ve split them up the side seams and closed them at the knee with a few gold beads.
On the middle level of the restaurant, the tables have been pushed together to form a long row. A couple other tables remain against the far wall. It’s crowded tonight, so only one is still open. That big group has to be our covert cadre. When I get up closer, I see that I’m correct.
One boy sits in the center, wearing a black baseball cap pulled low over his brow. His head is ducked. He tilts it, lifting his chin only enough so that he can watch me from under that shadowing bill. The lights on this level have been lowered more than usual. They’re almost as low as those on the bottom level, which is not the customary mode for prime show seating on a Saturday night. It helps obscure his features even more.
Yet a hint of that famous tawny hair peeks out at the back of the black cap, confirming its owner’s identity. It’s him. For a second, all I can hear is Catherine O’Hara’s horrified, “KEVIN!”
Fuller is right next to him.
A woman I assume is Mom Culkin guards the end of the table. As I approach, her eyes are lasered onto me. She’s not eating. Her hands perch atop the white table cloth, and her mouth is pressed tight. Too tight. She’s wary.
I flash her my biggest easy, super-cheesy grin. “So…” I say, loud enough to be heard over the music. Years of stage projection and cheerleading serve me well in circumstances like these. “You’ve got quite the big party here tonight. Are you all local or visiting from out of town?”
Mom’s shoulders ease down about three notches. Some of the kids giggle and exchange looks. A pattering of, “Out of town,” accompanies a deeper duck of the head from our superstar.
“Ah, very good,” I say, hips on auto-pilot, swaying to the gush of Shoshanim. I lift my hands as if offering up the restaurant’s ambience on two platters. “Welcome to the Greektown.”
More looks exchanged through slitted eyes. More knowing giggles.
My eyes meet Mom’s. With a subtle, devious grin learned from Kevin McCallister himself, I cast her the barest whiff of a wink. Yes. Wolverine Mom has a glittery, mobile accomplice to help guard the den.
Her return beam is all gratitude and relief.
Diana has come up behind me and from there, it’s just a party. We tease all the kids in the way we would for any big family shindig. Saganaki arrives in its silver basin. The decadent goo of cheese has been slathered in brandy. When the waitress lights it on fire with a great whumph, we all yell, “Opa!”
More “Opa!” ensues from every corner whenever the ouzo is poured. The wine and rich food flows throughout the restaurant, as do Diana and I, up and down the levels, back and forth for the whole set.
After twenty minutes, we go upstairs to put on our coverups, then grab stools at the bar for a quick break and some much needed liquid. Since neither of us is twenty-one yet, Janet serves us water and our pop of choice. Raising her ouzo with yet another “Opa!” she salutes us for the theatrical scene we’re putting on amidst our dance show, then leans across the bar to whisper, “Thank you both soooo, so much.”
We wink back. So far, nobody is the wiser. (Or if they are, they take a cue from us and don’t let on.)
But then a familiar face bustles into the restaurant and barrels up the stairs, husband and kids in tow. My hackles shoot up. My Coke turns sour in my mouth. I had tried to convince Diana not to call Hala the second we got up to the office to get dressed for the show. But she just had to go and blabber about who was in tonight’s audience, and now who is striding into the restaurant in all her regal majesty?
The very woman who had (allegedly) kept budging her way into the front line during the Musher’s Banquet scene during the filming of Iron Will, even though she was one of the tallest and had therefore been placed in the back by the choreographer.
A friggin’ Hollywood choreographer.
For a friggin’ Hollywood movie.
Those antics had (allegedly) gotten the dance scene halted and restarted so many times that it was finally cut from the movie.
Now Hala stands at the top of the stairs as tall as she can make herself, scanning all the patrons with her head on a swivel. I know exactly what she’s doing; she knows exactly who she’s looking at the second she spies him. When Janet comes out from the bar to seat them, Hala points at the empty table right behind the Culkin Crew, then strides for it.
Janet’s gaze locks onto mine. I have no doubt my eyes are as big as hers. She casts me a warning look reminiscent of that day when I consoled my Iron Will woes over a delectable mess of tiropita and baklava. That afternoon, the owners of this restaurant informed me exactly why they had never hired Hala to be one of their dancers. This overbearing, invasive attitude is a big reason.
As Janet grabs menus and follows Hala to the table, my former teacher’s intentions are clearer than the retsina.
“We should go say hi,” I growl to Diana.
“Oh, for sure,” she chirps. She doesn’t appear to have a clue about how easily all our hard work could be obliterated in one flash of the camera.
As we hover over the table, I let Diana do most of the chatting, since I am still technically persona non grata. When Hala decides it’s time to get some autographs, I barricade the way.
“Please, do not do that,” I hiss under my breath. “We’ve been asked very specifically to help keep their identities secret and to give them the experience of being out for a normal night like any other family.”
Hala tries to convince me that she’ll be ever so polite. Ever so un-intrusive. That she just can’t give up this opportunity to get a photo with her kids next to these child stars. That she’ll be ever so quick in getting that oh-so-necessary autograph.
I will not be budged. No way I’m letting her ruin another awesome event because she needs to make it all about her and what she wants.
Thankfully, Diana backs me up and I deliver the final threat: that the owners won’t tolerate any violation of the promises they’ve made to these special guests. “If you wanna risk getting kicked out…”
I have no idea if they actually would do that, but Hala finally sits down, no doubt despising me even more than she did.
Fine by me.
This is my job and I take it very seriously. Tonight I have a special assignment in addition to my normal entertainment duties. My job is to help run interference and protect the privacy of this family, as well as the trustworthy reputation of the restaurant.
When Diana and I head back up to the office to take off our robes and strike up our B-Side tape, all I can do is pray that Hala will continue to leave the Culkins alone. (You’d have to ask them if she did or not, because I have no idea. I imagine she was good as gold, or no doubt I would have heard about it from the owners and staff at the end of the night.)
As the music booms out, Diana and I swirl back out for our second set. As we had always planned to do from the moment we applied for this gig, we invite Hala up to dance with us. Three of us perform a few snippets of her choreography together, and then we younglings stand back to clap and cheer, encouraging our former teacher to take center stage.
I mean, she is the Lebanese native dancer, the true professional in this room, and as always, one of the most glorious, inspirational women I’ve ever known. My eyes have been opened to some of the other things she is, but that can never take away all the reasons why I wanted so badly to learn everything she has to teach me.
Some of those things are sparkly and wondrous. Some of them are powerfully, deeply feminine. Some of them have everything to do with the kind of dancer, the kind of woman, the kind of person I’ve always wanted to be. A few others are what I don’t want to be, and they teach me how to stand up for myself.
Or how to stand up for someone else.
Overall, I’d say she’s a pretty spectacular teacher, so I’m thrilled to let her finally have her moment in this restaurant. When all her luxurious night-hued hair starts to swing, when her hips ignite and she flashes that captivating smile, she does not disappoint. She’s dressed simply in a pair of jeans, boots, and a form-fitting top with only the slightest hint of sparkle. Her makeup is nothing more than what she might wear to teach class.
Yet she is, in a room full of movie stars, the most glamorous of us all.
At dawn a dove is cooing
Your hair is filled with dew
Your lips, to the morning, are like a rose
I’ll pick it for myself…
At the end of the night, Diana and I bid our audience goodbye, then chow down on our well-earned supper. Not long after, I find out what sweet, head-ducking, blushing MacKEVIN! Culkin was shooting up on the North Shore.
😳
😱😱😱🤩😈
When The Good Son comes out in the fall, of course I have to go see it. I find myself delighted with such an anti-pigeon-holing deviation. I’m even more impressed with this blossoming actor than I was after the Home Alones and My Girl, because he creeps me out. He hacks me off. He gives me the willies. It’s awesome!
Yes. Especially because he had, up until this movie, been our little darling boy-next-door. That’s the point! He’s still the boy next door. He still looks so cute and sweet.
Until his eyes do that Good Son thing, and his smile with the Kevin Eyebrow-Flash goes all knife-glinty.
I mean, what if Home Alone hadn’t been told as a Christmas comedy, but a horror movie or a thriller?
*shudder*
We get to experience a glimpse of that.
My esteem bumps quadruple when I learn that he and Elijah Wood, these two twelve-year-old daredevils, and a 6-year-old Quinn Culkin did their own stunts, including a fall through the ice and that plummet off Palisade Head.
Oh. 😳 You don’t know what Palisade Head is?
Welcome to Minnesota’s North Shore:
So there ya go. My kickoff for the holiday season. It wouldn’t be a true Bella & the Beastly kickoff if we didn’t end on the creepy note, rather than the shiny, happy note. MUAhahahah…
This “Opa!” is for you, Macaulay. And this flaming sanganaki is for you, Fam Culkin. Thanks for giving me a night I will never forget!
© 2023 Hartebeast
Related posts:
Making of The Good Son - including some of those awesome stunts!
Shooting Iron Will in Duluth, MN
Erev Shel Shoshonim (Evening of the Roses) lyrics
Om-nom-nom-nommm:
Greek Saganaki—Opa! - brandy-slathered flaming cheese
Tiropita—Nommm - feta cheese puffs
Baklava—Drooool - gooey, nutty, honeylicious heaven
 | A guest post by
|
 | A guest post by
|
Oh gosh, yes that was my profession for 30 years. First in the restaurants, then traveling to festivals and galas and workshops and such. Indeed! I’ve got some pretty cool things my history. I’m so glad I was able to bring you with me!!
It was a telling moment about my imminent transition to fighter chick a couple years after that--I had always found it easier to stick up for other people than for myself. That factor--protecting others--is also what finally catapulted me into karate, which helped greatly in learning to stand up for myself. A lonnnnnng, ever evolving journey for sure. So glad you enjoyed it!
I totally admire the seriousness with which you treated your job and the respect you showed the Culkin’s.
I also think it is totally awesome that you worked as a belly dancer! There is just something fundamentally cool about that!
And then, of course, it is absolutely amazing that you got to do that for Macauley Culkin - I mean, what a unique experience.
You write the story very well, there was a moment while reading it where I actually thought to myself “I feel like I’m there”. And not just that but I could feel the tension of trying to stop Hala from disturbing the Culkin’s.
Great piece, Alexx.