The guy who was living in the Home Alone house when they filmed Home Alone has written a book about the experience. If you must know, he is an expert in the field of healthcare strategy and policy. That doesn’t mean that Peter McCallister was also involved in healthcare in some way, but it at least puts to rest the idea that he was involved in criminal activity (unless you understand the U.S. healthcare system to be a form of theft) or that he inherited his wealth (Abendshien discusses his own humble roots in the text). There’s much more interesting information to be found here anyway.
I’m obviously biased toward Home Alone as an all-time favorite movie, Christmas or not, because I’m only slightly younger than Macaulay Culkin and because I grew up maybe 10 minutes from the house. That meant I saw the movie at least three times while it was in theaters (thank you Mom and Dad) and that by going a block or so out of the way, I could see the house after a visit to my childhood dentist. To say this movie is wrapped up in nostalgia for me is quite an understatement. Thankfully, it’s a good enough movie on its own that I don’t have to rely on “my childhood” as a reason for enjoying it. It’s not like it became a worldwide success only because people from the North Shore loved it so much.
Abendshien knows that as well, though the consequences of signing his family up for this situation were not immediately apparent. He admits that he didn’t think the script made much sense from a plausibility angle (pp. 29-30). He figured allowing the filming to occur at his house would be disruptive for a short while because the movie would bomb and people would forget all about it. The idea that his house would eventually become famous enough to be made into a LEGO set was the furthest thing from his mind. In fact, he maintains that he would not sign up for the opportunity again if he knew what he knows now. The reasons are not that it wasn’t worth it, but that there were so many things that had to go just right—and did—that it would be a miracle to think it could happen again. “We were blessed, plain and simple, to work with the folks, the producers, cast, crew—who turned this film into a bona fide gift to the world” (p. 164). It was a right place, right time kind of phenomenon, which only makes the movie itself all the more special.
It’s so special, in fact, that Abendshien can’t even escape the house’s fame in professional settings. He opens the book with a story about a presentation he was giving at a conference. Instead of the host giving the usual rundown of Abendshien’s accomplishments, he simply quipped that the next presenter was the guy who lived in the Home Alone house. There was scattered applause and a few giggles. After the presentation, though, the only questions the audience had were about his experiences with the film. No one asked about the talk he’d been invited to give! That being the case, it seems like this book had to be written.
For many reasons, it’s great that it wasn’t written in 1992 or 1995 or even 2005. Abendshien and his now ex-wife sold the house in 2012. They had more than 20 years of living in the house after filming concluded, which means they had plenty of time for fans to pay visits to gawk at the house (and intrude on their privacy). If he’d tried to write this book before his family had moved out of the house, then many of the stories might not have happened the way they did. They needed time to set, to incubate, to cure, before certain themes about the house and the movie emerged. Also, as Abendshien told me when I purchased the book from a local bookshop while he was there to sign it a few weeks ago, he had a job to work and a life to live. He couldn’t have written it before now because there wasn’t time.
Since so much time has passed, you might think all the stories about Home Alone have been told. They haven’t, and this book is full of them. I won’t spoil all of it but I will give a few highlights.
The Abendshiens lived in Evanston prior to moving to Winnetka. John Hughes’ location scout approached them about filming in their Evanston house for Uncle Buck, but it didn’t work out. A year later, that same scout came with Chris Columbus to their house in Winnetka so they could discuss possibly using it for National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, which Columbus was briefly involved with as a director. That didn’t work out either, but the house was still on Columbus’ mind when Hughes invited him to direct Home Alone (p. 21). It’s wild to think there’s a reality where the Uncle Buck house or the Christmas Vacation house is instead the Home Alone house.
Kevin’s backyard treehouse did not last long past filming. Wisely, Abendshien had the crew dismantle it (p. 100). One can only imagine the number of kids (myself likely included) who would love to try to get a view of the house from it at night. As a suburban homeowner, the insurance liability of an attractive nuisance is making my head spin.
Even though northern Illinois gets plenty of snow, there were scenes that needed some Hollywood magic (i.e., potato flakes, shaved ice, soap foam) to get the look just right. In a hilarious twist, the one time the crew was trying to get a shot of the yard covered in pristine snowfall, Abendshien messed it up. He’d been on his way back from O’Hare airport from a business trip and noticed that his street was unusually calm for a film location. As he tells it, he got his car stuck in a snow drift in the driveway, “waded through the snow to the front door, and then realized I’d left my briefcase in the car. So, back through the snow I trudged, fetched the briefcase, and made another trek through the drifts.” He opened the door to see various crew members, including Chris Columbus, and one of them greeted him with “Hey, Mr. A., you just fabulously fucked up our shot!” (p. 59). As with many elements of Home Alone that couldn’t happen now, that story would not have happened because someone from his family or the crew would have contacted him to let him know not to mess up the snow in the front yard when he arrived home. But now, it’s a cool story for him to tell and a moment for eagle-eyed viewers to spot. (Check the space between the driveway and the front door when Kate McCallister exits the Kenosha Kickers’ truck at the end of the film; Abendshien’s footprints are visible but the car is out of the shot.)
The book’s key chapter shares the title with the book itself. It’s full of stories about the home in the years since filming wrapped. Abendshien traces his initial shock and frustration to an eventual acceptance of the house’s importance to so many people. By 1991, he says he was ready to sit on his porch with a shotgun and have the clip from Angels with Filthy Souls (“I’ll give you ’til the count of ten. One, two…[sound of gunfire]”) playing as people approached the property. We’re all glad that didn’t happen. We’re also glad that the house became a big enough part of the film that it is available as a gingerbread house kit. Abendshien reflects on the bizarreness of the fact that “people can literally eat what used to be our house” (p. 151). If that kind of consumption doesn’t meet with your approval, maybe you’d enjoy reading this book instead. It’s a marvelous tribute to a timeless movie told from a perspective that no one else could have had.
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