I’m Bollywood’s Bond, why do they keep making me wear a sweater vest?
Dear Remy,
I’m a working actor from India who continues to find myself in a dilemma like a bad sequel. Time and time again I get cast in roles that are described as “sexy, manly, roguish heart stealers” – guys with a fiery energy that can bring anyone to their knees. Of course I’m flattered. Who doesn’t want to be the Bond of Bollywood or the Maharaja of Mischief?
But then something surprising happens: I show up on set and the mood changes. Suddenly, the writers and producers decide my character needs thick-rimmed glasses and a sweater vest. They start telling me to be more “intelligent” or, even worse, “lovable.” One minute I’m supposed to be a sexy love interest, and the next I’m handing out investment advice in an awkward accent.
This has happened to me countless times. I was cast as a heroic doctor on one series, a cross between ER and Grey’s Anatomy, but by the time filming began I was a clumsy GP with no pulse. In another job I was meant to be a sophisticated con man, but was rewritten into a neurotic accountant who couldn’t get his way out of a paper bag.
I’m starting to feel like my bossiness is threatening, and I don’t know why. Should I go along with it and cash the check, or is it time to fight back and demand the role I’ve been dealt? Remy, I need your wisdom on this one.
Sincerely yours, Maharaja of Mixed Signals
Maharaja of Mixed Signals,
Firstly, I must say that I am fascinated by your ability to so skillfully play characters from Bollywood Bond to a bumbling GP. You certainly have the range of acting skills and sense of humour to charm anyone, whether they wear glasses or not.
It’s confusing to be cast in a leading role only to be asked to channel your inner tax accountant by the time you arrive on set. It’s like being invited to a dinner party as the main course only to be served a side salad – not at all like the food you were promised.
Let’s dig a little deeper into this. Is it possible that well-meaning producers and writers are trying to fit you into a box that’s more comfortable for them? Perhaps they see your charisma and feel it’s too powerful and unpredictable, like it’s going to cause a mass fainting that the audience never expects. So they think that putting on glasses will tone it down and make you more “relatable.”
But what can you do? You can go along with it — after all, you turned these curveballs into standout performances and the checks still went through. But if this pattern is starting to annoy you (and who could blame you?), it might be time to have a conversation. Explore with curiosity, not confrontation.
How would it feel to ask the next writer or producer why they wanted to make this change? What is their vision and how do you think your character fits into it? Can you gently point out that this is not the energy they were looking for from you and that you are more than capable of playing the captivating character they originally envisioned? They may not realize the impact of their choice until someone like you brings it up.
And remember, even if you’re forced to wear a sweater vest, it doesn’t mean you have to drop your swagger. You’re the mixed-signal maharaja. If anyone can walk this tightrope, it’s you.
Keep up the charm,
Remy
Illustration by Russ Tudor
Am I a prop guru or a plagiarist?
Dear Remy,
First off, I have to say that I’m not proud of myself.
I’m a props guy, a little reluctantly, but my dad did that too, and his dad did that too, so it was inevitable.
We also have a warehouse in Atwater Village where we arrange private tours of our collection, which supplements our income (Remy, we are really in the midst of a cost-of-living crisis).
People love stopping by for a slightly unusual tourist experience, to see and admire the props I’ve lovingly crafted over the years – feather boas, leather-bound books, antique medical equipment (contact me if you need a Victorian IV stand).
Now for the exciting part. The main attraction for visitors is a relic from the set of a famous movie series that I worked on. I don’t want to give away any details so as not to give away my identity, but suffice it to say that it’s a space vehicle. Unfortunately, I lost the original item on the set, and what I have is… a replacement that I made.
I didn’t think anyone would notice, but a recent visitor said they’d seen the item in the studio’s storage room recently. I laughed it off and told them it was a mistake, but I haven’t been able to sleep since. What if they looked into it and realized I was selling counterfeit tickets?
Should I be the first to come clean, or wait and hope for the best? I thought about escaping to Panama and starting a new life, but I hate the humidity.
Sincerely yours, Prop Tart
Prop Tart
First of all, I think we’ve all embellished our careers a little from time to time — Hollywood is run on smoke and mirrors, after all — but the problem isn’t Panama’s weather (though the humidity is certainly harsh).
The question is, how much sleep will this cause you to lose? The guilt, and the possibility of discovery, will loom over your head like a boom microphone that’s out of frame. Honesty may seem scary right now, but it’s probably the best course of action.
You can get clever with this situation too. Why not test your guests’ “prop knowledge”? True fans will get it, but non-fans will just enjoy seeing the shiny objects. “Guess which one is real” could be part of the appeal. Think of it as the Willy Wonka’s golden ticket for the prop tour.
But fundamentally, honesty is key. Would you sleep better at night knowing you came clean? You might not have to make a grand confession, but you can subtly change the story. You could say, “This is a retelling of the original.” Just a little theatrical truth.
Don’t lose your cool, because if you do, there are at least 10 different decorative fans to choose from.
Remy
Help! My old mentor is driving me crazy!
Dear Remy,
Let me tell you about Steve (not his real name).
Steve has been my mentor for 30 years, ever since he was a visiting lecturer on the directing course I took at UCLA. I had a lot of respect for him back then. He was popular and had won numerous awards for the feature films he directed, and unrelated to that, he had a cigar cutter on his keychain, which I thought was cool.
It’s 2024 and I am undeniably successful. Braggart is not my forte, but for the sake of this letter, I will say that I have had a successful career. I have been featured in The Hollywood Reporter many times.
Steve, on the other hand, seemed to peak in the ’90s. He was making sappy romantic comedies that don’t cut it in today’s industry. The problem is, he doesn’t realize that I don’t need his advice anymore. I’m over him.
He still calls my landline to impart so-called “words of wisdom,” emails me lengthy treatises on the direction of franchises I’m working on, and calls me his “protégé” at industry parties. All in all, it’s a little embarrassing, especially when he says words like “awesome” and “sassy summer” to demonstrate he’s keeping up with a younger audience.
Remy, I think it’s time for you to stop mentoring me. How can I do this gently?
No more mentors
Dear Mentee No More,
First, congratulations on your success. It sounds like you’ve worked hard to achieve such an illustrious career. Steve, however, unfortunately, seems to be living in a time warp and still clinging to a late 90s vibe. Outdated in many ways, not just in vocabulary (I think Steve could tone it down a bit with “Brat Summer”), but it’s clear that his heart is in the right place.
So how do you give up on him gently? Rather than “dumping” your mentor (which is a pretty harsh thing to say about someone who supported you for 30 years), can you shift the relationship? Can you make it a nostalgic check-in from time to time, rather than his “words of wisdom”? You could tell him, “Steve, I really appreciate your advice over the years, but I’m in a different place now. I’m focused on new challenges and finding my path forward.” This way, you respect what he’s done for you, but don’t make him feel irrelevant.
Cutting ties should always be a last resort, because, honestly, who knows when Steve’s skill set might come in handy again? And who’s to say that in 2025 there won’t be a renewed appetite for plotlines involving a cheerleader falling for a nerd, long-lost identical twins, or a “glow-up” trying to win the heart of the football captain?
Well, who knows. Maybe there’s some wisdom in those words, even if they’re buried under layers of outdated pop culture references.
So let’s keep the landline and use Steve’s cigar cutter to erase the “apprentice” title.
Remy
***
Remy Blumenfeld is a veteran TV producer and founder of Vitality Guru, a business and career coaching company for media talent. Contact him at guru@vitality.guru.
Questions edited by Sarah Mills.
