I'm a Bollywood Bond. Why do they keep putting me in vests?
Dear Remy,
I am a professional actor of Indian origin and I have a dilemma that keeps coming up like a bad sequel. Time and again, I am given roles described as the “sexy, masculine, heart-stealing villain”, you know, the guy with the energy to throw down who makes everyone tremble. Naturally, I am flattered. Who wouldn't want to be Bollywood Bond or the Maharaja of Mischief?
But here's the kicker: When I show up on set, the energy changes. Suddenly, the writer or producer decides my character needs a pair of thick-rimmed glasses or a wool vest. They start asking me to tone it down, to be a little more “intellectual” or, worse, “adorable.” One minute, I'm supposed to be a sultry love interest and the next, I'm doling out investment advice in an embarrassing accent.
It's happened more times than I care to count. I was cast as a charming doctor in a series, think emergency room meet Anatomy of Grey—but when we started shooting, I was a bumbling GP who couldn’t find a pulse. In another job, I was supposed to be a suave con man, but they rewrote me as a neurotic accountant who couldn’t scam his way out of a paper bag.
I'm starting to feel like my attitude is threatening, but I don't know why. Should I keep playing and cashing the checks, or is it time to fight back and ask for the role I was cast in? Remy, I need your wisdom on this.
Sincerely, The Maharaja of Mixed Signals
Dear Maharaja of Mixed Signals,
First, let me say that I am deeply amused by your ability to switch between Bollywood Bond and bumbling GP with such finesse. You clearly have the range and sense of humor that could knock anyone's socks off, with or without glasses!
IIt's disconcerting, isn't it, that they give you the lead role, but when you arrive on set they ask you to give vent to your inner accountant? It's like they invite you to a dinner as a main course but serve you a side salad. Not exactly the dish they promised you!
Let's dig a little deeper. Is it possible that these well-meaning producers and writers are trying to squeeze you into a category they feel more comfortable with? Maybe they see your charisma and perceive it as too powerful, too unpredictable, as if you're about to unleash a wave of mass swoon-making that the public isn't prepared for. So, they put on the glasses, thinking that it will tone it down and make you more “relatable.”
But what to do? You could keep playing, after all, you’re turning those curveballs into standout performances, and the checks keep cashing. But if this pattern is starting to grate on you (and who could blame you?), maybe it’s time for a conversation. Not a confrontation, but a curious exploration.
How would you feel if you asked the next writer or producer why they wanted to make this change? What is their vision and how do they see your character fitting into it? Could you gently point out that this wasn’t the energy they cast you for and that you’re more than capable of providing the heartthrob they originally envisioned? They may not realize the implications of their choices until someone, like you, raises the issue.
And remember, just because they put a wool vest on you doesn't mean the swagger has to go. You are the Maharaja of mixed signals, if anyone can walk that tightrope, it's you.
Keep on being fascinating,
Remigio
Illustration by Russ Tudor
Am I a prop expert or a plagiarist?
Dear Remy,
Let me start by saying: I am not proud of myself.
I am a toolmaker, a bit reluctantly, I might add. My father was in the business, and his father before him, it was inevitable.
I also have a warehouse in Atwater Village where I give private viewings of my collection. It supplements my income (we are really struggling with the cost of living, Remy).
People love to drop by for a slightly offbeat tourist experience, where they say “Oh!” and “Ah!” at all the props I've lovingly created over the years: feather boas, leather-bound books and antique medical equipment (contact me if you need a Victorian IV stand).
Here's where things get a little spicy. The main attraction for visitors is an object inherited from the set of a famous film franchise I worked on. I won't reveal the details so as not to reveal my identity, but let's just say: it's a vehicle that travels through space. Unfortunately, I lost the original object on the set. And what I have in my possession is… a replacement I made.
I thought no one would notice, but a recent visitor told me he thought he had seen the object in a storage room in a studio recently. I laughed as if it were their mistake, but I haven't slept since. What if they go and check and find out I've been selling tickets to a fake?
Should I come forward and confess? Or wait and hope for the best? I've even thought about running away to Panama to start a new life, but I don't like the humidity very much.
Yours, Prop Tart
Dear Prop Tart,
First of all, I think we've all dabbled in a little career embellishment from time to time – Hollywood is built on smoke and mirrors, after all. But you have a problem, and it's not the Panamanian climate (the humidity is truly unforgiving).
The question is, how long do you want to lose sleep over this? The guilt, and potential discovery, will hang over your head like a boom mic just out of frame. Honesty may seem terrifying right now, but it’s probably your best course of action.
You could also turn this into something clever. How about reframing it as a test of your guests' “prop knowledge”? True fans will fall for it, and those who don't are just happy to see the shiny object. “Guess which one is the real one” could become part of the appeal! Think of it as Willy Wonka's golden ticket to prop tours.
But ultimately, it’s about integrity. Could you sleep better at night knowing you’ve confessed everything? Maybe you don’t need to make a big confession, but you could subtly change the narrative: “This is a recreation of the original,” you might say. The truth, with just a little theater.
Try not to lose your cool. And if you do, you undoubtedly have at least ten decorative fans to choose from. You did it.
Remigio
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 now, ever since he was a visiting professor in my filmmaking class at UCLA. I really admired him back then; he had a bunch of awards for the features he directed, he was in high demand, and, unrelatedly, he kept a cigar cutter on his keychain, which I thought was awesome.
Fast forward to 2024, and I've had an undeniable success. Bragging isn't something that comes naturally to me, but for the purposes of this letter, I'll tell you that I've had a golden career: I've been featured in The Hollywood Reporter more than once!
Steve, on the other hand, seems to have hit his 90s peak: making the kind of sappy romantic comedies that don't make sense in today's landscape. The problem is: it hasn't occurred to him yet that I don't need his advice anymore. I'm over it.
He keeps calling me on my landline, hoping to impart what he calls his “Words of Wisdom,” emails me long essays about where he sees a franchise I worked on going, and refers to me at industry parties as his “protégé.” All in all, it's a little awkward, especially when he says things like “kill” and “summer of brats” to try to prove he's keeping up with a younger audience.
Remy—I think it’s time to let go of my mentor. How can I let go gently?
No longer a mentor
Dear Mentee No More,
First of all, congratulations on your success: it looks like you worked hard to earn that golden career. But ah, Steve, bless him, he seems to be living in a time warp, still clinging to those late 90s vibes. While he's outdated in many ways, not just his vocabulary (I'd say your Steve could use a “Brat Summer” to chill out a bit), it's clear that his heart is in the right place.
Now, how do you let him down gently? Instead of “dumping” your mentor (a pretty harsh term for someone who has supported you for 30 years), could you change the relationship? Could it become less about “Words of Wisdom” and more about an occasional nostalgic check-in? You could say, “Steve, I’ve really appreciated your advice over the years, but I’m in a different place now. I’m focused on new challenges and finding my own path forward.” That way, you honor what he’s done for you without making him feel irrelevant.
Burning bridges should always be a last resort, because let's face it: You never know when Steve's skills might come in handy. Who's to say 2025 won't bring a renewed appetite for plots involving cheerleaders falling for nerds, long-lost identical twins, or “glow-ups” to win the heart of the football team captain?
Hey, who knows? Maybe there's some wisdom in those words, even if they're buried under layers of dated pop culture references.
So maybe you should keep the landline, but let the “protégée” title fade away with Steve's cigar cutter..
Remigio
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Remy Blumenfeld is a veteran television producer and founder of Vitality Guru, which provides business and career coaching to successful people in media. Send inquiries to: guru@vitality.guru.
Questions edited by Sarah Mills.