I’m a Bollywood Bond. Why Do They Keep Putting Me in Sweater Vests?
I’m a working actor of Indian origin, and I have a dilemma that keeps showing up like a bad sequel. Time after time, I’m cast in roles described as the “sexy, masculine, roguish heart-stealer,” you know, the guy with the throw-down energy who makes everyone weak at the knees. Naturally, I’m flattered. Who wouldn’t want to be Bollywood Bond or the Maharaja of Mischief?
But here’s the twist: when I show up on set, the energy shifts. Suddenly, the writer or producer decides my character needs a pair of thick-rimmed glasses or a sweater vest. They start asking me to tone it down, be a bit more “intellectual,” or worse, “adorkable.” One minute, I’m supposed to be a sultry love interest, and the next, I’m handing out investment tips in an awkward accent.
This has happened more times than I care to count. I was cast as a dashing doctor in one series—think ER meets Grey’s Anatomy—but by the time we were shooting, I was a bumbling GP who couldn’t find a pulse. In another gig, I was supposed to be a suave con artist, but they rewrote me into a neurotic accountant who couldn’t con his way out of a paper bag.
I’m starting to feel like my swagger is threatening, but I don’t understand why. Should I keep playing along and cash the checks, or is it time to push back and ask for the role I was cast in? Remy, I need your wisdom on this one.
Sincerely, The Maharaja of Mixed Signals
Dear Maharaja of Mixed Signals,
First off, let me say that I’m thoroughly entertained by your ability to go from Bollywood Bond to bumbling GP with such finesse. You’ve clearly got the range and a sense of humor that could charm the socks off anyone—glasses or no glasses!
It’s perplexing, isn’t it, that you’re cast as a leading man, but by the time you get to set, you’re being asked to channel your inner tax accountant? It sounds like you’re being invited to a dinner party as the main course but getting served as the side salad instead. Not quite the dish they promised!
Let’s dig into this a bit. Is it possible that these well-meaning producers and writers are trying to fit you into a box they’re more comfortable with? Perhaps they see your charisma and it feels too powerful, too unpredictable—like you’re about to cause a mass outbreak of swooning that the audience isn’t prepared for. So, they throw on the glasses, thinking it will tone things down and make you more “relatable.”
But what to do? You could keep playing along—after all, you’re turning these curveballs into performances that stand out, and the checks are still clearing. 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 it feel to ask the next writer or producer why they want to make this change? What’s 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 delivering the heart-stealer they originally envisioned? They may not realize the implications of their choices until someone, like you, raises the issue.
And remember, even if they put you in a sweater vest, that doesn’t mean the swagger has to go. You’re the Maharaja of Mixed Signals—if anyone can walk this tightrope, it’s you.
Keep charming,
Remy
Illustration by Russ Tudor
Am I a Prop Master—Or a Plagiarist?
Dear Remy,
I should start by saying: I’m not proud of myself.
I am a prop master—somewhat 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 arrange private tours of my collection. It supplements my income (we truly are in a cost-of-living crisis, Remy).
People love to swing by for a slightly alternative tourist experience, where they ooh and aah at all the props I’ve lovingly created over the years—it’s all feather boas, leather-bound books, and antique medical equipment (hit me up if you need a Victorian drip stand).
Here’s where things get a little spicy. The biggest draw for visitors is a legacy item from the set of a famous movie franchise I worked on. I best not tell you the specifics lest I reveal my identity, but let’s just say: it’s a vehicle that travels through space. Unfortunately, I lost the original item on set. And the one I have in my possession is… a replacement I made.
I thought no one would be the wiser, but a recent visitor told me they believed they’d seen the item in storage at a studio lot recently. I laughed it off as their mistake, but I haven’t slept since. What if they go check and realize I’ve been selling tickets to see a forgery?
Should I get ahead of this and come clean? Or wait it out and hope for the best? I’ve even contemplated running away to Panama to start a new life, but I really don’t do well with humidity.
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’s built on smoke and mirrors, after all. But you’ve got a problem, and it’s not the climate in Panama (humidity is indeed unforgiving).
The question is: how long do you want to lose sleep over this? The guilt—and the potential discovery—will hang over your head like a boom mic just out of frame. Honesty might seem terrifying right now, but it’s likely your best course of action.
You could even spin this situation into something clever. How about reframing it as a test of your guests’ “prop knowledge”? The real fans would catch on, and those who don’t are just happy to see the shiny object. “Guess which one’s real” could become part of the allure! Think of it as the Willy Wonka golden ticket of prop tours.
But at the core of it, it’s about integrity. Could you sleep better at night knowing you’ve come clean? Maybe you don’t need to make a grand confession, but you could subtly shift the narrative: “This is a recreation of the original,” you could say. The truth, with just a sprinkle of theater.
Try not to lose your cool. And if you do— you no doubt have at least ten decorative fans to choose from. You’ve got this.
Remy
Help! My Old Mentor Is Driving Me Mad!
Dear Remy,
Let me tell you about Steve (not his real name).
Steve has been my mentor now for 30 years—ever since he was a guest lecturer on my Directing course at UCLA. Back then, I looked up to him a great deal; he had a clutch of awards for feature films he’d helmed, was in demand, and—unrelated—kept a cigar cutter on his key chain, which I thought was cool.
Smash cut to 2024, and I’ve become undeniably successful. Boasting isn’t really 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 peaked in the ’90s: making the sort of schmaltzy rom-coms that just don’t cut it in today’s landscape. The issue is: it hasn’t dawned on him that I don’t need his advice anymore. I’ve surpassed him.
He still calls my landline, hoping to proffer what he calls his “Words of Wisdom,” emails me lengthy theses on where he sees a franchise I’ve been working on going, and refers to me at industry parties as his “protégée.” All in all, it’s a little embarrassing—especially when he says things like “slay” and “brat summer” to try to show he’s keeping up with younger audiences.
Remy—I think it’s time to let go of my mentor. How do I let him down gently?
Mentee No More
Dear Mentee No More,
First off, congratulations on your success—it sounds like you’ve worked hard to earn that golden career. But ah, Steve, bless his heart, seems to be living in a time warp, still clinging to those late ’90s vibes. While he’s outdated in more ways than just his vocabulary (I’d say your Steve could do with a “Brat Summer” to help him chill out a bit), it’s clear his heart’s in the right place.
Now, how to let him down gently? Instead of “dumping” your mentor (a rather harsh term for someone who’s supported you for 30 years), could you pivot the relationship? Could it become less about his “Words of Wisdom” and more about an occasional nostalgic check-in? You could tell him, “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 way forward.” This 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 be honest: you never know when Steve’s skillset might be of use once more. Who’s to say 2025 won’t bring a renewed appetite for plots involving cheerleaders falling for geeks, long-lost identical twins, or ‘glow-ups’ to win the heart of the football captain?
And hey, who knows? Maybe there’s some wisdom in those words, even if they’re buried under layers of dated pop-culture references.
So perhaps keep the landline, but let the “protégée” title fade out with Steve’s cigar cutter.
Remy
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Remy Blumenfeld is a veteran TV producer and founder of Vitality Guru, which offers business and career coaching to high performers in media. Send queries to: guru@vitality.guru.
Questions edited by Sarah Mills.