You Can’t Be Serious(35)

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I paced, barefoot and (creatively) pregnant, around the beige carpet of my San Fernando Valley apartment, staring at the office number of Sonia Nikore, the VP of casting at NBC, who had said, “Call me anytime you need anything” a couple of years prior. I had never been offered that kind of open-door policy from a casting director before, and never had a reason to take her up on it (what was I gonna do, vent about being not even Latin?), but now seemed like the right time—I needed real career guidance.

I wasn’t nervous, I just wanted to make sure the words were precise. I dialed the number, and her assistant patched me through right away. I told Sonia about the character’s name and background and my hesitations. She echoed what Barbara had said: “It’s true. If you actually get this job, it’s a pretty big deal for your résumé. I run into this challenge whenever I want to audition performers of color—their résumés are thin compared to white actors’. There are so few roles written for brown people. Almost nobody is going to audition you for a part unless it’s specifically written as nonwhite, so if you get this role, you’ll have a credit on your résumé that you might not be able to get otherwise: SUPPORTING LEAD.”

There it was—validation that the Brown Catch-22 existed. “I understand,” I said. I think she could tell from my tone that while I heard her, I still had artistic reservations about a role that simmered with stale stereotypes.

Then she asked me an important follow-up: “When you read the script, did you laugh? Are parts of it funny?”

“Super funny. There are great gags and setups throughout. It’s not all based in ethnic stereotypes.”

“That’s important. On the stereotypes, how many things in the script made you cringe?”

“I don’t know—maybe thirty?”

“Okay, you get to pick ten,” she said. “Pick the ten things in the script that you think are the most cringeworthy, and if you get the job, sit down with the writers and bring those ten things up.”

Wait, I could do that?! Ten things? I didn’t know I could do that! I mean, I had tried something similar with just one thing, and I definitely didn’t want to get the “Prajeeb from Portland” reaction again.

“You shouldn’t just say you think it’s stereotypical and that they should change those ten things. You have to put in some work too. Come prepared with ten things that are funnier than what the writers came up with originally. Nobody is making this movie to purposely offend or degrade anyone. They’re making it because they want audiences to laugh, to have fun, to spend money. So, come up with ten things that are funnier than what’s scripted. That’s part of your job anyway. Go be funny!”

This was new to me: the idea that I actually had some agency in the matter and that the creative work could be collaborative. My professional experiences so far taught me that I couldn’t do much more than complain (exhausting) or refuse to audition out of principle (financially unsustainable). Sonia was mapping out how I could use my skills to make a project better and funnier, while building a résumé that could eventually lift me out of the Brown Catch-22. I had to get the part first.



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With my new directive, go be funny!, I spent two weeks preparing hard for the audition, breaking down the beats of the script, getting off-book,3 and developing a backstory for the character (Taj likes Barry White because Barry White has an absurdly deep voice. Taj loves his freedom in America but also finds it to be lonely. That sort of thing.). Despite the quick onset of a mild cold, I sat in traffic all the way to the casting office feeling great.

I walked in with confidence. I knew the character inside out and delivered what I thought was an exceptional audition. Nothing could stop me now. It was only a matter of time before the friendly, young casting director Barbara Fiorentino called the other Barbara (Cameron) and I would be sitting with the writers, impressing them with all my hilarious tweaks to the script.

I waited by the phone with nervous confidence the rest of the day. It never rang. The following morning I called Barbara Cameron’s office to check in. “No word yet!”

I started to get even more anxious, eating lots of tacos in my pajamas and doing push-ups on the cold blue tile in the kitchen.

A full week later, a call. “Sorry, honey,” my agent said. “The producers didn’t really respond to your read. Maybe they thought you were a little too old for the part. You’re not moving forward.” I had been so presumptuous—I studied hard for this, I had overcome my hesitations about auditioning for the role, and I expected to advance to the next round. Out of desperation, I asked Barbara if there was any other way to get back into the room. “No. I told them you didn’t feel your best because you had the sniffles, but they just won’t see you again.”

My confidence was shattered. I was confused: How could I be too old to play a character that was basically my age? It didn’t make any sense! Wait a second, was I actually not good enough to get a callback for the role of an exchange student named Taj freaking Mahal? For two weeks I sat around, distraught. Part of pushing ahead as an actor is believing in yourself, believing that you’re good enough to succeed if given the right opportunity. It was probably worth reassessing my life. A few weeks later, another blow to my ego. An acquaintance from UCLA forwarded me something: The Van Wilder casting director had sent mass emails to every Indian Student Union at every major university in the United States to solicit audition tapes. It was Barbara Fiorentino’s first film. The role of Taj hadn’t been cast yet, and she had gotten desperate enough to canvass random colleges to find someone brown. It didn’t matter if they had any training.