You Can’t Be Serious(39)

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During breaks that first day, I got to know the writers better and pumped them for information. Ever since auditioning for a character named Taj Mahal Badalandabad, I had wondered two things: 1) Why did they decide to make the character Indian? and 2) How did they decide on his last name?

It turned out that the choice of his ethnicity was somewhat random. There hadn’t been that many Indian characters in movies, so this seemed like a fresh take to them. The important thing was that without Taj, they said, the plot wouldn’t progress. I was happy to know that my initial assessment of Taj’s creative grounding was solid.

And his last name? They just made it up. That was… hilarious. To those of you who don’t speak Hindi, let me explain. The end of Taj’s last name, -abad, could be taken from any number of generic cities—Allahabad, Ahmedabad, Abbottabad. It’s common. But the first two syllables of Badalandabad were interesting. In Hindi, bada means “big.” And land—pronounced lund—means “cock.” They had no idea they had literally named this character Taj Mahal Huge Cock.

I love subversive, subtle things! After I explained what it meant to David and Brent, we all had a good laugh about how they had unknowingly named a character whose central problem in life was that he couldn’t get laid—a Big Dick Baller.



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In all, I was a Big Dick Baller who was lit on fire around a dozen times to get that first scene right. It was hard work, and I enjoyed it. As the day wrapped up, Ivana asked me, “Hey, do you know why they started the shoot with one of the toughest scenes? We’re both naked, getting it on. You’re lit on fire. A lot could go wrong.” She raised a very good point. Why not shoot it later in production when we had better chemistry and communication?

I asked Sassy Producer that question. He was such an unashamed hothead, I knew he’d be straightforward with me. “Do you really want to know?” he asked, with super-sassy satisfaction. “If we lose an actor, we’d have to recast and reshoot everything. It’s a whole process. By doing this scene on the first day, if we lose you I would simply have to recast you. I wouldn’t waste money having to reshoot all your other scenes.”

Translation: If something goes wrong with the fire and you burn your face off or die, I won’t have wasted more than one day of my production budget. Still plenty of time to call Facey McPainty and see if we can light him on fire next!

Damn. Ice cold. But also, damn did I appreciate his honesty. I laughed about the twisted logic of it all the way home—just as with a car, if the actor burns, you replace the actor.



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After Van Wilder wrapped, my agent suggested I might want to hire a manager to help with career development, so she introduced me to a tall, fast-talking, quirky guy named Dan Spilo. Spilo had graduated from Columbia University Law School before deciding that he’d rather pursue his passion on the business side of the arts world. Talent managers are different from agents in that they help artists develop over the lives of their broader careers, and eventually produce projects. They also serve a more basic function as an extra person trying to get the artist a job—and if you’re a performer of color you need all the extra pushes you can get.

Dan took a look at a few advance, rough-cut scenes the Van Wilder producers were nice enough to give me on VHS, and he burst out laughing. “I can see why you don’t want to play characters like this, but I have to tell you, you’re really funny, dude. Holy shit! I want to help make sure you really break out from this. I’m confident you can. You just need someone in your corner who can push for you.” This was such a contrast to what my friend Jenna’s manager had said, about an Indian actor not working enough to make it worth a manager’s while. If this guy believed in me and was hungry enough to put in the extra work, it was worth a shot. Without meeting anyone else, I hired Spilo to be my manager.

Before Van Wilder finally came out, the cast participated in a bunch of promotional tours and interviews called junkets, the first of which was at a hotel in Los Angeles that was so fancy, they had printed up personalized labels for glass bottles of mineral water.9 I was excited to be included in this junket—eager that maybe positive reviews and articles could lead to more work opportunities. Before I left the greenroom for my first interview, Sassy Producer pulled me aside and put his arm around my shoulder. “I just want to say how glad I am that the movie turned out the way it did. You’re so good in it.”

“Thanks, Sassy! Thank you for the opportunity.”

“I know this is your first time answering questions with the press, and I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

“Of course! I’m really excited, it’s my first studio comedy!”

“Good. You know, if they ask about what it was like making this movie, you were always very excited…”

At this point he started pressing down on my shoulder.

“… We never had any disagreements about the character, or his name…”

He pressed down harder.

“… or his clothes or anything like that…”

Now he was pressing down really hard.

“… Right?”

“Right!”

“Great.” He offered what seemed like a genuine, wide smile. “It’ll be a good junket. The spicy tuna salad at lunch is really delicious. Have fun!”