You Can’t Be Serious(48)

At my manager’s suggestion, I decided to go rogue, sort of like I did when I directly mailed a note and audition tape to Barbara Fiorentino, the Van Wilder casting director. The difference was, with Van Wilder, I was desperate for a résumé builder. For The Namesake, it was about the art—the story. I composed a platonic love letter, holding nothing back. I told Mira that her movies were a massive influence on my life. They were funny, poignant, and empowering. They had opened up a world to me where pursuing storytelling as a craft was an actual possibility. I told her how inspired I was by seeing Mississippi Masala in high school, how powerful it was to see people who looked like us on-screen for the first time. Now she was directing a film adaptation of my favorite novel. She had to let me audition. Had to. A part like this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I was unabashed: I told her that playing a role like this—my Catcher in the Rye—directed by her, was the reason I became an actor. It was all true.

A few days after I sent the letter, Mira called Spilo asking that I fly to New York to audition. This was my big chance! Hands shaking with excitement, I hastily transferred some money from my savings account to my checking account and used my debit card to bid on a plane ticket on Priceline.com. I was at the airport a week later. Getting the chance to audition for Mira Nair was a dream come true, and I was happy to spend some of my Son of the Mask money on it.

As I walked into the bright, lofty office just off of Manhattan’s Union Square, her assistant greeted me: “Hi, Kal! I’m Ami.” Oh, hell yeah, Mira has a badass Indian American woman working for her! This is incredible! “Can I get you some water or chai?” Holy moly, Mira Nair’s badass Indian American assistant just offered me chai. This is exactly how this sequence played out in my dreams. Focus. FOCUS!

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said. I took a seat in the waiting area and looked over the audition scenes one last time.

A few minutes later, Mira came in and hugged me warmly. “Your letter was so lovely, Kal, thank you so much. Did Ami offer you some chai? Ami, did you offer Kal some chai?” What was happening? I’m used to walking into auditions and being told “Wow, you’re so articulate! Thicker accent, louder!” and here I am being offered chai? Twice?! Is this what it’s like for white people every day of their professional lives?!12

Now that I was standing in front of her, post-hug, I was eager to tell Mira about the time I handed her my headshot at UCLA. No time for that.

“Kal,” she said, “I have to tell you two things. First, my thirteen-year-old son Zohran is a huge fan of yours and wanted to meet you. He’s in school until two thirty. Can you stick around until then? He’ll come say hi.”

It had never occurred to me that Mira Nair’s son could be a fan of mine.

“Of course. I’d love to meet him!”

“The second thing you should know is that the role of Gogol has already been cast. But your letter was so beautiful, and you said that I had to let you come and audition anyway, so here we are.”

What? Damnit. Okay, calm down.

I was going to have to talk myself off a ledge quickly. You’re not getting this part, but you said it yourself, you wanted a shot to read for this project, and for her. You still would have used part of your savings account to buy a ticket to audition. Count your blessings. Focus. And crush. This. Audition. Anyway. She’ll have other projects in the future, so still give it your all. Focus on your work and impress her.

I read the first scene. Mira looked worried. I read the second scene. She looked even more worried. Third scene. Mira put her head in her hands. I was confused: If I was doing a good job, why didn’t Mira Nair look happy? She spoke up. “I wish I had auditioned you before I put an offer out to someone else. You’re fantastic.”

Was she just being nice, or did this cinematic icon actually mean that she wished I had auditioned sooner?

“Look,” she said. “The other actor, you should know, has the offer for Gogol but has not closed his deal. He might have a problem doing some of the sex scenes. If you were cast, would you have the same problem?”

“Oh, that would be no problem for me,” I said, remembering being lit on fire in my Van Wilder sex scene and boning that anthropomorphic bag of weed in Harold & Kumar.

Mira brightened. “You are really fantastic. I’m glad you wrote to me.”

It turned out it wasn’t just my letter that got me the audition. For the previous several months, Zohran and his friend Sam, both huge Harold & Kumar fans, had been lobbying her to audition me. The two of them dragged her over to a computer, where they showed her scenes from the Harold & Kumar DVD, insisting, “You have to audition Kal Penn for the part of Gogol!”

This, she admitted, only hurt my case. “I saw you play that character and thought, ‘He’s totally wrong for Gogol.’?” The roles were very different: Gogol is a subdued, Ivy League–educated, sensitive, New York–based architect. Kumar, on the other hand, is a larger-than-life free-wheeling stoner who rides a cheetah. (You’re welcome.)

Because Zohran had pestered his mom to audition me, when she received my letter, she gave in and called. Knowing that, I happily waited, thanked him for his fierce advocacy, and went back to LA with mixed feelings. I had spent some Son of the Mask cash to fly myself to New York for a role that would never be mine. But if I was honest with myself, I was still happy. I had the chance to meet and audition for a director who had influenced me since I was a kid. Doing Van Wilder meant I got Harold & Kumar, and doing Harold & Kumar meant I got to audition for Mira Nair. You can’t put a price tag on that.