, I’m an A-list actress known for my dedication to Method acting. When I played a mime, I spent a year training at Gaulier. When I played a sheep farmer, I became an expert shearer.
And when I played a heart surgeon, I wound up with a restraining order that prevented me from going within 50 meters of Cedars-Sinai. My latest role has been in a thoughtful and understated period drama — I play a 19th-century cobbler, who falls in love with her assistant. (In a particularly beautiful scene, they confess their love to each other wearing nothing more than the sandals they crafted earlier that day.
) To fully immerse myself in this walk of life (no pun intended), I spent weeks apprenticing with an actual cobbler. I learned to craft shoes by hand, stitching leather to felt, and even picked up a slight stoop to truly understand the character’s physical toll. But here’s where it gets weird: the movie wrapped six months ago, and I’m still living like a cobbler.
My home has turned into a workshop, with leather scraps, awls and thread cluttering every surface. My partner is fed up with the constant smell of shoe polish, and we’ve been arguing often. I even found myself fixing my neighbor’s shoes the other day — which got me in a terrible amount of trouble because.
apparently, Manolo Blahniks shouldn’t have chunky straps nailed across the front. (They gave me vertigo just looking at them, Remy — I was only trying to make them safer!) I’ve got to admit: I am as mystified by this turn of events as everyone around me, but I just can’t help myself. I’m reaching for my tack pullers and thread each morning before I’ve even made it to my second coffee.
Have I found my true calling? Sincerely, Cobbled Together . Dear Remy, Since the TV and film industries have been in a bit of a tailspin, I turned to the social media space to keep building my profile. I‘ve made a name for myself as a comic actor in a pleasant stream of television roles, but I know that in this day and age, it’s a wise move to have a consistent online presence.
After building a steady following on Instagram, I set up an account for my dog — a King Charles Spaniel called Delroy. It was something I did as a joke with some friends one evening after a few too many glasses of Shiraz, but — would you believe it? — Delroy now has more followers than me. From being entirely unbothered about social media some months ago, I’ve found this latest development has really bruised my ego! Delroy sneezes into a row of dahlias at Holmby Park, and that somehow gets 21,000 views.
Meanwhile, I spend an hour getting into makeup before rehearsing and filming a well-observed skit in which I play every single member of the cast of , and it only makes it to the low hundreds. I know this is wild, but I find myself riven with jealousy of Delroy. I have honed my craft at the Tisch School, followed by a long stint at UCB — whereas the most training Delroy has ever completed was via the American Kennel Club, and he still came home deathly afraid of mailmen.
Nevertheless, he has the sort of dedicated fan base I have always dreamed of. They truly seem to love my little mutt, whereas the most praise I have gotten was from a malfunctioning bot. Remy, I genuinely don’t think I can stomach managing Delroy’s online account any longer.
On the other hand, he brings in brand deals that have afforded us a modest extension. So I ask you: Can I afford to let my envy get in the way of a good income stream? Yours, Parent to a Prized Pooch . power partnership.
Dear Remy, I’ve been directing films for over a decade, and while I’m no Spielberg, I’ve carved out a decent niche for myself. My overall Rotten Tomatoes score is 66 percent — not too shabby. But here’s the thing — no one seems to care about my films as much as they care about my guacamole.
It started as a simple on-set snack: catering had ordered too many avocados on Instacart, and I couldn’t help but whip out some red onion, lemon and get to mashing. My dad always made guacamole when the weather was poor, or we were sick — so I think of it as a way of caring for people and always repeat his recipe. In no time at all, word spread, and my guac became the stuff of legend.
It’s the first thing cast and crew now ask me about before signing on to my projects, which makes me feel a little like they’re insulting my directing skills, though I try not to show it. One actress even requested it in her rider (though she is a bit of a diva — she also requested all the runners on set wear camo). You’ll never guess what happened next.
One of my actors went on a national morning show and spoke to the host backstage, and...
now I have been invited on to do a cookery segment with them. Remy, I’m starting to take this idea seriously. Maybe I could be the next Rachael Ray, or Martha Stewart (though without the felony charges)? The film industry is relentless, and I’ve begun daydreaming about book deals, product lines and TEDx talks on ways to get the best out of avos.
Am I totally insane here? This feels like a fork in the road, and I truly can’t decide which route to take. Best, Guac and Roll . .
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