That film is on the shortlist for an International Feature. And this morning, at 4:00 AM, my call time was earlier than the twenty-three-year-old lead in the superhero movie on Stage 6. Not because I’m older. Because I’m hungrier. Not for fame. Fame is a terrible roommate. Hungry for use .
End of Piece.
I don’t play the "wise mother" anymore. I fired that archetype. I don’t play the "cougar" or the "sad divorcee" or the "comic relief best friend who talks about her hot yoga instructor."
This is a thriller. This is a documentary. This is a twelve-episode limited series where episode four will make you cry and episode seven will make you furious.
Last year, I produced my own film. A thriller. I play a retired forensic sculptor. No love interest. No redemption arc through a man. Just a woman in a basement studio, rebuilding the faces of cold-case victims out of clay. And you know what the male director I fired said? He said, "But who is she doing it for ?"
(She laughs, a real, rich, dangerous laugh.)