Help! My Sitcom Past Is Ruining My Political Future
Dear Remy,
Throughout the ’90s and early ’00s, I played a sitcom character whose main personality trait was that he was a dunce. Handsome, sure—but a dunce.
Every episode had him engaging in some buffoonery or another—the lower his IQ seemed to go, the higher the ratings. He was the type to believe in Sasquatches but think Komodo dragons were made up. In one early episode, he spent 24 hours trapped in a sofa. He was mystified by cotton candy. At one point, I even had to get ophthalmological surgery because my character spent so much time cross-eyed while tussling with a kitchen utensil or a moving walkway.
I wish I’d never played him. My true dream is political. I’ve run for mayor in my city three times now, but no one takes me seriously. The first time, people thought it was a prank, maybe even marketing for a sitcom reboot. On the campaign trail, folks joke that they should “babyproof” their venues and ask me deliberately simple questions about population densities.
Remy, I graduated magna cum laude from high school before studying Genetics at Duke. I know pi to the 40th decimal place (it’s 1, and no, I didn’t Google that). And yet, all anyone sees is the guy who once “broke a tooth” because he thought macaroni was a breakfast cereal.
Is there any way I can shake off this mantle? It’s like being haunted by a very stupid ghost.
Done and Dumber
Dear Done and Dumber,
It sounds like you’ve put in the work and have the credentials, but that shadow cast by your sitcom character still stumbles behind you, spitting malapropisms. I wonder, though, are you holding onto that persona as tightly as the audience is? Could a part of you still be relying on that safe, familiar role, even as you run for office?
Often, we “throw on” our past selves because they provide comfort—like an over-worn onesie. What if, instead of distancing yourself from the “dunce,” you leaned into it with a dose of self-awareness? In politics, like in TV, having a unique selling point can help enormously. This beloved bozo might be the secret sauce your opponents lack. A campaign that humorously acknowledges your past could do more than any stump speech to change minds. Maybe you need to be in on the joke—consider a video where you knowingly reference him, or bring a cotton candy machine to your next rally.
You can’t divest yourself of this character—unless you opt for extensive plastic surgery, which I suspect would delay campaign activities and scare children who might otherwise be good for photo opportunities. But perhaps voters don’t need you to shed your former self entirely; they just need to see the intelligence and passion driving you now. That “very stupid ghost” may finally leave you alone once you invite it in, address it, and show everyone who you are beyond the punchlines.
Wishing you a campaign trail filled with curiosity and open minds,
Remy
I’m a Costume Designer With a Weighty Dilemma
Dear Remy,
I simply adore my role as a costume designer on a Netflix period drama. I spend all day buried deep in peacock feathers and periwinkle petticoats—the dream!
But I’m facing a very awkward conundrum. One of our cast members has… gained a few pounds over the last year but refuses to acknowledge it. We’ve discussed letting out his usual garments and adding elastic to his waistlines, but he insists on using the measurements we have on file from 12 months ago.
It’s becoming an issue; he looks absurd on screen—more like a stringed ham a maid might serve in the kitchen than the lord of a landed estate. We have to repair his cummerbund three times a day. Recently, during a dancing scene where he wore braces, they burst off him in one fell swoop mid-Scotch reel.
Remy, I’d love your advice on navigating this, ideally without embarrassing him or jeopardizing my job.
Hem Lines and Hard Truths
Dear Hem Lines and Hard Truths,
Costuming period dramas sounds like a dream, but even dreams have caveats sewn into their fabric. I’m sure you’re treading delicately, but let me ask: is this about numbers on a tape measure, or his comfort and the vision for his character?
Could you emphasize the need for a wardrobe update that honors the demands of his role? Sometimes, framing these things as being in service to the character, rather than the actor, opens the door to a gentler, more collaborative conversation.
Here’s a thought—would he be more open to an adjustment if it symbolized a new depth in his character? After all, maybe his character is evolving, and a few updates to his silhouette could symbolize that.
Sometimes, addressing a sensitive topic becomes more palatable if you focus on the larger picture of story, authenticity, and artistry. Costumes should help actors inhabit their roles more fully, right?
In any case, it sounds like you should give up on the cummerbund altogether.
Wishing you an unbroken streak of well-fitting costumes,
Remy
For Your Consideration: Should I Campaign for an Oscar?
Dear Remy,
After 20 years of hard slog in this industry—and the last 8 as a director—I’m finally within spitting distance of an Oscar. My latest picture has been tipped for nomination for the 2025 awards. I can almost feel the contoured glutes of that tiny golden man in my hand.
So here’s my question: should I campaign for the nomination I so desperately crave? You know the drill, Remy—monogrammed golf caddies, luxuriant bouquets, maybe even antiques selected to match the committee’s personal aesthetics. I “accidentally” bump into them at Soho House so that my name is on their lips, or speak to acquaintances to put in a good word. Anything to secure my place on that gilded nominations list.
It makes me queasy to consider this—I want to be nominated on my film’s merits, not because I bought 10 limited-edition Hermes paperweights. And yet, I know every other director in Tinseltown will have the same ideas. Can I really afford not to compete in this diamond-encrusted arena? If it did lead to Oscar success, I worry it would feel like I’d bought it.
Which path would you advise, Remy?
Oscar Victorious?
Dear Oscar Victorious?,
You’re asking yourself the questions that matter: is this really about a trophy, or what it would signify? It sounds like you’re wrestling with more than a decision; you’re questioning how you want to arrive at this moment. The queasiness you feel might be your gut telling you that winning at any cost could rob the journey of its meaning.
Is there a middle path, one where you get to share your passion for the film without turning it into a corporate gift exchange? I suspect these decision-makers have closets bursting with luxury gifts, so perhaps you could focus on creating spaces where the film speaks for itself—a special screening or a Q&A where your authentic connection to the story shines through.
And here’s a thought: if you didn’t campaign, would you feel you’d let yourself down or stayed true to your principles? Maybe that’s the real measure here—feeling integrity in the path you choose, whatever the outcome.
Remember, the Oscar is just one milestone. What matters most is crossing the finish line in a way that makes you proud.
Hoping you find your balance on this star-studded tightrope,
Remy
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Remy Blumenfeld is a veteran TV producer and founder of Vitality Guru, which offers business and career coaching to high performers in media. Send queries to: guru@vitality.guru.
Questions edited by Sarah Mills.
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