The Elephants in My Backyard

by Rajiv Surendra

  There were a couple of books I tracked down that were published about him and his directing style. One of the obscure things I found was the published screenplay of Sense and Sensibility by Emma Thompson, which contained excerpts from the diary she kept while shooting the movie, which she also starred in. It was Ang’s first major directorial debut in Hollywood, and Emma Thompson detailed the process of working with him. She sat in on a casting session and noted down some of Ang’s particularities. “Physiognomy matters a great deal to him,” she wrote—I could just hear her saying this aloud, beautifully articulate in her British accent— “not whether a person is good-looking, but the spaces between their lower lip and chin, and between the bridge of the nose and forehead. Praxitelean proportions, virtually.”

  I was familiar with her reference—an entire month of one of my Greek sculpture courses was devoted to Praxiteles. Ancient Greek sculptors developed an ideal version of the human body based on proportions of one body part in relation to all the rest; the size of a figure’s pinky, for example, was used to scale the exact (ideal) size of its bicep, wrist, neck, and penis. This was the world of Anteater Willy’s glory.

  Further Internet excavating around “Ang Lee” revealed articles and interviews with the one casting director he seemed to use for his American films, Avy Kaufman, based out of New York. In one interview, when asked what it was she looked for in actors she auditioned, she said,

  Someone that is honestly in a character. Someone who you really believe is that person.

  I looked away from the screen, savoring this moment of discovery and reassurance as my heart beat faster.

  The best auditions happen when actors don’t push the performance . . . I feel that most casting directors understand how difficult it is for an actor to walk into an office, pour out their emotions, and be judged by that. I actually prefer to take meetings with people, rather than have readings with them.

  I was giddy; this lady might be the one who would stand behind me, championing my efforts.

  Near the end of the interview, she was asked, “When actors come in, do you have an immediate sense that they are right?”

  “They may not know that but, yes, that does happen. I’m not going to discourage anyone or give them any false hope, but I let them know if I’m enthusiastic about what they’ve done.”

  Perhaps the long, drawn-out process of adapting Life of Pi to screen was a good thing; maybe Ang Lee was, in the end, the best person to make this happen, and maybe six long years of research were exactly what I needed in order to land this role.

  From: yann_martel1963@yahoo.com

  To: rajivsca@yahoo.ca

  Subject: Mr. Lee

  Date: Tue, 7 Jul 2009 18:48:05

  Hello, Rajiv.

  News from Mr. Lee? Well, let’s see; he was in India recently–—may even be still there–—doing some scouting with David Magee, the screenwriter (Finding Neverland). Lee was heading for a family holiday in Indonesia and decided to stop in India and check Pi places out there.

  I presume Magee will work on the screenplay this summer. Don’t know when filming will start, or anything else. I’m just the writer.

  Greetings from the Amazonian Peru.

  Yann

  16.

  THREE LARGE CLOUDS SHAPED like sheep slowly made their way eastward across the blue summer sky. Maybe they only looked like sheep to me because I was lying on my back in Central Park’s Sheep Meadow. The school year was over and I had taken a week off work.

  New York City was insanely hot in July, but I loved it here. There was an energy in the air. I always seemed to feel jolted into overdrive mode the instant I stepped foot onto the island of Manhattan.

  “180 Varick Street, sixteenth floor, this afternoon at two thirty. Now, I’ve gotta warn you, Rajiv,” Gerry instructed, as I spoke to him on my cellphone while staring up at the sky, “she’s not the warm and cuddly type. Don’t expect her to fall in love with you, okay? But remember, this is a good thing—she wouldn’t have agreed to meet with you if she didn’t think that you would be right for the part of Pi.”

  I was ready. I was pumped. I was nervous, but in a good way. I had a meeting with Avy Kaufman, Ang Lee’s casting director.

  I had sent her a beautiful, hand-written letter a month before, using my most cherished French paper. I took my time and wrote out her name and address with insanely ornate calligraphy—and I had sifted through dozens of postage stamps at the post office, choosing an oversized pale blue one of a native chief that matched the blue envelope it would be stuck to.

  Now, Avy Kaufman would be meeting with me, and while the bustle and chaos of New York City whirred around me, I felt incredibly still inside. I had been drifting for so long now. Although faint, I could make out land on the horizon. Land ho!

  For the many thousands of other people whom I crossed paths with that day, perhaps this was just another day, like the ones that had come before and those that would follow after. For the balding man who jogged past me as I made my way out of the park, sweat soaking his yellow T-shirt, this was another day of burning calories along Central Park West. For the thirty-something lady I brushed shoulders with on Seventy-second Street, in her oversized sunglasses, speedily chattering away while she walked her giddy golden retriever, this was maybe just another lunch break filled with errands. But to me, this was a day in which every second was to be savored, this was the day in which my dreams, hopes, and efforts over the past six years could finally all be laid out on the table. This was the city that millions of others had flocked to in the hopes of bringing meaning and fulfillment to their lives. This was the little island where huddled masses of immigrants had arrived with pennies in their pockets knowing that hard work, perseverance, dedication, and just plain luck could lift them up to rise above the humdrum into a world where their dreams could be turned into a tangible reality. I felt a comfort in knowing that I was here, finally, to realize my own dream.

  Although this was just a meeting and not an audition (there wasn’t even a script for the movie yet), I wanted to walk in with the appearance of a sixteen-year-old. I spent the morning on the seventh floor of Macy’s in the boys’ section, rapidly combing through racks of skater attire and finally settling on a cream-colored V-neck T-shirt with a print of a crazy monkey on a motorcycle—and an overpriced sky blue-and-black–striped hoodie. But I left the price tag on the hoodie, so I could take it back the next day, anticipating the huge Visa bill that I had racked up on this jaunt to New York. I estimated it would take about thirteen days of spinning wool to pay for it all.

  There was the thrill of seeking out a destination on a treasure map as I made my way downtown to SoHo and emerged from the subway onto Varick Street, with giant brass numerals embedded into the sidewalk in front of me: 180. Two American flags flanked the entrance of this impressive art deco building, and I pushed through the fancy bronze-and-glass revolving door into the lobby, where I signed in with the security desk.

  The elevator doors closed. I shut my eyes, quiet and alone.

  Ding. The elevator doors parted. In Avy’s suite, a young brunette greeted me and told me to take a seat in the small waiting room. I chose one of the six black chairs, and looked around at posters of the movies framed on the walls—Brokeback Mountain, The Sixth Sense, The Ice Storm—all films that Avy had cast. Would I be up on these walls one day, I wondered, in a lifeboat with a tiger on the poster for Life of Pi?

  A tiny woman with a dainty frame emerged from around the corner, and I knew instantly that it was Avy. But despite her diminutive size, she had the air of Athena to her—the goddess of wisdom, courage, justice, and war—a goddess who was known for her calm temperament but could be moved quickly to anger, fighting only for the worthiest of causes.

  “Hi,” she offered, “come in.”

  I hopped out of my chair and followed Avy into her office. The thin, white, sleeveless blouse she wore was tucked into high-waisted beige pants. Her brown hair went just down to her neck and she
wore large, amber-framed glasses. On her feet were flats, and she walked with confidence. This woman had the power to completely shape my future and I had something that she needed—I had to make sure she’d see how valuable I could be to her.

  “Have a seat,” she said, inviting me to sit in the chair that was across from her desk, as she went around to take her seat opposite me.

  “I have to take a call in a few minutes, so I don’t have a lot of time.” Then she just leaned forward, rested her chin on her palm and stared at me with furrowed brows, shooting off questions.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Toronto.”

  “Oh, Toronto,” she echoed, nodding her chin, still resting on her hand. “Where are your parents from?”

  “Sri Lanka.”

  “Have you ever been?”

  “No.” Dammit! Yes, I actually had been there once, as a kid . . . but it was too late to backtrack—I was flustered and decided not to correct myself. “But I’ve been to India . . .” I offered, hoping to segue into my Pi research.

  “Funny, you don’t have a Canadian accent.”

  “Yeah, I got rid of that a long time ago.” I tried to make it sound like a joke.

  “But what do your parents sound like?”

  “They have a Tamil accent.”

  “What does that sound like?” she asked, slowly swiveling side to side in her chair.

  “Well, it sounds like this,” I started, mimicking Ma’s accent. “The consonants are verrry hard. They rrrrroll the R sound. It is verrrry choppy.” Smile, dammit, I scolded myself. Smile, for God’s sake—I could feel a bead of sweat dripping down the hollow of my back and I knew I was nervous, but I had to work hard not to show it. Just have fun with her, smile—I kept telling myself.

  She had stopped swiveling and continued to scrutinize me with her eyes, which subtly darted back and forth, across my face.

  Gerry was right. This woman’s tough. I couldn’t read what she was thinking, or where she was going with this, so I decided to go on. “It’s different than the North Indian accent,” I offered, in my normal way of speaking.

  “What does that sound like?” She was now hunched forward, with her elbows propped on the desk, her fingers entwined together, acting like a relaxed hammock for her chin.

  “Well, it’s a lot mooore fluid-sounding,” I started up without hesitating, putting on the air of the Bollywood movie stars I despised, always sounding so arrogant yet disgustingly pretending to be self-effacing. “You see, it’s very aspirated, the vowels are a lot longer and the consonants are only briefly touched upon . . . it can also be sometimes slightly British, depending on the speaker’s education . . .”

  “Wow . . .” still with furrowed brows.

  I broke out of the pattern we were in, of her questioning and me responding, like this was an interrogation. The phone call she mentioned hadn’t arrived yet and I was tensing up, guessing I might only have a short window to convince her that I was actually the only guy for this part.

  “Do you cast all of Ang’s films?” I asked assertively.

  “Not the Chinese ones, but I’ve cast the last five or six.”

  “So . . . are you casting Life of Pi?”

  She didn’t answer right away. For a moment, I wondered whether I was pushing my luck and being too forward. Maybe this wasn’t the approach I should be taking if I really wanted her to believe I could convincingly play sixteen.

  “It’s not official yet,” she admitted finally. “We’re still waiting for a green light from the studio. But when that happens, yes, I’ll be the one casting it.”

  “I’m the guy for the lead role.” Wow, it just came out. I hadn’t planned on saying it like this, right then, but there it was, fast and dirty. “I want this more than anything I have ever wanted, and I’ve worked so hard for it . . .” I said, staying calm and collected, and doing my best to not sound like I was begging or pleading, but more like I was stating a fact that she could possibly benefit from.

  “I know . . .” she said, straight-faced. I wished that she would just give me one little smile. It would have put me at ease and cleared the air a bit.

  “Avy, I am this character. It started with me just reading about him in the book, but over the last six years I have given every bit of myself to becoming him entirely. I went to India and spent time in Pondicherry, going to the same school that’s mentioned in the book, Petit Séminaire. I tracked down a sailor who wrote a book about being cast adrift for seventy-six days. I learned how to swim from scratch.”

  “Can you do me a favor? Can you write all of this down and send me a letter?” she asked.

  “I did send you a letter,” I retorted, shocked. I thought that was why I was here.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, and it would have been the most beautiful letter you’ve ever received—I even put a big red wax seal on the back! You didn’t get it, did you?” I pretended to sound reprimanding, using a sarcastic, joking tone. “They sort through your mail and throw stuff out, don’t they?”

  She shuffled around a few things in front of her, looking under binders and magazines, and then grabbed the edge of her desk, pushed back her chair, and quickly got up. “Come with me,” she instructed.

  Shadowing closely behind her, I felt a rush of excitement as we scampered out of the room, feeling as though I had crossed a boundary of sorts, and was now on the same team as her. Together, we darted into the room across the hall, where three interns were busy typing on computers and sorting through folders.

  “Did a letter come through here? Describe it to them,” she snapped, turning to me.

  “Small, about five-by-seven inches. Blue envelope, very fancy writing on it, wax seal on the back.”

  “I want that letter,” Avy spat, as if she were speaking to herself.

  No one seemed to recall such a letter. I guess Gerry had single-handedly managed to convince her to see me, without my initial request on paper. Avy flew out of the room without saying anything, and I followed her back into her office. She shut the door behind me and went to her desk, picking up a blue Post-it pad and a pen.

  “This is my home address. Write down everything you’ve told me and send me another letter.”

  She handed me the Post-it as she took a seat on the sofa by her desk and I tucked it preciously into the front pocket of my jeans.

  I asked if I could show her a few things that I had brought along, and she seemed intrigued. I kneeled on the ground as I went through my backpack and pulled out some photos of Pondicherry. She was flipping through them slowly as I gave her a short commentary on each one.

  “That’s me with the other boys in my class—my friends at Petit Séminaire,” I said proudly.

  “Wow,” she exclaimed, looking down at Akash, Deepak, Nosey, and Karthik. She was quiet for a beat and then her face changed, as if she had suddenly realized something.

  “How old are you?” The question I had been dreading. I had suspected that she’d ask it, so I came prepared.

  Avy had cast a few movies that Rachel McAdams had starred in. She was twenty-seven when she played sixteen-year-old Regina George in Mean Girls, so I asked her what I should do if Avy wanted to know my age. I didn’t fully expect to hear back from Rachel—she was a huge star now, and it had been years since we had bonded on set, sneaking off during lunch breaks to thrift stores or historic sites near our shooting locations. But there was a response from her in my inbox the following day. She prefaced her answer by raving about Avy being one of the best in her field, and went on to say that she would probably want to hire someone a bit older and soulful anyway. Then she admitted that if she were in my shoes, she just wouldn’t tell her, and would advise my agent not to do so, either.

  “How old do you think I am?” I asked, looking up at Avy from my position on the carpeted floor.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, brows furrowed once again, “I’m looking at you and you could play anywhere from . . . seventeen to . . . twenty-
eight.”

  “Can I convincingly play the part of Pi?” I asked boldly.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then that’s all that matters, right?”

  “Right. Fair enough,” she conceded, turning back to the pictures on her lap. Phew.

  “And this is something from another era,” I explained, as I handed her an old sepia photograph from Ma’s photo album. “This is my mom, at twenty-five, playing the veena. This is the world that my parents grew up in, Avy. It’s the same world that acts as a setting for Life of Pi. I know that world.”

  “Your mother is stunning,” she gasped, turning away from the photograph and looking me in the eyes through her large, amber-framed glasses. “She’s beautiful.”

  She looked back down at Ma, in her lap, and shook her head.

  “That was just before she left Ceylon and moved to Toronto,” I added.

  “Why’d she move to Canada?” she asked, still studying the picture.

  “Her father died. They didn’t have a real future there, and her two oldest brothers were living in Toronto, working, so they decided to bring the rest of the family over.” I handed her the next old photograph, a tiny sepia portrait of my grandfather.

  “That’s a funny mustache,” she noted quietly, almost as if it were a question. Jesus, fuck, I thought, realizing Ma’s dad had a Hitler mustache—it was “a thing” at the time in Ceylon, Ma once told me, but I guess I hadn’t even thought twice about bringing it along and showing it to Avy. I had just handed this powerful Jewish lady a picture of my grandfather with a Hitler mustache.

  “Oh, yeah, weird, huh?” I tried to brush it off and move on, quickly handing her a picture of me with Steven Callahan, breaking apart our lobsters. She chuckled slightly and I breathed a sigh of relief.