Tod Lippy: When and why did you first come to New York?

Juliet Taylor: I moved to New York immediately upon my graduation from college in 1967, wanting to go into the theater, but not really knowing what that meant. I realized that I was never going to have the nerve to act, so I thought I’d get a job in production—not having known anyone who’d ever done it. It wasn’t exactly in my family’s idea of job possibilities.
   One reason I went to Smith was that it had a theater major. Lots of schools back then did not—it was always extracurricular. The college had a board of counselors to every department that wasn’t entirely an academic department, and the one for the theater department was made up of this wonderful group of women that had gone on to work in the business. They set up field trips every year. They brought us to New York, and it was really wonderful—we had unbelievable access to things. My senior year, the original Cabaret had opened, and they organized a symposium with Harold Prince, Boris Aronson, Fred Ebb—all these people. That was the first time I’d ever met a casting director—Shirley Rich, who’d set up the whole thing—and it really stuck in my mind, because it seemed to be a way to get emotionally involved with a performance and actors without actually doing it yourself. But I didn’t come to New York thinking that’s what I would do.
   Anyway, I arrived here and sort of tromped around, and I’d been told that people in the theater were going to be very tough, and doors were going to slam in my face and all of that, but it didn’t turn out to be like that. People were very nice. I went to a place that was extremely hot at the time, the Establishment Theater on East 54th Street. They were doing Scuba Duba and they didn’t have anything, but they were so nice. So then I just started looking through the newspaper to see who was doing things, and during the days I’d go by and drop off my résumé at various places. I’d usher at the Jan Hus Playhouse at night.
   Then, at the field trip for the seniors in the fall after I graduated, I ran into another Smith graduate who said she was leaving her job at the David Merrick office, and would I be interested? It was the receptionist, low-man-on-the-totem­-pole job, but for me it was, you know, a dream come true. On the eighth floor of the St. James Theater building, with a doorman, named Saul, who was out of an old movie—he smoked a stogie and had a little hat that sat on the top of his head. It was really Runyonesque. Merrick had a small staff, and we worked really long hours—I had to stay until the curtain went up, which was 8:30 then, and then I’d work on Saturdays until the matinee was half over. I was in heaven.

I recall your saying that Merrick had something like seven productions running concurrently when you were there.

Yeah, they did. My first day was the day after Pearl Bailey opened in Hello, Dolly.

How did that lead to the position with casting director Marion Dougherty?

I’d been at Merrick’s office for about six months, and a woman who had worked with him as a casting director was taking a job as an associate to Marion. Movies then were becoming very busy in New York—production under John Lindsay had really increased. Marion was also looking for a secretary, but someone they could train, basically, and I thought it would be good to really learn something specific. Also, there was a kind of funny morale at the Merrick office. As I said, I felt like I was in heaven, but people were eager to get out of there. Everybody said, “Take the job. If you stay here you’ll just end up being somebody more important’s secretary.” I’m not sure I would have had the courage to leave otherwise, because I really wasn’t too interested in movies.

You must have felt like you were abandoning your true love.

A little bit, but casting interested me. Anyway, it was great. Marion was so fabulous.

She’s been credited with revolutionizing the whole casting process. Can you talk about that a little bit?

She had a brownstone on 30th Street, which really gave the whole thing a kind of different, interesting spin. First of all, it was out of the main district where everybody usually is, and second of all, it was this little Victorian house that she had done up, and it was really cute. It lent a graciousness—a homeyness—to the whole situation. And it was a hilarious place to work in a certain way because we had wild, weird tenants, like this older man who lived in the basement who would sometimes come up in his bathrobe with his hair all askew in the middle of readings with some very fancy director. It was a goofy group of people, a funny place. And disgruntled actors—well, more like people who had fantasies of being actors, but were quite disturbed—would kind of push their way in because we had no security whatsoever.
   Marion was a very interesting person to work for. I look back on it and realize that she was always kind of pushing the limits of a situation in ways that none of us has to do now. You know, she was sort of disciplining directors, in a way, to see casting as a more creative process. For instance, in the old style, a casting director would have a ton of people in for the same part, and they would all resemble each other. You know, thirty short blondes with an overbite or whatever. But Marion was a very creative thinker, and she would come up with very interesting, different ways to play a part, and then would have in just a handful of people. They would all look different, and each would bring something very different to it. And if a director said, “But I want to see a ton of people,” she’d say, “Well, tough. That’s not the way I work.”
   To be fair, if the director didn’t like anyone, then you have to keep going. But directors liked it; they liked her intelligence and her certainty.

So in a sense she was providing a much denser filter than what casting agents had provided before?

That’s right. And it’s interesting how it’s developed over the years, too. This is sort of a different subject, but when I worked with Marion, there were a lot of creative producers around, producers who sat in on your sessions or whatever. You don’t see that so much anymore. Directors tend to be their own producers; they have their own companies. And as a result, casting directors—not to mention other members of the creative team—have become more important in a director’s support system, I think.
   There were really people who wouldn’t make a move without Marion. People like George Roy Hill. It became a very intimate process in a way. She contributed more than just an ordinary casting director.

At some point, she left to do studio work, right?

Well, she left to produce with David Picker, who was the head of UA, and who went off to produce movies independently. Shortly after that he was offered the presidency of Paramount, which he took, and he persuaded Marion to go out to L.A. with him and head the talent division there.

And you took over?

I took over when she left to produce with David, which was just short of three years before she went to L.A. In that period, we called it Juliet Taylor/MDA. She still retained ownership of the company. And then I got married, and got pregnant, and Marion said to me, “Why don’t you make your life a little easier? You won’t have to worry about a staff, all of that. Come to Paramount.” I was sort of thrilled not to have to be responsible for that house, the real-estate thing, so that’s what I did.

But you stayed in New York, right?

Yes. I did East Coast casting. I was there for a year, and then my husband and I moved to Los Angeles in 1979 for six months for something he was doing, thinking we might stay. But we didn’t. When we returned, I had another nice situation here where Paramount gave me an office, and I consulted on movies, and moved around for a while—I spent some time at Warner’s, again because Marion had switched over there—and then for many, many years I’ve been under the Woody Allen umbrella.

How did you meet Woody Allen?

Marion cast Bananas, and I was her assistant. And being a creature of habit, Woody came back to me on Love and Death, even though I was, like, twenty-six. It was crazy. I mean, I was kind of a wreck about it. So I got lucky. I inherited a lot of great directors from her.

Who else?

Well, Paul Mazursky and Martin Scorsese—I had worked with Marion on Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, and then did Taxi Driver. And John Schlesinger. I don’t think she ever actually worked for Mike Nichols, but Marion sent Mike my way when he was doing Carnal Knowledge. He got stuck. He was looking for one character he hadn’t cast, so she asked me to look for someone. It was kind of a funny, odd little part.

Who did you find?

Carol Kane. I found her picture in the Player’s Guide. He wanted someone with that sort of strange, pre-Raphaelite look. I remember he was in Vancouver, so I never actually met him. It was all done by telephone.

What was the first film you actually cast? Panic in Needle Park?

Well, Marion was really the person on that. She was very responsible for casting Al Pacino and Kitty Winn, and then she handed the rest over to me. That was really the biggest responsibility I had ever had. The first one I was responsible for entirely was something she had nothing to do with, which was The Exorcist.

How did you find Linda Blair?

She had actually gone up for a number of commercials as a little girl—she was what we call a “commercial kid.” I mean, I went to every school, every place you could imagine, to find children, but she happened to be a professional who came in through an agent.

I read somewhere that you cast actual junkies in Needle Park, as well as other nonactors—

I did. Here’s what happened. Hair opened on Broadway in 1969, and all of their actors were on what they called “pink contracts”—they only needed to give two weeks’ notice to be released from the show. So the producers needed an ongoing casting situation. Marion really didn’t have any interest, first of all, in casting for the theater, but she especially had no interest in casting Hair, so I jumped at it, and did all sorts of odd stuff to build up our pool of talent. For instance, I had an open call on St. Mark’s Place, at Theater 80 St. Mark’s. My friends helped me—we would stand on the corner of 8th Street and also St. Mark’s Place, passing out flyers for it every night after work. We didn’t advertise in any mainstream papers, only in the East Village Other, maybe The Village Voice. We sent stuff around to schools, tried to get ahold of some radio stations. But we passed out all of these flyers. It was a huge event. People came and camped out in tents on the sidewalk the night before; kids came from all over. It was just wild.

Was anyone else doing this sort of thing?

Well, I don’t know. I think there were others doing it a little bit, there must have been. But this particular milieu I was really into. I really loved that show.

Did any of the actors you cast become well known?

Some of them, like Jessica Harper. She was at Wesleyan, and she was one of the kids that came in. We had a lot of good people for the show. Some of the crew, actually, now that I think back on it, also went on to other stuff. This was after Tom O’Horgan wasn’t really around much anymore. Dan Sullivan—every week he and I would hold auditions together. Wesley Fata was the assistant choreographer, who now teaches dance at Yale. And Barry Manilow was the rehearsal pianist. Isn’t that funny?
   But a lot of that pool of people ended up in Panic in Needle Park. It was a very streety crowd, so it was a good resource for me.

Do you still take business cards on the street with you?

Oh, yeah, I still have my cards. But with just my telephone number, not my address. I don’t hand them out as much as I did.

The other great source for new talent in New York, of course, is theater. How often do you go?

Well, before I had a family, I used to go almost every night. And a couple of things on Saturday, because they used to have midnight shows. You’d do one act here, one act there, that kind of thing.
   Now that our kids are grown, we go fairly often. But even throughout, we would go a couple of times a week. My husband was a Tony voter for many years, and we would go every night for several months running. We still try to keep up, but I don’t have as much tolerance for stuff that’s not good anymore. There’s just not that much I want to see.

How often do you “score” at more off-off-Broadway venues?

Well, you’d be surprised. With actors, you always see somebody kind of interesting. But I’m not as good about going to that kind of stuff anymore. And now, of course, you have to keep up with independent films, too. Which I’m even less good at.

How many assistants do you have working for you?

It depends on the movie. Usually, two. I shouldn’t admit this in print, but I probably do in some degree what Marion did with me—I count on an assistant in her twenties to be seeing stuff that I’m not seeing. And to be interested in a community that I’m a little less interested in.

You say “her” twenties. Do you only work with female assistants? You’ve talked in the past how casting, for whatever reason, tends to attract more women than men.

I’d be interested to know if it is still more female statistically; I’m not so sure it is anymore. In California I imagine it’s probably equal. But I’ve always had an all­-female office. It’s a funny joke with us. It may be somewhat unfair, but I pretty much prefer it that way.

How many headshots do you get a week?

Well, when we’re doing a movie, the postman brings sacks. Sacks. It’s kind of discouraging.

And how do you get through them?

It’s always sort of been our policy to try to be good about going through pictures, looking at them for good faces and interesting résumés. For instance, we have a Woody Allen cabinet filled with unusual faces, or faces that suggest something in particular—a very particular look that’s hard to find, an odd ability, whatever. And then if someone just has a really substantial resume and is interesting-looking, we might put them aside to interview.
   It’s hard to keep up with. You have to be really diligent about that. And your assistants have to be really diligent about it, too. But, you know, you do get unsolicited stuff that’s interesting sometimes.

And you must get unsolicited stuff when you’re not casting, too.

Right. All those pictures out there [points to stacks in adjoining office] are unsolicited.

How many of those people will actually be interviewed?

It’s really hard to say. If you’re very busy, you might find more interesting stuff.

How do you update your information on actors? Do you have files?

I used to keep index cards. That was the way Marion did it, and it’s kind of a good way because you can slip it into an age group, alphabetically, and just record all your thoughts. Now I’m sort of switching over to another system, which is that I keep a notebook on every project, and every day that I interview someone or read someone a sheet goes into that notebook. That’s probably slightly less effective, but I got tired of my card file, and I was never great at keeping it up.
   The other thing I did when I was younger—I had a great memory, I really could remember practically everybody I’d ever met—was compile these lists, divided into folders based on age groups. I have tons and tons of them. Every time I sat down to do something I would go through the lists, because you would see a lot of stuff that might not apply but which would spark kind of interesting stuff, rather than getting too tightly into a type or a category.
   Now, maybe it’s motivational, or maybe it’s age, but I don’t really remember anybody I’m not really interested in. I just sort of flush it from my brain. Which isn’t so great. So I’m trying to keep better notes.

You don’t cast that many movies—

Well, but I used to. I’m sort of at this funny point in my life, at this crossroads where I’m trying to decide how much to do. It’s true that I used to do less than other people, because I only did one movie at a time, or I would overlap a little bit. At my busiest I would do, maybe, three and a half movies a year. Three films plus maybe something that was only partially going to be done in the east, or a couple of consultant jobs in addition. I used to have an office of four people, and it is kind of a really qualified office—almost top-heavy, in the sense that everybody there could really carry some weight.
   Some people who have bigger offices and do more movies—I don’t know how you do something without actually spending a lot of time with the director. I don’t know how they do it. There were a few years there where I would excuse myself from a meeting with one director saying that I was going to the ladies’ room and call another director from the reception area, because I was juggling. But you can’t really let them know; they don’t really like to know that.

Can you talk a bit about the casting agent–director relationship?

Other than having sort of good intuition and taste about actors, and a depth of knowledge—who you should know, etc.—I think one of the most important things is being able to talk to a director. The casting process is the first thing that happens in a production, and it’s often the process that helps the director understand the characters—and sometimes you’re surprised. Most good directors go in with no preconceived notions—I mean, some vague ones, but they don’t come in saying, “I’ve got to have a redhead.” Some lesser directors will be very rigid, but really good directors aren’t. So often, as the piece evolves, they learn about the character. It’s important to be able to talk to a director, talk about character. And as you cast one character, whoever you cast in that part is going to influence the chemistry of the other parts.
   So the relationship is kind of intimate. The directors I work with are really close friends in a way—not that I see them socially necessarily, but there’s kind of a real bond there that doesn’t seem very businesslike. I always feel like it’s kind of sisterly in a certain way, because they’re mostly men, and there are some people I’ve worked with for so long. I say “sisterly” because there’s a certain kind of familial edge to it. A certain kind of affection that you have which is half the fun of it. You’re hopefully giving good advice, and sometimes admonishing, and sometimes saying, “No, no, no—don’t do that; that’s not a good idea!” And yet ultimately there’s such trust—that’s what I’m talking about. That’s great.

“Sisterly” has a aura of protection to it.

Right. It depends on the project. With Woody, I definitely, definitely stand between him and the outside world in many cases—that’s one of the things that I definitely do. Because he doesn’t really—he’s not that interactive with the outside world. So I sort of have to protect him from that. But that’s not my main job, really.
   With some directors who are doing studio pictures, you have to protect them from the studio. This is what happens: you get a call from some really nice person who’s the head of casting for a studio—and they’re all quite nice, by the way. They say, “Well, how’s it going?!” And you say, “Great!” And they act like they’re just calling to be friendly, but they want to know who you’re thinking of, because they want to go back and tell the president of the studio who the director’s considering. And you can’t tell them, because if you say, “Well, we’re thinking of Arnold Schwarzenegger, but he’s actually fifth on our list,” then that call will come in the next day where they say, “We hear you’re interested in Schwarzenegger, and that’s who you should go for!” You can’t give them any information.

And do they give you suggestions?

In the end, they can make a director’s life tough. You just don’t want to say anything before you get your ducks in a row. Then, ultimately, of course, the studio has to say “OK.” And almost every director is going to be susceptible to that, except for Woody, because he’s so independent. You just have to be crafty.

Do you always prescreen actors before they meet with a director?

Yes, unless I’ve seen a lot of their work onstage and I think they’re really good. In that case, I won’t, unless it’s a part that I think is more unlikely for them. If it’s an actor who is very, very new or unknown, I’ll have them in to read for me even if I’ve liked their work in something else. But if it’s someone who’s really got a certain “body of work,” as they say in the business, I’ll just sort of trust that what they’ll do will be sort of interesting, even if in the end it isn’t what we go for.

Let’s do a case study, if you don’t mind. I know you cast Interview with the Vampire, and I believe it was your first experience working with Neil Jordan.

Right, it was.

Let’s start from the beginning. How did you get the script for that?

I’m pretty sure I got a call from Neil, telling me he was doing this movie. And I was very excited because I really admired his work, and especially loved The Crying Game. I was out in Los Angeles working on a movie—which I hardly ever do, by the way—and he was out there getting his movie set up. I met him and we had breakfast and whatever. They shot a lot of that movie abroad, so the amount of work I did on that picture was somewhat contained. A lot of it for me was finding the child.

Kirsten Dunst?

Mm-hmm. The two leads were already set, and Neil had always had Antonio Banderas in his mind for Armand. There were a handful of supporting roles—the ones that were shot in Louisiana—and the child. I had two people who went on the road, screening girls. And then we had the problem of River Phoenix dying before production. He was to be the interviewer. I was in Los Angeles at the time, and l remember reading Leo DiCaprio in my hotel room, and saying, “This kid is so fabulous,” and everyone telling me he was too young, and me saying, “He’s a student. Why can’t he be a college student? He’s so great.” And they wouldn’t go for it.

How often does that happen?

Not that often. Most people really recognize it. I had suggested Christian Slater, too. It’s just that I thought that Leo was a great idea, I was so excited by his reading, and his whole persona. I mean, they had a point—he was on the young side. I just wasn’t so sure it made a difference to the story. Actually, that’s probably not the best example...

How about Working Girl?

Well, there are some interesting stories there. Although Melanie Griffith had started acting as a teenager, she wasn’t really a “star” yet. This was obviously a big break for her. She’d just done Something Wild, and was wonderful in it, and we flew her in to read for the movie. That was an exciting and dramatic moment, because, you know, she was terribly nervous—it was the biggest thing she had been up for. We had a screen test, with Campbell Scott reading with her—he’s a good friend of Mike’s, and has done a lot of things with him.
   Actually, an interesting thing happened with the men on that movie. We had really talked about using Alec Baldwin for the lead. I don’t know if he had done anything but Married to the Mob at that time; I don’t think he had. He was dying to work with Mike. Actually, that picture was kind of the beginning of what I was talking about earlier, that kind of studio—well, I would call it “interference,” but I’m sure they would call it “control.” I remember spending more time on the phone talking to studio executives than casting the movie; it felt as if a huge amount of my time and effort went into deflection.
   Anyway, we had this interest in Alec, and the studio wanted a name. So, when Harrison Ford said he would do it, Mike offered Alec the old boyfriend role. But before that happened, Alec was up for a movie Robert Towne was doing—I guess it was Tequila Sunrise—and they offered it to him, but at that point he was still waiting to hear whether or not he was going to get the lead in Working Girl. And they started doing really manipulative things, which are not that uncommon, actually, by saying, “If you don’t answer us in twenty-four hours we’re going to withdraw the offer.” In other words, trying to scare him so that he would lose both jobs.
   People do that, but it’s really not the right thing to do. You don’t try to control which way somebody’s going to go; you just sort of say, “Well, we have to know within a reasonable amount of time; just keep us in close touch and let us know.” Interestingly, Alec was heroic, especially for a young actor for whom a lead role would be a big break, and he said, “I think this a terrible, unethical thing to do to me,” and he withdrew. And even after he was offered only the smaller part on Working Girl, he still stuck to his guns and did it. It was impressive; a very sturdy thing to do.

Was Harrison Ford your first “star” choice for the role?

As I recall, yes. And of course, he was wonderful. It was thrilling to have them both in the movie.

And I’m assuming that’s the kind of situation where you just offered the role to him, without any kind of reading.

Right.

And Sigourney Weaver?

Well, that was also an interesting thing in terms of studio input. The studio really wanted a name in that part, too, and l was stunned. I thought, “Whoa! We’ve got Harrison Ford, and Melanie and Alex, both on the rise,” but they were really quite insistent. They wanted a high-profile cast, which of course happens more and more now. And even though l disapprove of it, and think it’s “anti-creative,” in a way, l kind of enjoy the intrigue in the process. There’s a perverse part of me that sort of enjoys all of the negotiating.

How about Dangerous Liaisons?

Dangerous Liaisons was interesting, too, because Malkovich was already attached; Stephen Frears had already approached him by the time I had gotten on the movie.

How did Frears contact you?

He just called me out of the blue. I guess that was the first thing I did with him—The Grifters came later. What was interesting about that movie, which I can’t really claim any kind of responsibility for, is that Stephen made this really brilliant choice not to make it too “Masterpiece Theater”—he really broke it apart by using the people he used. It made the movie really interesting and daring.
   For example, both Stephen and Christopher Hampton were really interested in Michelle Pfeiffer. But they felt that she had never done anything to indicate that she could handle the language, so they wanted her to come in and read for the part. And she was a big star then, but she still came in and really went after it, and it was just great.

Will name actors often read for a role?

Sometimes. Actors are just terrifically smart to do that. If they really want something, they’ll audition for it. That’s happened to me many times. I also remember reading it about Dan Ackroyd in Driving Miss Daisy. He wanted to prove he could do something other than Saturday Night Live–ish stuff, and he did. He has a lot of credibility, I think; he’d be fun to use.

Can you talk about the audition process? Every actor I know dreads it.

That’s one of the things that Marion was particularly good about. She made a big point of telling those of us who sat in the outer office how welcoming we had to be to actors; how it was up to us to make them feel comfortable. And to never, if you could possibly help it, have two actors in for the same role back to back. You know, don’t book people too tight, don’t get behind, don’t keep people waiting. That’s not always possible, but generally speaking. And if you give someone a scene to look at, tell them as much as you can to make it sensible to them. And at the same time, do the same thing with the director. Tell him or her as much as you can about the actor. Directors are often not from New York; they don’t see the same stuff we do, and if they see somebody cold, with no context, it can be hard for them.
   So I was sort of “brought up” to be very sensitive to actors. And it’s interesting, the youngest of the two assistants I have has been working for other casting directors this winter while I’ve been fooling around, and she told me she was stunned to see the difference in style. l thought that was so interesting, because I wouldn’t know; l would assume everybody was polite. For me, as I said, it was a matter of upbringing. Marion said it was important, so everyone who ever worked for her, or worked for me, would have that same speech delivered to them when they arrived.
   You know, most casting directors really love actors. But I can see how it could be a really power-trippy kind of job...

I was actually going to ask you about that. Most would say that you wield enormous power in the industry—

It’s funny, because I don’t see it that way, but I know actors see it that way.

Well, I think actors assume you can really make or break their careers. That doesn’t cross your mind?

It doesn’t really. I always think actors have an overinflated idea of what I can do for them. And yet, I know that the truth of it is that that’s actually naive of me, because if l really believe in someone, and continually keep having them back and back and back, it will make a difference to their lives. But they’re still the ones who have to get the job.

When do you first see a script from Woody Allen? As soon as it’s finished?

With Woody, before. It’s great, because he really includes me in what he’s thinking about. For instance, this time he asked me if l would come over to the cutting room sometime to talk about his next project, and he told me about three ideas that he was fooling around with, and what did I think. And it was great, it was such an honor—I mean, it’s such an honor to work with him anyway—to be in on it at the beginning. Anyway, I think he needs to talk out loud about what would be the next good project for him to do, or whether the idea works at all, whatever.
   So we talked about it, and I think he was glad to find that I agreed with what he was thinking. Then he tried to write it, but didn’t feel it was going that well, so he switched over to the idea that was the second best of the three. I haven’t read it yet—he’s still working on it—but we’ve been talking about casting already. He’s moving his schedule up, actually, because he wants to start shooting in the spring. That kind of stuff makes it really fun. But obviously that’s not entirely typical.

What about with Mike Nichols? Same thing?

I usually hear from Mike very early on, but he usually has something in hand. Right now I’m working on something he’s doing, in its very early stages, and we’re doing a reading. He’ll do that kind of thing sometimes because he likes to hear it aloud.

Do you cast readings often?

I do.

I’m assuming your first priority in that situation ls finding an actor who reads well, but perhaps may not necessarily end up in the finished film.

Well, it depends how far along a project is, and how far along the director is in his or her thinking. For Mike, usually, he doesn’t set his reading until he has his stars. Like, for instance, on Primary Colors, we did our reading with Emma Thompson and John Travolta, and a couple of people who turned out to be supporting actors in the film. And a number of actors who Mike uses all the time, who did end up in small parts in the film, or came in just to help out, or have been in other films of his.

Would you say that part of your modus operandi is casting against type?

Most casting directors are invested in being creative and different and original in their thinking. I don’t set out to cast against type. I’m more interested in casting very interesting, charismatic and sort of electric people, actors who will bring dimension to their roles. So if what’s really kind of “on the nose” doesn’t exist in an exciting form, I would rather move a little to the right or a little to the left. Of course, then you run into the thing where someone will say, “Well, that’s not how it’s written.’”And I’ll say, “Well, that really doesn’t matter, because there’s nobody who can play it as it’s written that will be exciting, so it’s better to have this person who’s going to alter it slightly but give it a little punch.” I think that’s kind of how it happens.

What is that “punch” you’re talking about? Is it something you can intuit?

I think it is. It’s true that when someone walks into your office and you first see them, if they’re right you’ll go, “OK. Wow.” You know? And then you just hope—you just hold your breath—that they’re as good as they appear. It’s interesting how seldom that little sort of magic is there. Because it’s more than just being a great-looking person. It’s definitely a vibe; that person fills up the room.
   I remember the first time Emily Watson came in. You know, walking down the street, you wouldn’t necessarily look at her and say she was remarkable. But when she came in to read, I just couldn’t believe it. I remember the first time I met Tom Cruise. Now of course he was divine-looking; he was nineteen at the time and he made me feel like Mrs. Robinson or something. [Laughs.] You just could tell. Even with character actors. There’s a kind of an energy, a kind of a presence.

I’m guessing that many of the character actors you cast are theater-based; is there ever any situation where the kind of actor that might be able to command a theater doesn’t “work” for film?

You know, that’s a question people used to ask me all the time, but I haven’t heard it in a while. I think that if you have magic onstage, you’re going to have it onscreen. Usually, I think the problem is that many actors who are touted as great are really quite dull. This is something that Woody and I talk about a lot. People overinflate how wonderful actors are—every generation, they’ll say so-an­d-so is so wonderful and brilliant. And they’re really only OK, you know? They’re not that great. I look back at my lists of actors and actresses in their twenties from years ago, and I swear 75 percent of them aren’t even acting any more. Did you see the article about comic genius in The New York Times? They were talking about how rare it actually is. Most people concurred that “genius” is an overused word. It just doesn’t come along that often.
   People always say how hard it is for actors to make it, to be known. But if somebody’s really good, believe me, they’re going to make it. People are dying for actors to be good. I remember when Meryl Streep first moved to New York. I mean, forget it. It was five minutes. She’d hardly put her toe on the sidewalk and people were talking about her.

You’ve been credited with “discovering” her.

Which of course I didn’t. When she was at Yale, people were already raving about her. And then as soon as she got here, she did a couple of plays and that was it. There was a production of Trelawny of the Wells that was done at the Vivian Beaumont—it was the year that Papp ran Lincoln Center. The production included Meryl Streep, Mandy Patinkin and Mary Beth Hurt, and they were all just out of school. It was really something.

You’re also well known for casting recognizable non-actors in cameos, like Calvin Trillin in Sleepless in Seattle, or Benno Schmidt in Husbands and Wives. It adds a sort of inside-joke angle to the whole thing.

Well, they aren’t usually to wink at the camera. I’ll tell you what it really is: the hardest thing to cast is middle-aged men—men from thirty-five to seventy, really—for parts that aren’t that big. Men who have authority and weight, and seem like real people. Because when you get to that age, most men are either stars of television shows and movies or they look like soap-opera actors. It’s very hard to find substance. So for those little parts, you’re often attracted to using people who seem very real. That’s why I go outside the acting pool. If I could do it inside, I probably would. Calvin Trillin is just a funny character, so that was sort of a fun idea. With Benno, he’d just done the Delicate Balance series on PBS, and he was so good. And he was a friend, too, so that wasn’t so hard.
   Sometimes I think people do it just to show their wares. It’s a temptation of casting directors—you want to do something different from everyone else. You want to be the first or whatever. I think there are a couple of movies recently where people have used real people in a way that really called attention to itself, which isn’t the point.

How did you find Greg Mottola for the opening scene in Celebrity?

I have to say I can’t take credit for that, because Laura, who worked with me on Celebrity, knew him.

I can’t imagine your ever having any resistance from an actor who you’ve offered a part in a Woody Allen movie to. Has anyone ever said, “No thanks”?

Yes, we’ve been turned down, but we have a really good success rate. We really do. Every time somebody gets a lot of attention for a turn in a Woody Allen movie, I breathe a sigh of relief. That means next time will probably be easy. Actors love to be in Woody’s movies, because frankly there’s not that much good stuff around, and of course he’s one of the few really original great directors. But, also, they always look good in his movies. They always do, and somebody almost always gets nominated. Great statistics, and that helps a lot.
   What we did in the very beginning, which was really smart, was to say that everybody works for scale and gets the same amount of money. So it’s never debatable; you’re either in or you’re out. So the agents don’t bother you; they just accept it.

How often are you involved with a project where you ask an actor to take a pay cut to play a particular role? First of all, is that part of your job?

It is. I negotiate all the contracts. But you know, it’s sort of your job to cast within a budget, so you have to think realistically. You can always make a stab, particularly in this new world of independent films, because more and more mainstream actors want to do independents—they can make a good back end, and they think it will show them off well.
   You learn who cares about money and who doesn’t. I mean, Jack Nicholson doesn’t care how good the art is. He wants his money. He doesn’t care if it’s Woody Allen or Joe Blow. He never gets snowed by “Oh my God, I have to do this because it’s so beautiful and meaningful.” But some people do; they want to do something better than they’ve done before. You learn to gauge the enthusiasm level of actors. But the money thing is a constant hassle. And if an actor thinks somebody else is getting more, it sinks the whole deal.

Marshall Brickman once said that you were great at “characterizing actors in a word or two.”

Right, but he then he always finishes the joke by saying, “And that word or two was always devastating.” [Laughs.] And I thought, “Am I really that mean?”

Can I run a few names by you?

Well, I don’t want to say anything negative...

OK, we’ll try out a few. Liev Schreiber.

Really talented. And he never hits a false note. In Hurricane, for instance, which was a little melodramatic for my taste, he never lost his way. I’ve seen him on stage being extremely touching in what some would call anti-heroic parts; he can be very moving.

Samantha Morton.

Mesmerizing. So fun to look at, and I loved her humor and whimsy in Sweet and Lowdown. So far this is easy. [Laughs.I

Robert Carlyle.

Well, I think he’s also really talented. Very real.

Ralph Fiennes.

A dreamboat. I think he’s divine. He’s so handsome that I can’t stand it, but I also think he’s very moving. Particularly in Quiz Show. I cast Schindler’s List and he was terrific in that, but I thought he was amazing in Quiz Show. He tends to pick quiet pieces and I think some people tend to associate that with a certain dullness, which is unfair.

Billy Crudup.

Oh, this is good—you’re picking very good people. He’s terrific. And he’s not just a cute guy. I’ve had him in to read for things before he was well known, and I thought, “Whoa.” Original, and has a great take on things.

One more: Julia Roberts.

Well, you know, she’s a real movie star. And I’ll tell you, I met her when she first came to New York, before she’d done anything, because I knew her brother, and her brother’s manager asked me if I would see her. She was someone who when you were in a room with her, she just melted you. Not only really pretty, but a doll—lovable.

For some time you were on the board of the Sundance Institute. My impression, though, is that you don’t do many low-budget films—

I don’t.

That’s a conscious choice?

I think it’s mostly circumstantial. I’ve worked less since they’ve become more popular. Laura, who I mentioned earlier, does a lot of work for indie films, and she’s got about eighty-five folders on her desk of things that may go someday. There’s a huge amount of spinning of wheels, and since I’m sort of only working sometimes, I’m not really in the mood. Although I’ll do it for friends.

Do you ever feel like you take on the role of shrink in your relationships with actors?

Sometimes, but not usually. I don’t socialize that much with actors. I suppose if you did, you would. Occasionally there will be someone who is quite vulnerable, or who is having a tough time, who will take you into their confidence that something is upsetting or worrying them at a particular time in their life. You know, once I used an actress in one of Woody’s movies whose marriage was on the rocks, and she was having a tough time deciding on whether she was going to come here and do the movie or stay there. But that doesn’t happen that often.

Do you think the professional distance you talk about is easier to maintain in New York than it would be in L.A.?

Mmm…I don’t think so. I have certain colleagues here who really like to be in the thick of it. It’s a personal style choice, I think.

You alluded to the fact that you haven’t spent much time in Hollywood—

So little that it’s hilarious. I’ll tell you something: I had never been to Los Angeles until l went to meet Billy Friedkin on The Exorcist. And then, until my son was a senior in high school, I think that I went there maybe two or three times—other than the six months I lived there. [Laughs.] The year he graduated, I went out for two different full weeks. I just didn’t want to leave home, so what I did for years was, any movie that required travel, or time in L.A., I shared with people; l split it.

So your decision has less to do with not wanting to be in L.A. than with not wanting to leave New York.

Yes. Actually, the few times I’ve gone out I’ve had a lot of fun. But I just wanted to have a sort of normal family life. You know, though, what’s so funny now is that even though our kids are grown, I still resist leaving. Although I was more than happy to go to Ireland to do Angela’s Ashes. They could have said, “You’re going to have to be here for six months” and I would have said, “Fine.”

How critical are you about certain choices a writer or director has made in a script that you find either unrealistic or objectionable? I’m thinking, for instance, of pairing up fifty-five-year-old leading men with twenty-something female love interests.

Hmm. You mean onscreen or in real life? [Laughs.] I don’t know, do you see that a lot in movies?

Well, yeah. For instance, the Michael Douglas/Gwyneth Paltrow pairing in A Perfect Murder—

I knew you were going to say that. That was the most obvious one, and I remember everybody talking about it. And then I know people certainly criticize Woody for that.

Well, that’s true. One could argue that generally in his films the male characters are self-conscious about the situation—

They comment on the age difference.

Right. Does your input extend into that area?

Oh yeah, it does. A big part of my job is to bring the reality check into it, bring some sense to it. Unless it’s a part of the plot, you’d say, “Well, gee, I think Winona Ryder is too young for Sean Connery.” Absolutely, that’s definitely the kind of thing I’d say.

Is it heeded?

Well, it is in the sense that I think a “no” is more powerful than a “yes.” If I bring up something negative about someone, everybody’s ready to listen. If I say, “I really think this is who you should have,” it’s harder to convince them to like somebody they don’t like.

You’ve said before that to be a casting director, “It’s great to be obsessive; it’s great to be a worrier.”

I was debating that with a colleague of mine the other day, because I think that’s sort of what burned me out. There are only so many years you wake up in the middle of the night with a pit in your stomach worrying about who’s going to play the part before you start to go nuts. It’s a very detailed job, and there’s a lot to keep under control. Like this reading I’m setting up—we’ve changed the time, and you need to make sure every person knows when and where they need to be...
   And making deals is a very detailed thing. Things can fall apart so easily, and agents don’t always tell you the truth. You need to constantly read between the lines. And everyone thinks they know how to cast actors. Everyone has an opinion. It’s not like you’re in this kind of mysterious profession that nobody quite understands and that everyone thinks what you do is sort of miraculous. I’ve had people come in to me and say, “You know, my daughter doesn’t really like Brad Pitt.” Everyone has strong opinions about what you do, and you’re always afraid that when you say, “Well, I think Joe Blow would be great,” everybody’s going to look at you and say, “Joe Blow?! That idea sucks.” There’s never a movie that I start—with a new director in particular—where I don’t get butterflies. “Oh, gosh, am I going to come up with good ideas this time? Am I going to come up with something new?”

Do you have a favorite casting experience?

Well, one of the most fun things I ever did was Broadway Danny Rose. It was a lot of work, but it was so much fun. I was dipping into so many different worlds—lounge singers and novelty acts and comics.

I remember reading something about how you discovered Nick Apollo Forte—who played Tony Canova—on an album cover.

Well, actually, we were looking everywhere. We’d seen well-known people as well as unknowns, and I asked my assistant, who was new to me, to go over to the Colony Records store and look in the bins of vocalists. She came back with several albums, and Nick Apollo Forte was one of them. You really need to be in New York to cast that kind of movie.

You’ve said a while back that being a casting director is like “being the hostess at a great party.” Is that still true?

Yes, but there’s also the potentially embarrassing feature of it, which is having to introduce people to each other, making sure they’re comfortable. Making sure the director is nice to them, gives them the time they want. Making sure they aren’t embarrassed by running into another person, that kind of thing. You feel very responsible for everybody being happy.