I know, I know. You’re thinking, “Don’t I recognise that dude from somewhere?” That scaly guy with the lizard lips? No, I’m not Steve Buscemi. I played the titular role in the 1954 movie Godzilla. You might also have seen me this year in Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire.
And what else might you have seen me in? Good question. You see, despite breaking out with a performance described as “larger than life” (LA Times) and “convincingly cold blooded” (Boston Globe), I have since been unable to obtain any roles which showcase the true breadth of my talents.
It’s certainly not for a lack of trying. I’ve auditioned for a grand litany of parts, without any success. My fellow thespians are always complaining that they’re asked to play the nerd, the goofy sidekick or the hardass boss every time. Boy, what I’d give for any one of those gigs!
The only time I receive a call from my agent is when a production requires a green behemoth to stomp around a major metropolitan area. Just take a look at my resumé: Godzilla. Godzilla Returns. Son of Godzilla. Bride of Godzilla. Godzilla vs Kong. Godzilla vs Mothra. Godzilla vs OJ Simpson. Notice a pattern?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that my unusual body type and ability to project reams of white-hot fire have allowed me to make such an iconic role my own. To this day, I can hardly pound my 25-ton frame down Sunset Boulevard without hordes of tourists begging for selfies, mistaking me for that mythical destroyer of civilisations. But I have so much more to give, so much untapped depth. Beneath my sandpapery hide dwells a subtle, soulful artiste.
Sure, with my rows of green scales and cold, unblinking stare I’m no Brad Pitt. I might not have many accents in my locker beyond a primeval roar. But whatever happened to the suspension of disbelief? You’re seriously telling me you bought Jake Gyllenhaal as a Persian Prince, yet you couldn’t even believe me as a henchman, a cop, a barkeep? Throw me a bone here.
I’ve never been anything less than a consummate professional. I’m no diva. Just give me a rock on which to sun myself between takes and I’m happy. As the ultimate apex predator, I’m in good physical shape. I do my own stunts. I’ll gladly go nude - in fact, it’s my default. I’m no stranger to Hollywood and I’ll happily play the game. I’ll be witty and charming at the junkets. I’ll even trade quips on Fallon.
The truth is, I’m really not employable elsewhere. My tiny, flailing arms were not made for typing or waiting tables. All I’m asking for is a shot, a chance to give audiences something magical. If there’s one thing that I am, besides a hulking primordial killing machine, it’s persistent. As long as my four hearts are still beating, I’ll keep sliding headshots under doors.
There shall come a day when my agent will call with a truly great part: Hamlet, or Willy Loman. No longer will I be hopelessly chained to a single character, like Wilson the Volleyball or Rupert Grint. I feel it’s about time I had my Second Act.