It was a crisp evening in Los Angeles, the kind of night where the stars in the sky seemed to compete with the ones walking the red carpet. Nelly Furtado sat in the back of a sleek black car, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze steady. She wasn’t new to this world—the flashing lights, the whispers behind closed doors, the power plays. But tonight, she felt a heaviness that no designer dress or diamond necklace could lift.
Her driver pulled up to a towering glass building in the heart of Hollywood. She stepped out, her heels clicking against the pavement, and entered the elevator that would take her to the penthouse. She’d been invited to a “private meeting” with a well-known producer. Her manager had insisted it was a golden opportunity—a chance to discuss a lead role in a major film.
But Nelly wasn’t naive. She’d heard the stories, the ones whispered at industry parties and hinted at in the tabloids. She’d seen the toll this world could take on those who weren’t careful, who didn’t know how to say no.
The elevator doors opened, revealing a lavish penthouse suite. The producer, a man whose name carried weight in every corner of Hollywood, greeted her with a wide smile and a glass of champagne.
“Nelly, it’s an honor,” he said, his voice smooth but his eyes too calculating. “You’re a rare talent. A star. And this role… it’s made for you.”
She accepted the glass but didn’t drink. “Thank you. I’m excited to hear more about it.”
They talked for a while, about the script, the character, the vision. But then the conversation shifted. His tone changed, becoming less professional, more personal. He leaned closer, his hand brushing hers.
“You know,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “in this town, it’s not just about talent. It’s about relationships. Connections. Trust. And I can make your career soar, Nelly. All I ask is a little… understanding.”
Nelly set her glass down, her heart pounding but her face calm. She’d prepared for this, rehearsed what she’d say if this moment ever came.
“I appreciate your interest in my career,” she said, her voice steady. “But no one can buy my love, or my integrity. If my talent isn’t enough, then this isn’t the right project for me.”
The producer’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of irritation. “You’re making a mistake,” he said, his tone sharp. “Do you know how many women would kill for this opportunity?”
“I’m sure there are many,” she replied, rising to her feet. “But I’m not one of them. Thank you for your time.”
She walked out, her head held high, her steps sure. The elevator ride down felt like a release, each floor taking her further from the suffocating pressure of that room.
When she stepped back into the car, she let out a long breath. She knew the decision might cost her the role, maybe even future opportunities. But she also knew she’d kept something far more important: her self-respect.
As the car pulled away from the glittering lights of Hollywood, Nelly looked out the window, a small smile playing on her lips. She’d always believed in her music, in her voice, in her ability to tell stories that mattered. And tonight, she’d proven to herself that her principles were just as strong.
Hollywood might have its rituals, its casting couches, its whispered ultimatums. But Nelly Furtado wasn’t playing by their rules. She had her own song to sing, and no one was going to silence her.
Les Grossman’s Casting Couch Tirade
Les Grossman stormed into the studio conference room, his trademark sunglasses perched on his nose and a cigar clamped between his teeth. The room fell silent as the infamous producer threw his hands in the air, his booming voice reverberating off the walls.
“Let me tell you something, you soft, overcaffeinated latte-drinkers! You think you can make a blockbuster without me? You think you can cast the next big star without my golden gut instinct? WRONG!”
He slammed his fists on the table, causing several interns to jump.
“You NEED me on that casting couch! You WANT me on that casting couch! You sit there in your designer chairs, sipping on your overpriced kombucha, and you have the AUDACITY to question my methods? Let me break it down for you: I’m the guy who turned a no-name into a megastar. I’m the guy who can spot a talent from a mile away, even if they’re covered in Cheeto dust and working the late shift at a gas station!”
Les paced the room, his cigar smoke trailing behind him like a warpath.
“Do you know why? Because I don’t just see actors. I see LEGENDS. I see the next Cruise, the next Streep, the next damn Hemsworth! And you think you can just replace me with some algorithm or focus group? HELL NO! Casting is an art, not a science, and I’m Picasso with a freakin’ megaphone!”
He pointed a finger at the executives sitting at the head of the table.
“You want safe choices? You want to play it cool and cast some TikTok influencer with zero charisma? Fine. But don’t come crying to me when your little indie darling flops harder than a fish out of water. Because when the chips are down and the lights are on, I’m the guy who delivers. I’m the guy who knows what the audience wants before THEY even know it!”
Les took a deep breath, his voice lowering but no less intense.
“You sit there and judge me because I’m loud, because I’m brash, because I don’t give a damn about your feelings. But deep down, you know I’m right. You NEED me on that couch, making the tough calls, taking the risks, and creating magic. So, either get on board, or get the hell out of my way.”
He straightened his tie, took one last puff of his cigar, and turned to leave.
“And one more thing,” he said, pausing at the door. “If you want to make a hit, you don’t just need a producer. You need a damn miracle worker. And guess what? That’s me.”
With that, Les Grossman stormed out, leaving the room in stunned silence.
Rabbi Joseph and Les Grossman: A Heated Encounter
Setting: A private dining room at an upscale Los Angeles restaurant. Rabbi Joseph, a dignified man in his 40s, sits calmly at the head of the table, his hands folded in front of him. Across from him, Les Grossman slouches in his chair, sunglasses on, chomping a cigar. The tension in the room is palpable.
Rabbi Joseph: (calm but firm) Mr. Grossman, do you know why I asked to meet with you today?
Les Grossman: (leaning back) Rabbi, if this is about some charity gala or one of those “ethics in Hollywood” seminars, let me stop you right there. I don’t do kumbaya sessions.
Rabbi Joseph: (shaking his head) No, Les. This isn’t about charity or ethics workshops. This is about you. About the shame you bring to our people.
Les Grossman: (raising an eyebrow) Shame? Rabbi, I’m a Hollywood legend. People line up to kiss the ground I walk on.
Rabbi Joseph: (leaning forward) And that is precisely the problem. You have taken the gifts of our heritage—the intellect, the creativity, the drive—and twisted them into tools for greed, debauchery, and vanity. You are a disgrace, Les.
Les Grossman: (snorting) Oh, come on. Hollywood’s just business, Rabbi. Big, messy, profitable business. You want to call that shameful? Fine. But last time I checked, shame doesn’t pay for private jets.
Rabbi Joseph: (his voice rising) Hollywood, as you call it, has become a synagogue of Satan, a den of vipers where truth is traded for lies and virtue is mocked as weakness. And you, Mr. Grossman, are one of its chief architects.
Les Grossman: (mockingly) Oh, here we go. Fire and brimstone. Let me guess—next you’ll tell me I’m personally responsible for every bad movie ever made.
Rabbi Joseph: (sternly) Not every bad movie, but for perpetuating a culture that glorifies materialism and debases the soul. You wield influence, Les, but instead of using it to uplift, you drag people down. You glorify the worst instincts in humanity.
Les Grossman: (leaning forward, his tone sharp) Listen, Rabbi. I didn’t sign up to be a saint. I’m in the business of entertainment, not salvation. If people want to throw their money at explosions, scandals, and cheap thrills, that’s their choice. Don’t blame me for giving them what they want.
Rabbi Joseph: (pointing a finger) That is where you are wrong. You do not merely reflect the desires of the masses; you shape them. With every decision you make, you teach people what to value. And right now, you teach them to worship idols of fame and fortune.
Les Grossman: (gritting his teeth) You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see the machine for what it is? But let me tell you something, Rabbi. This machine doesn’t stop. It eats people alive. I just figured out how to ride it instead of getting crushed.
Rabbi Joseph: (softly) And in doing so, you have lost your way. You have forgotten who you are and the values you were raised with. Our people have suffered for centuries to bring light into the world, not darkness.
Les Grossman: (pausing, his bravado faltering for a moment) Look, Rabbi. I didn’t set out to be anyone’s role model. I’m just trying to survive, same as anyone else.
Rabbi Joseph: (standing) Survival is not enough, Les. Not for us. We are called to be more—to be a light unto the nations. Until you understand that, you will remain lost, no matter how much wealth or power you accumulate.
Rabbi Joseph picks up his coat and hat, leaving Les alone with his thoughts. For once, the infamous producer is silent, his cigar forgotten in his hand.