Ode to the Underrepresented Actor

As a language purist (read: snob) I had to follow up The Last Exorcism with The Last Exorcism: Part II because, well… Absurdity.  Did the creator get the same misinformation being fed to the people who made five Final Destination movies?  Do terminal words mean nothing anymore?!

Anyway.  It would seem the creative team got the memo about not employing any black actors in a film set in Louisiana and about the gender disparity, but when it comes down to it: The Last Exorcism: Part II gets a big old You-Missed-The-Point award.  A film filled to the brim with stereotypes about troubled black youth and wise old voodoo healers, topped off with unnecessary sexualization of teenage girls.  Instead of harping on the same old complaints, I thought I’d dedicate this one to the actors who, like me, spent their entire lives pursuing education and training, only to ever be faced with casting breakdowns that feel like a slap in the face.  I call it an Ode to the Underrepresented Actor.


To the little girl who put on plays in her living room,

Only to ever play housewives and princesses waiting for their prince.

To the Black boy who spent every Saturday at the movies,

Only to ever play a convict on the silver screen.

To the Latina who took twelve dance classes a week,

Who can kick her face and rival the athleticism of a football player,

Only to ever play hotel maids and housekeepers on TV.

To the Black girl who spent every dime on a BFA,

Only to get told to sound more “urban” at every audition.

To the Asian boy and girl who moved everything to L.A.,

Only to play ninjas, human calculators, and fetishized young women.

To the gay actors who found acceptance in art,

Only to have art leave them out of the equation unless they’re skinny, white, and sassy.

To the heavy girl who can belt a high G,

Only to ever play the butt of a joke.

To the trans folks who wake up at 4AM each day for open calls,

Only to be turned away while cis actors play them on TV.

To the disabled kids who learned to navigate the stage on wheels,

Only to ever play the object of pity, the token.

To the folks that cultivated art out of their oppression,

Only to have it co-opted and abused.

To the folks who dedicated their lives to something,

Only to have it treat them as a charicature.

I see you.


Mac, out.


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