Casting changes and chemistry reads: where boundaries start

The news about Billy Crudup being replaced by David Harbour in The Monkey went viral because it happened so late. Two weeks into shooting, chemistry read issues with Theo James led to a recast. Industry Twitter lit up with takes about ego and professionalism, but almost no one asked the more uncomfortable question: what protocols existed for those chemistry tests in the first place?

I’ve sat in on chemistry reads where the director said “just try a kiss” without checking if either actor had been told physical contact was on the table. I’ve watched casting directors ask people to “feel each other out” with zero guidelines about what that meant. The assumption runs deep in film production that once someone walks through the audition room door, their consent to professional intimacy is implied. It isn’t.

The Crudup situation is instructive because it failed at a late stage, which means money was involved and lawyers got loud. But most chemistry read problems don’t make headlines. They happen in pre-production when an actor feels pressured into physical contact during a callback and doesn’t book the job, or books it while carrying unease that colours the entire shoot. They happen when a director interprets “no spark” as a performance problem rather than a protocol gap. The actor who pushes back gets labelled difficult. The actor who stays quiet gets labelled professional. Neither label addresses what went wrong with the process.

Chemistry testing exists because on-screen intimacy requires something real between performers. Fair enough. But the film industry borrowed the term from dating culture without borrowing any of the safeguards that exist in, say, a dance partnership or a stage combat rehearsal. We don’t ask stunt performers to just “figure out the vibe” with a new partner and throw themselves off a building. We choreograph. We call holds. We check in.

The same rigor needs to apply when we’re asking two strangers to generate sexual or romantic energy in a casting room. That means someone needs to outline what physical contact, if any, might be requested before the actors arrive. It means offering the option to simulate rather than make full contact. It means recognizing that “we’re just testing chemistry” is not a magic phrase that bypasses consent conversations. In Europe, where I do most of my work, labor protections increasingly require this transparency. Casting directors in France and Germany now routinely outline physical expectations in breakdowns. North American productions are slower to formalize it, which leaves actors navigating a patchwork of professional norms and personal boundaries with no map.

When chemistry fails, production assumes the problem is the actors. Sometimes it is. But often the problem is that no one designed a scenario where authentic connection could happen safely. A cold reading in a fluorescent casting office with a producer checking email in the corner is not an environment optimized for vulnerability. Adding an unexpected physical demand into that mix doesn’t test chemistry. It tests who’s willing to override their discomfort faster.

This connects directly to intimacy coordination work. The reason intimacy coordinators exist on set is that we finally acknowledged physical scenes need structure, not just spontaneity. Chemistry reads are physical scenes. They happen earlier in the production timeline, but the vulnerability dynamics are identical—arguably more intense, because the actor hasn’t been hired yet and their economic survival depends on pleasing the people in the room. If we accept that a kissing scene in Act Two needs choreography and consent protocols, the logic extends backward. The chemistry test for that role needs them too.

Some directors resist this because they believe structure kills spontaneity. It doesn’t. It kills coercion. Spontaneity happens when people feel safe enough to take risks. A violinist doesn’t lose artistry because they tune their instrument first. Protocols aren’t creativity’s enemy. Unclear expectations are.

The Harbour recasting worked out because the production had resources to absorb the disruption. Most don’t. Most chemistry failures at the callback stage mean someone’s quietly cut from consideration, and the pattern repeats until someone willing to override their boundaries gets cast. That person might deliver a great performance. They might also spend the shoot managing unspoken resentment that leaks into every scene. Neither outcome serves the film.

1. Outline physical contact expectations in casting breakdowns before actors walk in the room, not as a surprise during the read.
2. Offer simulation options for chemistry tests involving touch—if actors can’t generate connection through a simulated kiss, the issue isn’t chemistry, it’s direction.
3. Recognize that “no chemistry” might mean “no safety”—before recasting, examine whether the testing environment allowed authentic connection to emerge.

The film industry talks endlessly about trust between collaborators, but trust isn’t built by asking people to prove their professionalism through boundary erosion. It’s built by designing processes where boundaries are respected as the foundation, not the obstacle. Chemistry reads will keep happening. The question is whether we’ll keep treating them as informal, anything-goes interactions, or start recognizing them as the high-stakes, high-vulnerability moments they actually are. Harbour and James apparently found what Crudup and James couldn’t. Good for them. Better would be a system where we know why.

Todd Max Carey — Seven Journeys