Meeting Bryce Pinkham was everything I expected to be: sharp and soulful, with just enough "jelly sandwiches" to keep things delightful.
We talked about Stolas—that bird-adjacent demon with a voice that makes you feel all the tragedy of being emotionally a mess.
Bryce knows Stolas has an impact on us; he’s seen it in the eyes of fans, like one young person who, just before me, shared how the character helped ease their mental health struggles. But voice acting is a job without constant applause. There's no curtain call every night, no emotional feedback loop. It’s a career of quiet influence, sometimes so quiet it’s hard to hear.
With the emotional core of a theater kid, Bryce didn’t set out for the screen. That’s why conventions matter. They’re not just for autographs and selfies—they’re his weekly soul refills. He’s got eight lined up this summer, one each weekend. That’s not a booking frenzy; that’s yearning for connection.
He stressed—twice, with that classic Broadway repetition for emphasis—that he loves voice acting. Really. Loves it. But he’s hungry for something more tactile than screen-time metrics. He needs moments. He’s careful not to sound ungrateful. It’s that actor’s humility: a sort of 'thank you for watching me spiral into demonic royalty, but also… I hope we’re really connecting now.'
And yet, he’s acutely aware of the fickle showbiz shelf life. “One day you’re ‘on top of the world,’ and ten years later, people blink when they hear your name.” He doesn’t say this with bitterness. It’s all perspective. Gratitude laced with realism—not a eulogy, but a heads-up.
The "butterflies" discourse came up. The flutter in your chest before a big moment. I told him how one of his panels unlocked something that now I teach my students about. That feeling, love or exams, which is all natural and beautiful.
We veered toward teaching. Masterclasses—singing, voice coaching, passing on the magic. He’d love to teach more, but there’s no time for a semester course right now. Still, his mentor instincts flicker through. He loves teaching. You can feel it. He’d probably correct your pitch and also make sure you eat lunch.
Then came my question about the "jelly sandwiches" monologue. He hadn’t expected it to be released unbleeped (I'm still not sure it will be). It wouldn't be “appropriate,” he said, face shifting somewhere between amused and politely horrified. He ignores if he signed the rights away unknowingly—classic contract fine-print chaos, I guess. To him, it felt more blooper than broadcast.
We spoke of Brandon, his opposite—on-screen and off. Bryce described him as “sweet” behind closed doors, a performance powerhouse in front of an audience. The phrase “over the top” came from me, and Bryce agreed— completely different energies which translates perfectly in Stolas and Blitzo. He took his time to find the word “magnetic” for them (the characters), the kind that means complicated, intense, necessary.
When it came time to sign one of my high quality art prints, Bryce insisted on a very specific marker—light blue. Not silver. Not black. It had to be perfect. He left the booth to search for it. The line behind me wasn't probably thrilled, but he made the time.
He greets every fan with a chirpy “hoot hoot,” as you can expect from a whimsical owl with a Broadway résumé (Tony nominated!). At the end of our meeting, he said, “Thank YOU for meeting me,” flipping the script in a way that makes you believe he meant it.
And I did.
