How Matthew Rhys Stays Hungry
The Welsh charmer Matthew Rhys, a RADA-trained actor who first broke out as a likable gay lawyer on the ABC family drama “Brothers and Sisters,” confirmed his status as one of the great leading men on television in 2013, when he landed the role of a gloomy, sensitive Russian spy on the FX series “The Americans.” Over six seasons, “The Americans”—a deep meditation on marriage and intimacy as well as global politics—evolved into TV’s most ambitious, wig-packed, and realistically sexy drama, scoring Rhys an Emmy for Best Actor. It changed his life in other ways, too: he fell in love with his co-star Keri Russell, with whom he now has a ten-year-old son.
In 2020, Rhys pulled on a beaten-up fedora to play another gloomy, sensitive man, the detective turned lawyer Perry Mason, on HBO’s beautifully crafted update of the noir-ish classic. Over the past year, in a startling one-two punch, Rhys broke out all over again, in a contrasting duet of roles: first, he played the white-toothed, sociopathic real-estate magnate Niles Jarvis in “The Beast in Me,” and then, the hapless, hopeful Mayor Tom Loftis on “Widow’s Bay,” a single father who’s determined to re-brand his cursed New England island as the new Bar Harbor.
When I first met Rhys, while I was reporting a Profile of Russell, he was midway through filming “Widow’s Bay” off the coast of Massachusetts—and, over drinks, he perseverated about whether the show’s rare, risky mix of horror and comedy would click with audiences. When we spoke again last week, a day after the series was picked up for a second season, it was clear the gamble had paid off. In an age of snoozy, formulaic throwbacks, “Widow’s Bay”—written by Katie Dippold, of “Parks and Recreation,” and directed by Hiro Murai, of “Atlanta”—is by far this season’s standout début, a confident blend of genres that trusts viewers to absorb its blend of spook-show jolts, black humor, granular propwork and humane drama. The series is anchored by Rhys’s touching portrayal of a a decent, damaged man who is haunted—literally—by the knowledge that his island is afflicted with, among other things, killer clowns, a succubus-like “hag” and a venerable legacy of cannibalism and witch-hunts. (“A source of great pride! We caught ’em, we burned ’em,” the town historian brags.) In this week’s terrific finale, big secrets are revealed—a few of which are very mildly spoiled in this interview, so I recommend that you binge the show, stat.
Rhys and I chatted over Zoom while he was in Florence, Italy, on a “bit of a family outing” with Russell and their son. We discussed his Sad Sam eyes, his Welsh acting hero Richard Burton, and the subtle power of gobbling a whole chicken onscreen. Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
Since we saw one another, back when I was writing about Keri, you’ve had an incredible run—first “The Beast in Me,” then “Widow’s Bay.”
This could be it!
I was reading old interviews, and, in one, somebody asked, about your 2008 Dylan Thomas movie, “Is this your big breakthrough?” And you said, People keep telling me that about various projects, I can’t think like that.
No, I can’t. And Tom Hanks always—and, I’m sorry, that’s a flagrant name drop—but he always says, his big motto is “This, too, shall pass.” Regardless of the success or the failure, it’s always applicable.
When we last met, you were pretty worried about how people would perceive the tone of “Widow’s Bay,” that unusual mixture of comedy and horror.
Yes, I’m relieved—I think relief is the highest form of happiness, isn’t it? And I wasn’t alone, you know. I know Katie [Dippold, the showrunner] and Hiro [Murai, who directed five episodes] felt, like, This is a tough tone to pitch, a tough one to land. So I’m just relieved that people get it. Hiro and Katie were, like, Let’s not play it as a comedy or a horror story. Let’s just make it into a real world and play for real. And, you know—we’ll try and imbue the rest of it with music!
Katie said her Zoom with you convinced her to cast you.
Yes, I’ve always wanted to go to Katie and ask, What was it that convinced you? Because I just felt like it was a chat. I wasn’t cracking jokes or being particularly scared. It’s just my normal disposition. We talked about Tom, and she said, I want people to have real backstories so that it feels richer. And having seen “Atlanta,” I knew what capable hands Hiro’s are. He is incredibly deft at doing that thing of, you know, living in quite polar extremes, but in a very real place—so you knew the helmsman was very sound.
Which scenes were you concerned about?
Oh, God, there’s a lot. You know, my first scene with Stephen Root [who plays Wyck, a local with deep knowledge of the island’s lore] was when he sang the sea chantey. I mean, I love Stephen Root. I was lucky enough to do “Perry Mason” with him. And so all I could remember was, like, him as this Southern-gentleman lawyer—and then in walks Robert Shaw in “Jaws.” And Hiro said, “O.K., let’s rehearse one scene, just sing him the chantey.” And no one had told me what that chantey scene was like, so Root was going [he lustily imitates the loud, ooh-ing, caterwauling howl of the chantey]. So I was, like, what the fuck is going on? Like, is this Root playing with me, or is this the real thing?
I remember asking Hiro, Am I disgusted? Am I frustrated? What is it with him in this moment? Do I care? And he’s, like, No—and then he started building the complexity of Loftis’s relationship to the island. It’s, like, “Remember that your father’s from the island. You came here as a kid for the summers—you heard these stories, so your relationship to all this is very complicated. You can’t quite dismiss it easily, because you’re in danger of losing everyone you know—you have to curry favor with the locals to succeed. You have to indulge them. And there are elements of the island that are true, so you kind of will yourself to make it work, putting blinkers on.” So I remember at that moment thinking, This is going to be more complicated than I anticipated.
And then, you know, Episode 5, being on mushrooms. I was constantly going, Is this right? Is this too much? And the slapstick with the painting, that was a big one. Meeting Hamish [Linklater, who plays the centuries-old, undead founder of Widow’s Bay] for the first time: how ludicrous is this moment? And it was the same: “No, just play it for real, play it real.”
Have you taken mushrooms?
No, I don’t think so.
I like the little caveat—Well, not mushrooms. I always wonder how people play high. What’s the method for that?
For that one, I literally watched people on LSD on YouTube and kind of mimicked—I try not to do that, but I mimicked things—little things that made me laugh, the way they would turn their heads. So, yeah, YouTube is the great salvation of active research these days. Gone are the days when you’d go somewhere with a tape recorder—a cassette recorder, as I used to say!
What did you use a cassette recorder for?
I remember when I left drama school, at twenty-one, there was no way you could get a very specific accent. I remember going into this place in Derbyshire on the train, with a tape recorder, and staying in hostels and recording locals, kind of trying to get as many hours of the dialect down as possible before being punched in the face.
By people you were recording?
Yeah, you’d have to lie and say you were press covering a local story. What I realized is if you say you’re an actor and “Could I hear your dialect?,” people freeze up. And if they’re very aware of the dialect, then you’ve lost it.
What was the philosophy of your drama school, RADA? I know it’s this élite place.
Well, we had a New York acting teacher who was taught by Uta Hagen. So it was Stella Adler—the whole Brando line, right? We were raised heavily with that kind of methodology.
What does that mean specifically?
I think occasionally it’s misinterpreted as the Method, but to me it’s not. It’s a method. But it actually means you don’t have to pretend you are that person at all. And what you’re doing is breaking down the script, very . . . Oh, God, what’s the word I’m looking for? It’ll come back to me. This is very annoying.
It’s O.K. “Analyze,” “deconstruct”?
Yes, in a very analytical way, it’s broken down into beats, sections. You figure out what your super-objective is, your scenic objectives, scenic obstacles. So you’re building all these layers that give the bones a lot of meat, and then if there’s a big emotional moment, you start building in your sense memories, your triggers. It stops you from floundering; you don’t necessarily need it. Sometimes I don’t need it, and that’s fine!
You’ve said that your approach to acting has changed. That you no longer go full Brando.
Well, yes, I’m about to compare myself to Brando!
Go for it! Do a Brando imitation.
It’s more that in my twenties I was kind of obsessed by it because I thought, This is the work, and The work is your armor, and If you do the work then you’ll be fine, you’re bulletproof. And I just think it becomes second nature, the breaking down—you start doing it instinctively in your head. And then, you know, all the notes start to go away, the copious note-taking. You just read the script and give yourself over to the magic circumstances. Or, as John Candy said in that beautiful documentary, I just pretend.
Tell me about the development of Niles Jarvis in “The Beast in Me” and Tom Loftis in “Widow’s Bay.” They’re such different characters.
You know, sometimes now, I’ve become cheap—a cheap shot. In that, when I read Niles Jarvis, I said, I’m just gonna steal stuff from Anthony Hopkins in “Silence of the Lambs.” I’m going to be a little still, intimidating in my open stillness. A whole generation hasn’t seen “Silence of the Lambs,” I can get away with this shit! So I blatantly just stole—I was, like, Oh, that’ll translate well. A lot of it was on the page anyway. It’s certainly not based on this, but it has a kind of residue of “The Jinx” to me.
My concern was it would become arch very quickly. You know, he’s disarming in his honesty— but if you put too much on that, it could become arch. So I was doing that filter in my head, going “Steady, steady in the ranks.” [He’s distracted by a telescope behind me.]
What do you look at with that telescope?
Oh, that’s my son’s. This is just the one place we can do Zooms.
I mean, it’s pretty good—the art work and the telescope.
It’s homemade—my husband and the kids took tennis balls and dipped them in paint and dropped them out the window. Are your kids into art?
You know, at the risk of sounding pretentious, we’re in Florence, so I’m desperately, desperately, trying—and I suppose my son smells it, the desperation on me! So he’s, like, “No, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to look at stupid art.” And when I finally drag him to something, he’s, like, “This isn’t art! I could do this.”
Oh, no, he’s an elderly curmudgeon.
I took him to see a Rothko exhibition and he was, like, “This isn’t art at all. I don’t know why he’s famous or why we’re here.”
What does he like?
Wrestling!
I’m sorry he’s missing the U.F.C. tournament.
Yeah, I didn’t even talk to him about that.
How old is he now?
Ten.
Do you guys follow the Knicks?
He does! And he explains to me the rules of basketball—so he was, I suppose, angry that he wasn’t in New York when that happened, so he could have stayed up late and watched it in real time.
It’s different from when you grew up in Wales.
To me, when I read “Widow’s Bay,” I was, like, This is Wales. Like, sixty-five per cent of the country is coastline. An enormous amount of the population live in small coastal towns. My mother was from there—we lived in one for a while. She’s from a seafaring family, where you throw a stone and there’s a myth or a legend.
What kind of legends?
Oh, God, well, as kids we were raised with these ancient tales called the Mabinogion. And there’s four branches of the Mabinogi, and they’re wildly dense myths about different parts of Wales. There was a princess who turned into flowers, and you know, the only way her husband could be killed was if he had one foot on a trough and the other on a goat, and he was killed by a special silver spear.
One side of your family is farmers, and the other is—
Correct, correct. One side is farmers, one side is seafarers.
You brought your son to your family’s farm, right?
He loved it. He loved it, and it just felt wild to him because he gets to ride a motorbike and herd cattle and feed them. It feels lawless because you get to ride around seemingly doing whatever you want with these amazing, amazing vistas! And I hope it gave him this sense of, This is where I come from, if you know what I mean. These are my roots, these are where Granddad was raised.
Do you still speak Welsh to him?
I do, I do. Very much so. He’s still trying to keep that. Although as the conversations become more convoluted or complicated, he does say, Can you say that in English now? Which still breaks my heart.
Do you wish you lived in Wales?
You know, I have these nostalgic moments, usually when I’m in my cups, that I’m, like, What if we return to the old country, now that we’ve left Europe? No, I don’t, but—yes and no. I suffer very badly from a heavy pair of rose-tinted glasses, or, you know, “grass is always greener.”
I know there’s this Welsh expression about mourning for the past, or—
Hiraeth. It’s mourning for something that can never be again.
That’s beautiful. Why do you think you play so many sad men?
I don’t know if you’ve read this, but I met a plastic surgeon in L.A. once, and he went, Oh, are you Irish? I said no. Scottish? I said no. And then he goes, Where are you from? I said Welsh, he went, Oh, the other Celt—and, yeah! [He touches his eyes.] It’s the Celtic lids. I have the Sad Sam eyes, you know. We joke that it rains so much in Wales, you’re always going like this. [He frowns dramatically.] Or you’re so downtrodden by the English, you’re also going, Oh, please give us a break. My resting face is downtrodden.
I’d read that story but I didn’t realize it was a plastic surgeon!
Yeah, and then he offered to help me out so I looked less Celtic!
What did you say to him?
“I'm good, thanks.” I said, “When it starts affecting my eyesight, if I feel like I’m in a tunnel constantly, or I feel I’m in the eaves of a roof, I might call you. At the moment, I can see pretty well.”
I find that an insane thing for him to say. Like, what, you walk around L.A. negging actors?
I mean, I felt like he was half joking, but half not. Do you know what I mean? Like, if I said, O.K., yeah, let me come in, he’d be, like, Crap, this is not going to be good.
Yeah, don’t do that! So tell me about Tom Loftis. How did you develop that character? Maybe it’s less of a reach than Niles Jarvis.
Yeah, it felt like people I knew. It reminds me of my friend’s dad, so I have him in mind when I’m walking. He’s kind of an amalgamation of a few people I know.
Name these people specifically and describe what they’re like. What is your friend’s dad like?
Oh, he’s lovely, and I love him! I really love him dearly, but he’s always slightly exasperated—like, Oh, God, what’s wrong now? So I can’t name him. But do you know what I mean? In a slight hurry, and you’re always just, like, What are you in a hurry for? There’s nothing to do! Like my father, he’s a school principal.
I loved the finale, and particularly the beautiful conversation with Ruth, which, to me, really grounded the show in something grander, more philosophical. It felt surprisingly profound in terms of bringing in these larger themes: “Well, life itself is a horror show.” Tell me a little bit about the filming of that scene—and your facial expression when you learn the truth about your son.
First of all, when I read it, I was, like, Wow, I was not expecting that at all. And, like you, I loved it. This puts the show in an incredible place—and, hopefully, tees up Season 2 magnificently. K Callan [who plays Ruth] is a force of nature; she had far more stamina than I did, because we took a long time. We took days over that scene. We tweaked it quite significantly, as well. It’s funny, because I always try to sit in the moment—but at the more horrific moments of the piece, I become aware, like, Is my face too much? Like, with the clown attacking, you know—
Is it possible to overreact to a clown barreling into a crawl space? But you worried about overdoing it.
And then I remember having this moment with K, I was, like, Am I just doing horror? Am I still doing “horror reactions”? Funnily enough, it’s the first time I was on more familiar territory, just straight drama—and heavy, too. I remember seeing Hiro at the end, and I was, like, I thought I signed up for a comedy! That’s more emotion than I’ve run through since “The Americans.” That was a lot.
When you say you ran through emotions—this sounds like a dumb question, but do you feel these emotions as you play them?
I do, I do try! And I was very cognizant of it, because you want this final scene to land in a very real place—and if there’s any falseness to the culmination, you won’t get that gear change. So, yes, I did my homework on this scene and set up my emotional triggers, to try to trigger real things that have happened.
What things are you talking about, and how did you cue them up?
It’s hard. You do these prep sessions where you find the right sense memory. All the hard stuff from the past.
Childhood stuff?
A little, a little—it can be the more potent stuff, but whatever works. And sometimes it’s weird, since memory can be a little . . . ethereal. Sometimes you catch it very clearly and other times you think, Oh, this will work, and then you go, That’s not working at all.
Like, you use a different memory?
I’ll try and link it to a memory similar to what’s happening in the scene. You lie down and you take yourself back. And then you go through every moment as presently, in as much detail as possible, up to that moment you think is going to be the sense-memory trigger—what can upset you if you think about it. Sometimes, if you do it a couple of times, you’re, like, That’s not firing for some reason. And you go, Let me try something else that’s a similar emotion. It’s about something else, but that’ll work.
Emotions of shock?
Yeah, or grief. And you might use an old breakup instead of something grief-based, but it just works.
I read an early interview where you described your worst fears as rats and failure. Are those still your worst fears?
I still hate rats, yeah.
Why?
I don’t know, and I don’t know where it comes from, either. An irrational fear—but when I see them in New York, at night, it has a very jarring effect.
How about failure?
Yeah, I think that goes—I was about to say it goes hand in hand with acting, but I know several people from different professions have the same fear. I just remember my parents going, Well, if the acting doesn’t work out, what are you gonna do? And I went, I don’t know.
How old were you?
Eighteen—before I went to drama school. They gave me low odds. And then they were, like, Oh shit, you’ve got in.
What did they want you to do instead?
Well, in fairness to them, it’s not that they never wanted me to—I just think they had great concern about the insecurity of the profession! They’re great champions of the arts. They really are. They pushed us as kids to do a lot, culturally, growing up, and they’re musicians themselves—but that was always a hobby.
You’ve described Wales as a place where everybody performs all the time.
Well, there’s this ancient pre-Christian festival twice a year called the Eisteddfod. One is specifically for the youth, and one is youth and adults. And every year, you compete in singing, poetry, recital, dance—there’s poetry writing in a very ancient meter. All the kids are kicked onto a stage at some point in their childhood.
What made you turn that into a profession?
I did a school performance as Elvis when I was seventeen. The production was good, the reaction was good, and I was just, like . . . I wonder if I could. I just remember being onstage, loving it, feeling very comfortable—and that’s when I applied for drama school.
Tell me a little bit about your relationship with the major Welsh stars—Richard Burton, and, in a different way, Dylan Thomas. You’ve played them both.
Yeah, it’s funny—Michael Sheen had taken over the National Theatre, and he was, like, You’ve got to come and do something. I was, like, I’ve got no time! And he was, like, Well, come and do a fund-raiser, do a one-man show. And last year was the centenary celebrations of Richard Burton. So I went and did this show called “Playing Burton,” and then the final performance was in Richard Burton’s chapel, in front of his family—which was kind of terrifying. But Burton meant a lot to me growing up. I started watching his films at an early age. I was thirteen, fourteen—I remember seeing “Look Back in Anger” and going, Oh, my God. And then my dad saying, Well, he was Welsh. And I was, like, Wait, what?
And I started reading about him. I read Melvyn Bragg’s “Rich,” and I was blown away because he seemed so un-Welsh. He was like a professional Welshman! He couldn’t have been more proud of being Welsh. And yet his self-confidence was a kind of hubris. There are Welsh people who are almost violently, aggressively confident. Probably overcompensating, I’m sure. But he was—you know, Welsh people don’t outbid Ari Onassis for diamonds! I was, like, who was this person? He was a true movie star, and to me, it kind of said, You Welsh people are allowed. He was, like, I’m gonna go to Hollywood. I’ll conquer it on my own terms. And he did.
Then, obviously, you had Anthony Hopkins. His acting abilities are beyond. Ironically, Hopkins grew up around the corner from Burton, in a small town, Port Talbot. And then we all kind of followed suit. Michael Sheen went; we all went. We’re like, O.K., we’re allowed, we can go. It gave me a kind of secret confidence that I’ve always thanked him for.
Most Americans don’t know a lot about Wales. What do people misunderstand?
We’re the smallest Celtic country. Scotland and Ireland have always had incredibly robust heritage, storytelling, and literature. We were, like, the little engine that almost couldn’t. It does a number of things. It gives you small-country syndrome. It gives a massive chip on your shoulder. But, also, the second you start thinking you’re, as they say, above your station, God help you. Because you always appreciate those who succeed with modesty and a kind of humbleness, I think.
I was watching your old movies in preparation for this. I couldn’t find the Julie Taymor movie “Titus,” which was frustrating.
Yeah, that was a huge moment for me, getting to work with Hopkins. And to watch him do that performance in Rome, and to still see his insecurities, that was kind of sobering.
How so? He talked about feeling insecure about it?
Yeah, because he hadn’t done Shakespeare in, oh, a decade or more. And if you’ve read his book, he talks very openly about his turbulent relationship with theatre—specifically the English theatre, the National Theatre—and how acrimonious it was when he left. You know, there’s some things that just put a hook in you and never leave you. And sometimes a role will present itself that can bring those up.
If you could only do either theatre, film, or TV, what would you do?
Oh, that’s a very hard question. I mean, I haven’t been onstage in about sixteen years. Last year, that was, like— I’ve never felt terror like it. To do a one-man show as your first act after sixteen years was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. But I realized how much I love it. I absolutely loved being on stage.
But I do love television. Don’t get me wrong, I was raised on film, but what I love about television is the true luxury of time—this sweeping real estate of being able to develop a character over a season and, God forbid, seasons! “The Americans” was something I'll never experience again. And to have that over six seasons, the challenges within it and the variety within it . . . The writing!
Have you seen what’s happening online? There’s a Twitter craze going on where people pull up clips from “The Americans,” I think because of the popularity of “Widow’s Bay.” So there’s an analysis of the tiniest elements of the show—it’s very gratifying.
I might have a peek on Twitter, chime in.
Whenever I hear you talk about it, it does sound like you want to do theatre.
I definitely do. I’d love to do “Playing Burton” again. And there’s this Welsh version of “Braveheart” that I have been struggling to get made for about fifteen years. It’s the story of the last Welsh prince called Owain Glyndŵr, or Owen Glendower as he’s known in the Shakespeare play.
Do you feel like a New Yorker?
I do, I do. Weirdly. Yes, I do. And when, I don’t know if you’ve seen that meme—and forgive me, popular culture isn’t my forte.
It’s J. Lo.
Yes, that’s her—where you’re not a New Yorker if you’re not born here? And I was, like, O.K., but I’ve been here eighteen years now. And when the Knicks won, the celebrations made me feel like a New Yorker. There’s this one incredible guy going “my mayor is Muslim”—who is he?
It was a random guy—but, also, connected to a brand. So some people got pissed off about that, but it was still great. “My mayor Muslim, my bagel Jewish, my Christian Dior, Knicks in four.”
What brand was it?
A sports drink or something? I’m sorry, I ruined the meme for you.
It doesn’t matter because regardless, it is true to his prophecy. And I felt an inherent pride in that, that we do live in this beautifully diverse city.
Do you still audition?
Yeah, I do, I just went—the year before last.
How do you feel about the audition process?
It’s horrible. It's still horrible. I knew it was good—and I was really glad I did it because it humbled me again. I didn’t get a job, I felt shitty and it made me hungry and angry again and I said, Fuck you, I will work eight times as hard now for the next job. It’s good to be humiliated. Not in—I’m sorry.
No, I know what you mean!
It lit a fire again. Like, with a lot of actors, it’s “offer only.” But, if you want something, audition for it. The director’s not sure you can do it? Prove to him that you can! I couldn’t. But next time I will.
I know that you met with the Broccolis about James Bond, a long while back. Are there big roles you missed?
Well, the one I auditioned for—my agents would probably kill me for saying this—it was the Bob Dylan movie. Not for Chalamet’s role; for Ed Norton’s. So when I found out Ed Norton got it, I was, like, Oh, O.K., fine—that felt much better.
I can completely see you playing that.
Oh, thanks. Yeah, it still hurts.
I’d read that you have this Welsh slogan: “Just keep hitting, and the rock will break”? Is that what you’re talking about?
“Dyfal donc a dyr y garreg,” yeah. That’s the one I used to say to my son when he gets frustrated. You just gotta keep chipping away at the rock.
Where does that come from?
It’s a very old Welsh proverb. The other one is “You were born with two ears and one mouth, so listen twice as much as you speak.”
Tell me about eating that chicken in “The Beast in Me.”
Ah, I loved it. I tell you who I think eats incredibly well onscreen, is Brad Pitt. Because no one really eats onscreen anymore. And it’s a bug of mine. So, I’m always, like, if you eat, you have to commit one hundred per cent. So yeah, I just starved myself all day and they cooked these beautiful roast chickens. I was, like, This isn’t a problem for me! I’ll go as many times as you want! So, yeah, I enjoyed it. What I enjoy is an opportunity to try and say something visually, in a subtler way. It was a stage direction.
Just “eats a whole chicken”?
It was an active word that you wouldn’t associate eating a chicken with. Not “ravenously”—more eloquent.
And what did it get across?
That he’s unafraid to eat that way in front of her. He’s, like, “I don't fucking care you’re watching me eat this in the way I am—I’m unapologetic.” And there’s something a little animal to it. ♦