Mescal, 28, has, in just four short years, established himself as one of the finest actors of his generation. In my estimation, he’s the most naturalistic. He possesses a very rare and specific brand of masculinity, both solid—thanks, in part, to years playing Gaelic football—and vulnerable. He cries beautifully.
By which I mean something of the opposite: big, ugly, unselfconscious tears. His roles, including his out-of-thin-air breakout as bookish jock Connell in Normal People; a lonely gay party boy in the fantasy drama All of Us Strangers; and an astounding turn as a depressed young father in Aftersun, for which he earned an Oscar nomination last year at the tender age of 26, often feature brooding, weeping, or a combination of both. When I ask him to describe a through line between the characters he’s played, he says, “People who want to be something so much but don’t have the instrument to play that kind of music.”
In internet parlance, those characters have been summed up as “sad and sexy.” Under our tree, we have a laugh at this, but he also wonders: Who the hell watches a movie like Aftersun, where his character Calum is so wounded and adrift and struggling with a mountain of pain, and thinks, Sexy!
“Watch lists for those people,” he jokes. “Big-time watch lists.”
To be fair: Twice, he’s read a script where a character’s face has been described as “sad” and, twice, he’s gotten that role. It can be jarring to realize that Mescal is technically younger than fellow 28-year-old Timothée Chalamet because he tends to play, and even carry himself, older; in Aftersun he was wholly believable as the father to an 11-year-old daughter. What is it? “Genetics? A bad skin routine?” he theorizes. He is handsome in the way your most handsome friend is handsome, and this, in turn, is part of what makes him such a believable actor and object of desire. If our century is defined by artifice and disconnect, Mescal grounds us back to the human.
Daisy Edgar-Jones, his co-lead on Normal People and one of Mescal’s best friends, told me that “Paul’s always been really okay in his skin in a really wonderful way.”
Andrew Haigh, who directed Mescal in the heartbreaker that was All of Us Strangers, also alluded to this innate comfort. “He’s always exploring and trying to dig deeper and find the truth of every single scene that he does. But he does it with a real ease,” Haigh said. “Some actors can be so tortured, and he’s not tortured. He does it with a sort of curiosity rather than any kind of painful investigation.”
I have interviewed enough young actors at this point that it’s almost easier to describe Mescal by saying what he is not. He is not tormented by fame or visibly aggravated by its responsibilities. He is not trying to prove how smart he is; not on some kind of oily charm offensive. He possesses neither arrogance nor false humility. In short: a cool guy, a good hang.
The last time I talked to Mescal was in 2020, at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic and after Normal People—with its genuine, unvarnished depictions of emotion and sex and emotional sex—had, quite literally overnight, made him a household name. Our conversation was, out of necessity, entirely over Zoom, and he was deep into a multi-month press cycle during which he had to answer some version of “What was it like working with an intimacy coordinator?” hundreds of times over. He was 24 then and seemed to be chafing under his new visibility.
Since then, he’s traveled through his 20s, one of the most acutely felt periods of change in life, with all the attendant growth and loss, but at a magnified scale. “I look back at myself at 24, he’s a different guy,” Mescal says. “Everything was still so ideal in my head. I was so deeply uncynical at that age. I don’t mean happier in the broad sense, but it was kind of the montage sequence of, everything’s rosy in the garden. But also the other side of it has always been available to me. I understand the psychological landscape of the characters that I play and that isn’t just from reading the script, it’s from inside you somewhere.”
He has worked steadily and meticulously since Normal People. If there is a method, it has been to follow his taste. “I weirdly enjoy the intensity of the way my brain works,” he says. “That’s why I think I function better when I’m at work than when I’m between jobs.” (While we’re on the topic of work ethic, he brings up something else: “Maybe my toxic trait is, I don’t believe in work-at-home Friday.” I gently point out that Paul Mescal, movie star, is not exactly a job you can do from home on Fridays anyway.)
“My agent refers to me openly as a psychopath when it comes to work,” he says, alternating between intermittently tugging at blades of Victoria Park grass and tugging at his hair. “I feel an intense desire to have this forever”—the opportunity, the success, the artistic freedom—“I want this to never stop. So with that comes a kind of neurosis of control.”
I suggest that he at least seems more relaxed than when I talked to him a few years back. Mescal laughs with palpable delight.
“Do you think I’m relaxed?” he asks me, perking up. “That’s great. Thank God. GQ has endorsed me as chill and unaffected. Fuck it, let’s end it here.”
But we can’t, not as he’s about to embark on new territory altogether, exposing a much larger audience to his work than ever before: a blockbuster, his first ever, playing the lead role in Ridley Scott’s Gladiator II.
Already, something peculiar is happening when Mescal is stopped by strangers on the street. “The bros will come up and be like, ‘Can’t wait for Gladiator.’ No proper handshakes, lots of this handshake,” he says, pantomiming the handshake hug beloved by dudes the world over. “I’m an honorary bro now.”
GQ