Photo: Ray Mickshaw/FX
How sustainable can transactional relationships ever truly be? That’s the question at the heart of Feud: Capote vs. the Swans. It’s most obvious in the titular rift between Truman Capote (played with delicious flair by Tom Hollander) and the coterie of socialite women (played by Naomi Watts, Diane Lane, Calista Flockhart, and Chlöe Sevigny) he orbited. But the famed American writer struggled with this vexing dynamic in his on-and-off relationship with John O’Shea.
Described by Capote in Feud as a “third-rate suburban faggot banker,” O’Shea becomes the author’s manager after a steamy bathhouse encounter. Throughout the season, their romantic and sexual rapport becomes increasingly violent and abusive, but Capote keeps returning to O’Shea, one of his few remaining companions. An alcoholic brute with a family back in the suburbs, O’Shea is played by Russell Tovey in oversize glasses with a pair of fists ready to pummel the diminutive Capote at any given time. Tovey relished it. “I want to be tested as an actor, and if a character has these inner turmoils, you want to study those people, expose those people, and really grow yourself into them,” he says. “They’re the parts that make me salivate.”
How much did you know about Capote and his Swans before joining the cast?
I knew Truman Capote because of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I remember seeing Truman’s image through Andy Warhol. He felt like the Zeitgeist of a certain period of history in America. But when it came to the Swans, Jackie Onassis, the Kennedys — as a Brit all these names mean something to us, but to Americans, they’re like your royal family. I didn’t know much about them, to be honest. It’s a fascinating opportunity Ryan Murphy takes again and again, not only entertaining us with these stories but also educating us historically. Now, I’m just obsessed with Lee and Babe and Slim — totally obsessed.
I’m sure Tom Hollander, Naomi Watts, and Diane Lane had so much to work with when creating their characters — articles and photos and recordings and such. Talk to me about how you worked on getting into the mind of John.
The research I had was two photographs. There’s one in particular where he has the glasses I chose for John to wear. And there’s word of mouth. There are stories about him, but there are no interviews. There’s no sound of John O’Shea, no moving image of him. I was given free rein to make him my own. I wanted to make him very grounded — someone who moves from his groin. As an actor you try to find a character through that sort of thing: Where do they move from? For John, I felt he was so rooted in his gut, in his core. He seemed to move like a glacier, this solid mass of shit moving through Truman’s life.
I think it’s very easy to understand why Capote might have been drawn to John, right? But what did you think was driving John toward Truman?
Well, he’s a narcissist. The fact that Truman was successful and popular, perceivably rich, talented. Narcissists latch on to those people. O’Shea was an aspiring writer. Truman was the conduit for the life John thought he’d been owed. He wanted attention. He wanted people to think of him the way he felt about himself: that he was incredibly special. Through Truman there was also intimacy. But I think John was also a sex addict. Truman for him was just one of many, which has been documented. We even show that in the series. John saw in Truman an opportunity to level up.
The show begins with such love and affection, which eventually curdles. There’s one line I wanted you to break down, which is when John yells at Capote that “fucking you is like fucking a fish.”
Well, it’s so emasculating! And belittling. It puts him in a place where he’s so insignificant. John’s basically saying, “You mean nothing to me.” It’s the coldest thing he can say, because Truman prided himself in that John found him attractive. For John to be like, “It’s just like fucking a fish” … like fucking anything. And also, there’s plenty of fish in the sea, you know?
What was Tom Hollander like as your main scene partner?
I’ve known Tom for many years. I did a tiny bit in The Night Manager. We also know each other socially, so there was instantly a shorthand. We would hang out and gossip, talk about these scenes and slightly improv and get loose with each other.
The moment they meet at the bathhouse is staged so beautifully. And it’s a testament to Gus Van Sant, who directed most of the season’s episodes. What was it like working with him on this project?
I love Gus. I mean, I connected to Gus through his movies, which have changed many actors’ lives, including my own. His work makes you want to be a better actor. It makes you want to tell greater stories. He’s been on my podcast, Talk Art. He makes incredible art, and he’s made these amazing watercolors from My Own Private Idaho. I saw one when I went to Derek Jarman’s house. There’s a Gus Van Sant watercolor there! I was like, How the hell is this here? I mentioned it to Gus, and he said, “Oh, I gave that to Derek when I met him in Berlin years ago. I thought his movies were great.” He’s just that charming. It’s a privilege to be in the same room as him and to be directed by him and be able to tell the stories with all these other actors.
Watching you in Feud, I kept thinking back to Joe Pitt in Angels in America, who you played onstage, and Jason in The Pass, characters who are wrestling with their masculinity and sexuality. You bring such textured, nuanced embodiment to them. It struck me that this might be one of the threads you’ve explored throughout your career.
It’s fascinating to play as an actor. They’re not one thing. They’ve got demons. I was born in 1981, going through education under Section 28, which was Tory Conservative legislation that meant you couldn’t promote homosexuality. Growing up and knowing that I was gay, but being made to feel like it was the worst thing ever, I left school with some feelings of internalized homophobia, some feelings of not knowing my place in the world. It took me many years to realize that was mental, which made me fucking angry. With these roles, I’m fascinated by people who haven’t had an opportunity to shake that up. Or who come from a different time, or have put it upon themselves to trap themselves in. Because I’m so free. I’m so out. And that’s the biggest joy I have in my life, that I’m able to fucking say, “I am who I am.” And I thank the shoulders of giants I stand on to be able to do that. Then there’s these people I’m drawn to where they don’t have that privilege. They haven’t given themselves that privilege. They don’t even realize they’re so damaged.
There’s a way you approach John where there’s no judgment.
Yeah, you’ve got to like it. You’ve gotta have empathy. I fucking hate John O’Shea. He’s a horrible man. But I enjoy playing him and I have empathy to a certain extent. Because I feel sorry for him in some capacity. I wouldn’t want to hang out with him in real life, but I have to find the reasons for the fact that he’s such a — can I use the C-word? When you play a baddie, you can’t just play, Oh they’re bad and that’s it. Because baddies don’t think they’re baddies. They think they’re the good ones.
Especially because it’s all so wrapped up in issues of desire and power.
Narcissism. Power. Sex addiction. All the green flags you want on the first date.
This interview has been condensed for length and clarity.
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