Ethan Hawke

Hawke explains that his prolific output stems from both genuine love of storytelling and an uncomfortable restlessness he's learned to channel productively. Work makes the void go quiet, though intellectually he wonders why sitting still with that void doesn't appeal to him.

Hawke reveals he hasn't really said yes to projects in the traditional sense—most of his recent work (The Good Lord Bird, Blue Moon, The Lowdown) emerged from friendships and shared creative vision. He pitches ideas to collaborators rather than reading scripts at a desk.

Hawke discusses the direct correlation between how much he loves a project and how little he gets paid. Boyhood, Before trilogy, First Reformed, Dead Poets Society—all passion projects. The bigger the paycheck, the less likely he cares about it.

Hawke reveals that Linklater coached him differently on Blue Moon, being unusually harsh because the role required Hawke to play a sexually insecure man without confidence. Linklater shaved his head and demanded he go to the wall of his talent, which Hawke loved despite the difficulty.

Hawke reflects on his five acting nominations (Training Day, Boyhood, First Reform) and two writing nominations. He'd actually prefer jury prizes from Cannes, Berlin, or Venice because they're untainted by industry politics. He notices the thirteen-year-old inside him still thinks it's awesome.

Hawke candidly reveals that his first Oscar nomination for Training Day coincided with his divorce, turning a career high into a personal collapse. He wrote about this period extensively in his novel Bright Ray of Darkness.

Hawke articulates his view that fame operates as a corrosive disease that isolates and deranges people. It's a zoo, and zoo animals go nuts. He's learned to maintain a sustainable level of fame where he can work with great people but still go to the grocery store.

When asked if material pressure still drives him, Hawke answers with 'four kids'—and unpacks how paternal responsibility is the only thing that can't be compromised. Five Oscar nominations mean nothing if family obligations aren't met.

Hawke acknowledges that there's an entire generation of moviegoers who don't know him as a 1990s icon, and he's genuinely okay with it. He no longer carries that flag; the label is less interesting as he matures.

Hawke explains that Sterling Harjo's FX series The Lowdown embodies everything he cares about—punk, unpretentious, real storytelling. He left his penthouse to work in Oklahoma because the work matters more than comfort. Harjo is a real artist, and Hawke wanted to collaborate.

Hawke is thrilled to work with Tommy Lee Jones in season two of The Lowdown, calling him the smartest person in every room and allergic to phoniness. Working with him is intimidating but energizing because Hawke can feel himself improving.

Hawke explains that he wanted to make an action movie—inspired by John Huston's adventure on The African Queen—before he became too old for the hero role. He made The Wait, about a Depression-era man in a prison camp, with director Padraig Daly. He's probably already too old, but he wanted to try.

Hawke reflects on the posters of his face that hung in college dorm rooms decades ago. Those days are gone, and while he didn't take pride in them then, he can now look back and think it's cool. The key is embracing what is rather than mourning what was.

Hawke talks about being at the Oscars and seeing Jack Nicholson and Warren Beatty present, with his friend joking 'get off the stage, old man.' Now that he's their age, he still loves that story—because young people are supposed to want their turn. If you don't have anything new to say, you should hand over the mic.