Rex Ryan is the son of one of Ireland’s most famous public figures. But very little is known about the actor himself. Do a Google search. There’s been plenty of fake news and questionable gossip, like the tabloid claims that his siblings weren’t at his wedding and that the happy bride was from Kildare. More on this anon.

But hard facts are few and far between.

It’s a measure of the man that he has done his utmost to shun the limelight and let his work do the talking for him. Now, however, with his own theatre opening in Dublin, he has good reason to undertake his first major in-depth interview with Hot Press.

Over the past few years, Rex has been working flat-out, treading the boards in the likes of the Abbey Theatre and winning rave reviews. There’s also been a starring role in the independent Irish movie Monged; appearances in the Vikings TV series and US TV show Quantico; and in music videos for Inhaler and For Those I Love. Plus, he’s just bagged a role in the upcoming eight-part spaghetti western series That Dirty Black Bag, which stars
Aidan Gillen, Dominic Cooper and Douglas Booth.

But the big news is that Rex has finally found a permanent home for his Glass Mask Theatre – which he runs with his wife Miglé – at the Bestsellers Café on Dublin’s Dawson Street. The plan is to stage a different play every month, with the emphasis on new Irish writing.

And as for the legendary broadcaster Gerry Ryan, who suddenly passed away at the relatively young age of 53 in 2010, and his mother, artist Moira Ryan? Perhaps we should leave the talking on that score to Rex.

As Joe Duffy would say, “The lines are now open.”

Jason O’Toole: As names go, Rex Ryan has a good ring to it.

Rex Ryan:  Dad said, ‘Rex Ryan will be a good stage name’. Like, talk about pressure, man. And I was thinking, ‘Are you my manager? What’s happening here?’ (laughs). You know, it’s the opposite of some parents – they’d say, ‘Rex, you should really consider a fallback’. He almost forced me to be an actor. We’d be watching films and he’d go, ‘You could do that’. I’d say, ‘Dad, that’s Al Pacino in Heat, man! What are you on about?’

What about following in his footsteps, into radio? 

Dad seemed to have some sort of supreme confidence that I was going to be a performer of some sort – and not on the radio. He seemed quite convinced that I could be an actor. Like I said: ‘Rex Ryan will look good on the poster’. I think it was inevitable that I was going to become an actor.

How old were you when your parents separated?

I think I was in Sixth Year in secondary school. They never really put their problems on the kids, you know. So, for me, the whole thing was handled with dignity and responsibility. Any time someone’s parents separate, it would be difficult because it’s a shock of reality. Things can fall apart. And, if you’re a young kid and you witness love fall apart, that can rock your world. But, my family, I think, dealt with it so well. And I was fine. I had a good group of friends and I had a strong bond with both of my parents. It didn’t rock me that much, if I’m being honest with you.

Can you remember your last conversation with your dad?

We were talking about the movie Gangs of New York. We watched it and he made two rib eye steaks. And we were talking about how Leo held his own against Daniel Day.

Did your father’s death bring the family closer together?

We were always a close family. We always had a great family dynamic: wild, energetic, but always solid. I think we were probably well equipped to deal with disaster because we were always bonded.

It’s a horrendous phone call to get, telling you one of your parents has died suddenly.

It was obviously a shock. The father is a mythical figure for us. I’ve lost a few people in my life. And any time you see someone who was a titan in your life – and an inspiration, and a truthful and a courageous soul – ripped from you so fast, again, the world can collapse around you. But, for me, perhaps this is just the way I metabolise things like this: it happened, I took a few minutes and then I got down to business because I knew that a lot of people would be relying on me and there was a lot of stuff to get done. So, I had a moment, I took a step forward – and I’ve continued to do so.

How did you go about dealing with the grieving process? 

I went on a pilgrimage to Thailand. I needed to get away. I was in third year of college. So, Dad died right before my final exams in business school. And they said, ‘Do you want to defer?’ And I said, ‘No, fuck that. I’ve had enough of this business. Let me do my exams. Get me out of the shite, so I can get my life going’. I did my exams and the next day I flew to Southeast Asia and stayed there for a long time.

What was that like? 

It was a deep, profound journey into the soul, man. It was like Apocalypse Now. I had two kick-boxing fights and I drank an obscene amount. I meditated with monks. I climbed mountains. I went into solitude. And then a lot of my school friends ended up over there as well. So, it was a real journey. I had no money. No nothing. I was quite happy and at peace there as well. It was probably the best thing that I could have done because I lived quite an incredible existence there, on nothing. And I got away from the maelstrom of media that was blowing through Dublin. It was a real release for me. It shaped me a lot. It also made me very good at living with nothing, which is necessary as an actor.

How did you put bread on the table after graduating from the Gaiety School of Acting?

When we left drama school, we were flat broke. No agents, no nothing. I got a part-time job doing free guided walking tours for Hostels of Dublin, for foreigners. It was a two-fold operation with an excellent actor called Ian Toner. I constructed a one-man show and I brought groups of thirty people that we took from hostels, claiming that I had a massive historical knowledge – which I don’t! At the end I asked them for tips, and that’s how we paid our way. We were making enough money to eat and we were practising entertaining people. We were keeping the wolf from the door.

You met your wife Miglé around this time… 

We struck a deal with KC Peaches café on Nassau Street: that they’d give us free coffee if we threw all the hostel people into them after the tour. I’d go in there every day and get my coffee. And there was this beautiful Lithuanian woman at the desk. We introduced ourselves and we skirted around each other for so long. I’d go in every day like a complete buffoon and I’d say to her, ‘Hey, how you doing? I’m going to the IFI this Friday’. And she’d go, ‘OK?’ And I’d say, ‘Yeah, I’m going to watch a French documentary’. And she’d say, ‘OK’. And then I’d leave – because I just could not get the cojones up to ask her out.

So what happened?

Eventually, I rocked in one day and I said to her, ‘I’m going to IFI this Friday’. And she goes, ‘When the fuck are you going to ask me out?’ And I thought, ‘Well, there’s that Eastern European steeliness that I’ve grown to love’. And I said, ‘Would you want to go on a date?’ And she said, ‘Obviously! Are you completely inept?’ I said, ‘No, and let me prove it to you on a date’. I fell madly in love with the woman and I asked her to marry me within four months. This is coming from the man who said he’d never get married. And I couldn’t be happier. I love the woman. She runs the theatre with me. She rocks.

Did you get down on bended knee?

Oh, I did the whole set-up. I proposed to her in Kerry and I did a good set-up.

You stood in for Gerry at Lottie’s wedding in Italy in 2017.

Walking Lottie up the aisle touched my heart. I think she is one of the strongest and most empathetic people I know. When she is happy, I am.

The tabloids claimed some family members had not been invited to your own wedding.

The wedding was a tiny little thing. So, we just had an intimate little meal. I didn’t have a ceremony, per se. Not interested.  We just wanted to sign a paper and then have some close family over for a meal. We weren’t going to do the big wedding thing.

So your sisters were there? 

Yeah, yeah. The whole set up. And again, private. No cameras. No nothing.  I cooked a roast and we all had a singsong.

A paparazzi followed you around on the day. 

I’d had no interest at all in people taking photos of my wedding. Some lad followed me and my wife around Camden Street. I ignored him for ages and then towards the end, I said: ‘Is there no privacy in this new insane world?’ And I gave him the middle finger because I thought it would be funny to see that picture in the paper the next day.

And did they publish it?

They did it: I was wearing a pair of Ray-Ban’s, giving the middle finger.

For fuck’s sake! I’ll have to look that up. 

You’ll get a laugh, man. It looks ridiculous. It looks like Reservoir Dogs. I’m wearing this suit, middle finger with the big sovereigns on the hand. People probably thought I was some sort of gangster.

What did your mother think of the pic?

She thought it was hilarious.

You’re what in the past would have been called a stepfather to Miglé’s daughter. Did your father’s passing in any way shape your relationship with her?

I’m the product of my two parents and all their wonderful attributes. They’re both honourable people, open people, wild people. They’re intelligent and non-judgemental. I pass that on to my daughter – living life with an open heart. So, I don’t know if the bond is necessarily deeper as a result of the passing of my father, but what I was taught by both my parents was: to be an open person and an honourable person. And also being able to defend the things that you believe in. They’re all attributes that I would consciously pass on to my daughter.

You’re saying ‘my daughter’ – full stop. 

Yeah, that’s how it feels. That’s the word I use.

Do you have any more children?

We’re actually expecting triplets! (Dramatic pause) I’m joking.

I didn’t know whether to offer my commiserations or congratulations.

Oh, brilliant (laughs). Imagine – with the theatre starting next week! No, no other kids – that I know of!

What’s your favourite memory of your father?

One my favourites was when Dad brought me to a new print screening of 2001: A Space Odyssey by Stanley Kubrick. I was too young to see it. I was like six. But we went into town. We ate chocolate cake and we drank hot chocolate together in the cafe of the IFI. And I just remember both of us, connected, watching this absolute kaleidoscopic adventure of madness by a genius. And I remember leaving, floating, feeling like I was in space. And I looked up at that fella, my dad, who had brought me to this thing, and I thought, ‘This guy knows all this cool shit, man. I better stick by him. He’s going to show me some good stuff’. So that was a day where I just really appreciated the man and he rocked my world. And there was a lot of love there because, you know, bringing a six-year-old to 2001 and trusting that I was going to sit through it. That coloured a lot of the rest of my relationship (with him).

I know this is a sensitive question, but what’s your whole take on drugs being in your father’s system when he died?

I’ve absolutely no comment on it, because it was my same feeling at that time: I can’t talk about something I don’t actually know anything about. I simply couldn’t speculate on that at all.

It’s a stock question we ask in the Hot Press interview: did you ever smoke a joint?

Obviously, back in the day, man, we all did. I did experiment. I mean, like I told you: I was in Thailand for a long time, in a place called Mushroom Mountain. But, now in my life, I’ve a family, I’m committed to my job, and all these things. I have to stay away from that stuff because I just wouldn’t be able to work if I was drinking and doing loads of drugs. But I know loads of people who function amazingly well, mostly stoned.

What was the craziest thing you did during your school days?

Oh, God, I can’t reveal the wild stuff we got up because I’m afraid that I’ll get retrospectively charged for it! Oh, man, a lot of shit went down. It was just a wild time.

You mentioned earlier that you were hyper as a child. If you were like that back then, I can’t imagine what you’d be like on coke or speed.

Even something like whiskey: for me, it’s pouring petrol on the fire. I have too much energy. It doesn’t work, man. I don’t need it.

What drugs haven’t you done? 

Oh, I won’t get into drug use. It’s too fragile. Growing up, I had many great friends from East Wall and we lost a couple of them to drugs. And the same with my friends at St. Michael’s – I went to this posh private school – on Ailesbury Road. A couple of young men I lost to drugs. So it’s not something to be thrown about without consideration. You have to be very cognisant of people who may have had terrible experiences with it. We also do have a problem, as we see in our streets, with addicts. So it’s something that requires huge consideration. You have to be responsible. I wouldn’t want to soil the interview with my opinions on drugs, OK?

People would make a meal of it if you came out and said, “Yes, I’ve taken cocaine.”

It’s just not a factor. It’s got nothing to do with me as a man, or what I’m doing with my life. And I have a family as well. So I’m not interested in talking about that.

Have you ever been in therapy or rehab?

No. I suppose I probably do my own versions of therapy. I went to a child psychologist. They told me I was watching too much Robocop and that my energy could be applied to something else. I continued to watch Robocop.

Did you did you read the book written by Melanie Verwoerd (Gerry’s partner at the time of his death)?

No. No interest. I know nothing about it. I mean, is it about him? I don’t think it’s a book about him, I think it’s her memoir. No, I just haven’t read it. I’m on Tarantino’s new book.  I’ve got other books to read.

Your family childhood home in Clontarf was put up for sale recently. Does that make you feel nostalgic?

No, it’s good timing, I think. Of course, you’ll always miss that family home. But that’s a large house for my mum to be living in. It’s a good call.

You’ve shied away in the past from doing personal interviews.  

Well, there’s a few factors. One is, I have this fundamental block in myself that, in an ideal world, I don’t think actors would ever do interviews because you’re asking the audience to go on an emotional journey with you as a character. So if they know what I had for breakfast and how I feel about, you know, fucking Cheerios, they would bring a lot of baggage to the table. There’s enough baggage anyway in the family that I come from. So my strategy, very consciously, was to do good work for as long as possible. I want to be judged by my work and not any persona.

But…

But also, I’m acutely aware of the business aspect. You’ve got to play the game, especially if I’m opening a theatre. I want people to come and enjoy it. I want people to be rocked by that place. And if no one knows who you are, what the theatre is, you might as well go to Bhutan and open a coffee shop. I’m aware that it’s a necessary part of it. And I won’t even say it’s a necessary evil, because I don’t mind it that much. I enjoy chatting with you. But the actors that I have always respected have cultivated a level of privacy and they’ve let the work talk. I try my very best to do that.

Was the Ryan name a hindrance or a help when you first started acting?

It certainly didn’t get me an agent out of drama school. I had to graft for that. I’m with an excellent agent called Karl Hayden. But I’d been acting three years before I got an agent. It wasn’t until Karl Shiels took a gamble and put me in a play called The Motherfucker With The Hat. I played a sexually confused Puerto Rican gym owner. And that’s how I got a meeting with my agent. So I didn’t get many meetings or anything because of the name. None of that. I lived a really scrappy, gritty actor existence, and I think I’m better for it.

Would it bother you doing love scenes with men?

Oh, I’ve done it,  a few years ago, in my first feature film Monged. It was myself and the actors John Connors and Graham Earley. I was just out of drama school and my very first scene was a gay scene in the toilet of a nightclub, man. So I’ve been there. And I had never kissed a man. So that was an interesting experience. But as long as I could justify it and the circumstances of the movie, it was fine by me.

What did your wife think?

She hasn’t seen it. I imagine she would be completely jealous! Because that guy got a great kiss (laughs)!

You speak about Karl Shiels – a great mentor of yours who passed away in 2019 – in the present tense, as if he’s still with you. Would you feel the same way about your father?

Yeah, like I said, I’ve lost many people in my life, many great friends, and I think they’re always with you. And it can be a powerful thing. You can use them for inspiration and you can also use them to keep your shit in check. I often imagine, if I’m tired some nights in theatre, for example, Karl saying, ‘Get your shit together, man. I might not be there, but I’m watching’. And that helps me a lot. Karl really taught me how to act, and he pushed me so hard. There’s one story I like that shows the journey.

Go on…

I started my professional acting life with a maverick, brilliant writer called Philip Doherty and The Gonzo Theatre Company. Very much Hunter S. Thompson inspired. We did rock ‘n’ roll theatre. We started with a show called The Birthday Man which ran about two hours over the advertised running time and spanned a hundred years of Irish history and mayhem! We would start these plays in Cavan town, the entire cast staying over in Phil’s brother’s house, Joe, and rehearsing all day and partying all night. We were theatre pirates. And it was a glorious time. I wish for that energy to show itself in Glass Mask. Similar with Karl. Myself and Karl would rehearse together all day. All night. We loved it. He taught me how to find a character’s heart.

You appeared in the Inhaler video for ‘Ice Cream Sundae’. 

They asked me to do it and I said, ‘Rock on, lads’. Then, they told me that it would be four hours of prosthetics and I’d be the devil! So I said, ‘Well, that sounds interesting. Let’s rock it’. And so I did it with another good actor called India Mullen (Normal People). I was in the same drama school as India. It was a really interesting concept by the director, Hugh Mulhern. I just did another video with Hugh for a guy called For Those I Love, a fifteen-minute music video. A really beautiful music video.

So people in rock ’n’ roll have to work too!

The Inhaler lads – I was really impressed by them. Hard workers, man. And you know, you’re speaking of people who might get hand-outs because of who their parents were or whatever – but those guys work, they write, they produce, they tour. I was really taken by how grounded and cool they were. So that was a joyous experience.

You’ve focussed more on theatre than trying to go down the movie route.

Yeah, you’re right. Consciously and unconsciously, I’ve only been planning film and television over the last couple of years. I just completed a part on a (spaghetti) western series in Italy and Spain by Bron (Studios), who did the Joker movie. That was probably my first big screen thing. And I wrote and directed my short movie (Funeral Song) for the Galway Fleadh. Brian O’Malley (the director) took a gamble on me and put me in that western series. So, let’s see if I start getting into more film and television over the next year.

Did you always love the smell of the greasepaint?

I had no interest in theatre growing up. I didn’t go to the theatre much. The odd Gate show with dad and mum, and the pantos. I went to acting school because I wanted to be in Reservoir Dogs 2. I wanted to be in Star Wars XVI. I watched Brando in The Streetcar Named Desire and I thought, ‘I want to do that’. You do your research: Brando was an animal of the stage and he had performed that play 400 times before it was permitted to screen. So, in drama school, I fell in love with theatre. I thought, ‘Man, if I could find the facility, the discipline and the skill to bring an audience of hundreds through a two hour play, by the time I get to the screen, I’m going to be so loaded that I’ll be ready’.

How did Glass Mask Theatre end up at the new venue on Dawson St? 

The Gods intervened. The shareholders in the Bestseller cafe said to my wife, ‘We see that your husband is looking for a space. Would he consider doing plays in this cafe?’ I met them. I pitched the idea of new Irish plays in that space and they said, ‘This is great, let’s go for it’. It’s exactly what I wanted. It’s a small boutique theatre in a tiny little café. During Corona, we can only get 30 in, which I’m fine with. But when all this blows over, hopefully soon, we could get 60. We’re going to do rocking, touching and risky new Irish plays.

Starting with One Hour To Ron Montana  by Keith James Walker.

I wanted to start with a comedy. I wanted to welcome people into the theatre with open arms and an open heart. And I thought Keith was the man to do it. So he came up with this excellent play. It’s a one-man show, about a character who’s just got married. And he’s obsessed with ‘80s disco music. But he has chorophobia, which is an acute fear of dancing. So he comes to the side of the church, having a panic attack. And what we see is this man go into his mind, relive key moments of his life, to see if he can dance on this day. It’s original: almost a mix of stand-up with a one-man narrative. It’s a nice way to open the theatre, because the second play is quite an intense drama.

The plan is to do a new play every month. 

I’d love people to take a gamble on new plays that might touch their souls. This theatre is for everyone: every creed, colour, race and sexual disposition – none of this matters as long as you are a true person. Anyone who turns up to number 41 Dawson Street will be greeted with an amazing warmth, an open heart, and hopefully a play that connects with them in some way. Like I said, I’m someone who was not into theatre – and then my heart was opened and I was changed and made a better man for it. I had some profound experiences watching plays that were very cleansing for me. I watched that great Tom Murphy play The Gigli Concert and I cried. And I rarely cry. I cried in the front row, watching…

As a therapist might say – sorry, our time is up. That wasn’t as bad as getting your teeth pulled, was it? 

Just so long as you don’t go with some ridiculous headline. Like, ‘I did it all for Gerry’. The headline should be: ‘Let’s have Rex’. Let’s have ‘Unprotected Rex’ – as opposed to unprotected sex.

• For further information log onto glassmasktheatre.com – You can watch Rex in a rehearsed reading of Jason O’Toole’s play The Intruder on the Hot Press YouTube channel.