Russell Tovey has always possessed a low-key magnetism in his work — one that goes beyond his appearance — whether starring in the queer HBO series “Looking” or the dystopian drama “Years and Years.” But in “Plainclothes,” his performance as Andrew, an out gay man navigating the dangerous terrain of cruising culture in the late ’90s, feels especially lived-in. The film, which premiered at Sundance early this year, is set in 1997 and draws on real accounts of police stings targeting queer men in public spaces. In one such location, a shopping mall bathroom, Andrew locks eyes with Lucas (Tom Blyth), and what begins as a tense, flirtatious encounter spirals into something far riskier — and far more intimate — than either expects.
Andrew is spared. Lucas is a cop, but he’s gay too. And in a moment of unexpected solidarity, he lets Andrew go. From there, the two circle each other in a slow-burning, erotically charged connection that walks the line between desire and danger. What unfolds is more than a romance — it’s a reckoning.
I caught up with Tovey just as “Plainclothes” prepared for its wider release. We spoke about the emotional weight of the film, the power of discomfort in storytelling and what it means to tell queer stories in an era where queer lives are increasingly under threat.
I had the privilege of seeing “Plainclothes” during Sundance. What was it like to experience the film with a festival audience for the first time?
Well, you used the word privilege, and it was a total privilege to take on this role, to be part of this production, to work with [writer-director] Carmen Emmi on his first feature. I think he’s a genius to go to Sundance. The big thing I learned from Sundance is that everybody knew everything that everybody was doing; there’s a real film community full of storytellers, and everybody is kind and open and you realize it’s because there’s no money. It’s actually because people are there wanting to tell stories and they want to get it out there as much as possible.
So the atmosphere was electric. And to do something like this, which is very experimental as a filmmaker, just by the lenses he was using, just by the texture of what you’re actually looking at, it was so exciting. And to tell a queer story like this in any climate, but in today’s climate especially, feels fundamental. So I feel really privileged to be part of this adventure.
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I was really drawn to the overall nostalgic aesthetic of the film. That’s not something that, as an actor, you can truly experience until you’ve seen the film.
When we were filming it, when [Emmi] whipped out the camcorder and started doing closeup lens shots and making you walk through the forest and he was following your feet, I was like, I don’t know what this guy’s doing. And I said, “Is this behind the scenes? What is this?” And he’s going, “No, no; it’s going to get in there somewhere, just stick with me.” And then you watch it and you’re like, “Wow.”
The vision and the way he works is something that I’ve taken from filming on “Plainclothes,” which I never did before and it seems so simple and obvious: He plays music into every scene. So when we are rehearsing, we have the music in there, and we all know that feeling when you hear soundtrack music — it’s a fast hack to emotion. And he was doing that. And now every job I do, I’m always like, “Can we have speakers and play music so that we can all collectively be on the same energy level?” On the next job I did, I did it. And I thought the crew was going to be like, “Oh, please, can you tell Russell not to play music?” But then you see the focus with the music, and it’s just so exciting and intoxicating. And Carmen introduced me to that, and that’s changed everything.
What was a song played on set that really brought you closer to the story and your character?
A lot of music was quite obscure soundtracks. I think there was a lot of Philip Glass in there, which I love. Then he was playing a lot of emo ’90s music. And Lana Del Ray, which you wouldn’t expect would be something that would kick in straight away as a hack, but it did. It was beautiful. And there are lots of scenes where we’re just existing or we’re spiraling around each other, we’re observing each other or we’re having a sex scene and there’ll be music playing in it. And it was so wonderful. As an actor, it reminds you why you do what you do and why you love what you do.
Given how America has become a more hostile place for LGBTQ+ people since the film premiered at Sundance in January — we’re experiencing the actual policing of queer voices — how has this reality changed the way you see this film?
I think proving the existence of queer people is incredibly important and making movies that can universally help people see similarities and not differences. Even though these characters are gay men, I hope that people can see feelings that they’ve experienced in their lives or are going through — of policing your own emotions, of unrequited love, of the forbidden fruit, of having an affair, of secrets and lies. And it’s universal, and this is told through the lens of two gay men struggling at a time when safe spaces are non-existent.
As queer people we’re pushed into the margins into dangerous situations because society has not created safety for our existence. This film is set in 1997, and you feel like it should be a historical piece. And then you just look at the world now and you think if you wait long enough, it moves in circles, and here we are, and this film suddenly feels contemporary. And it’s a real message; these characters are real people, they exist. And I hope that people can see the universality in their struggles within themselves, whatever their desires are.
What kind of research went into understanding the history of police entrapping gay men?
I remember George Michael, that was the ultimate entrapment, and that was definitely an inspiration for this film. Carmen’s brother is a police officer and he discovered this story about this bathroom that was being targeted and these men were being filmed and then they were having their lives destroyed or threatened. So it’s based on a real experience.
I was born in ’81. I was sort of coming of age at the time of AIDS and conversations around the legalities of what it is and age of consent. And you feel like now all the work’s been done, but all the work has just been undone. It’s been reversed and it’s at risk. And as a community, we’re under threat and there are people within the community that are the most marginalized people on the planet, and we have responsibilities as a community. And because of inherited trauma and the work that people have done to allow us to be who we are today, to be a beacon of hope and support our community members and tell these stories and prove our existence and not go quiet and not disappear, which is what people want. And that’s not going to happen.
Is this all making you feel even more emboldened to tell queer stories?
Even more so to be more visible than ever and to be more queer than ever, and to champion and get behind those stories and whatever medium it is, because if it appears in art, then you can’t deny its existence. And if you dramatize something, it is the quickest way for people to connect emotionally and understand. And we’ve seen it time and time again. If you look at “Adolescence,” which has had this massive kind of snowball effect of understanding, that is a family that is fictionalized, but that is the reality of incel culture, and that is the reality of the manosphere, that we’re all sort of in denial that is there. And this TV show does it, and suddenly millions and millions and millions people have watched it, and parents and teachers and kids can now see something that goes, “These are the dangers of what is happening, and this is how you can quickly understand it, because you’re not going to get it from reading an article.” You have to penetrate people’s minds and hearts and souls, and the way you do that is art. And the way you do that is film. And I hope that “Plainclothes” will have this universal connection for people to understand and see the existence and the plight of these characters and this community.
In “Plainclothes,” Andrew initially comes across as a confident, more dominant figure — he has this cruising persona that feels very controlled and perfected. But as the story unfolds, especially with the reveal that Lucas is a cop, there’s a clear and sudden power shift. How did you approach playing those shifts in power and vulnerability within Andrew?
I talked about this earlier with Tom — that there is a power dynamic. Andrew’s an older man; he’s more experienced. It’s Lucas’ first time. Then, as soon as Lucas reveals he’s a cop, the power shift has gone completely upside down. That changes everything. But prior to that moment, my character has no idea what he does, that he’s a cop. And I love the fact that as characters, the dance shifts and we’re into different choreography at that point. And that’s wonderful. I feel like Andrew has his cruising persona. It’s safety. He’s perfected it. This is something that he does. But Lucas connects with him on a level which he hasn’t connected with anyone for many, many years, and it’s terrifying for him and intoxicating, and that’s so wonderful to play.
I’d like to shift to “Years and Years,” since we are, in many ways, living that show in the U.S. It’s very eerily prescient. But thinking about it alongside “Plainclothes,” I was struck by how both might leave viewers feeling unsettled in a way that challenges their politics. What do you think of discomfort as a storytelling tool?
Life is uncomfortable right now. We are all paralyzed and fatigued and scared and traumatized, and at a loss for words. Art is the voice, the catalyst, the conduit to discovery, to understanding, to connectivity. That’s what art does. And I feel like we need it more than ever. Being uncomfortable pushes you to activate and make change. And having the opportunity to understand how you can be better or help or amplify or encourage is so important because of so many topics. But the community needs amplification and needs allies so much more than ever. So being uncomfortable is a positive thing if you make the decision to help.
As we see the world unfold in the ways that that show told us it might, what’s a scene or a moment that comes to mind?
When I was doing the contract for the job, it was six episodes and they were taking forever. I rang my agent up and I said, “What’s going on? Why is this taking so long?” And then the casting director rang and said, “[Creator] Russell T. Davies wants to have a conversation with you.” And I was like, “Oh, what’s this about? Am I going to get fired? I don’t really understand. Has the character changed?” So he got on the phone and he said, “Listen, fourth episode, your character, Daniel, goes and gets Viktor, his partner [and a Ukrainian refugee], back. There’s a boat trip, something happens at sea, Viktor dies on the beach.” And I was like, “Oh god, that’s so sad.” And I thought, “Well, I’m going to do the eulogy.” And I’m an actor that is highly emotional. I thought I could have a nice opportunity to really delve into the emotions and cry. And he said, “I’m sick and tired of seeing refugees dead on the beach. Daniel goes to rescue Viktor, he comes back on the boat, something happens. Daniel dies on the beach. What do you think?” And I said, “If I wasn’t in it, I think that was a brilliant idea. But the fact I’m in it, I think it’s a terrible idea, and I think you need to change it.” [Laughs.] He went, “No, no, no, no. It’s the best thing I’ve ever written. You have to do it.” And I went, “You know what? It is incredible. And you don’t see that.”
And then when that fourth episode came out and the end of that fourth episode… I mean, I’m getting goosebumps now. It was the most moving part of that series. I’m so proud that I got to tell that story. The reaction was unbelievable. And the impact it had and the understanding was just like nothing I’ve ever felt. And what he did by that is that it humanizes people that are being demonized daily. That’s what art does. And that scene humanized it, and it made people go, “That could be me, that could be someone I love.” And it’s so easy for us to look for differences. And that is the perfect analogy of finding similarities and not differences in art. And that allows us to connect and go, “That’s me, and I don’t want that to be me. So what can I do to make sure that doesn’t ever happen?”
