Jason Isaacs’s earliest role was that of his family’s black sheep. Raised in London, his siblings pursued careers in accounting, medicine, and law. Isaacs, however, chose a different path—one full of foreign accents and outrageous wigs. He swapped Captain Hook’s black, curly locks in Peter Pan for Lucius Malfoy’s platinum tresses in Harry Potter. And, after perfecting the transatlantic cadence of Cary Grant in Archie, he now transforms into The White Lotus’s fan-favorite white-collar criminal, Timothy Ratliff, Durham twang and all. To celebrate tomorrow’s highly anticipated season finale, the actor shares his key components to the good life. —Carolina de Armas
Airline: I’m a loyal and committed member of nine different loyalty programs.
Airport: Samui International Airport, in Thailand. The outdoor departure lounge is like a holiday village, full of things you actually want to buy and eat. Just stay there.
Alibi: “You went to junk mail. So weird!”
App: Perplexity. Sorry, Google. You had a good run. Keep doing no evil.
Bag: PG Tips tea.
Bedtime: Dawn.
Bike: Electric Citi Bike in New York.
Birthday: Anything without a zero.
Boyfriend/girlfriend: I married her [Emma Hewitt]. And she can read.
Breakfast, Weekday: Tea. Pills. More tea.
Breakfast, weekend: Mashed avocado, sautéed onions, and tomato, with chili-and-garlic seasoning on brown toast. Tea. More tea. And back to bed with the papers. Oh, shit, forgot my pills.
Car: Anything with dents and scratches. People let you into traffic.
Child: Not yours. Mine. Unless they like my magic tricks.
Cocktail: A fresh orange, pineapple, and lemon, and a shake of grenadine.
Cocktail appetizer: Can you tell I don’t drink? I have no idea what that is.
Couple: Fish and chips.
Date: A walk, a laugh, a shag.
Diet: Anything you feel like eating.
Dinner, weekday: Whatever Emma’s cooked, plus horrendously unhealthy fake meat.
Dinner, weekend: Wherever Emma’s booked, plus horrendously unhealthy fake meat when I get home. And chips.
Disguise: Staring. Everyone looks away.
Dress: Tracksuit bottoms and a stained, baggy T-shirt. Standard uniform since Covid.
Drive: Driving to school on the Pacific Coast Highway when my kids were little, looking out for dolphins.
Enemy: Articulate racists with an argument as to why they’re not being racist.
Escape: Tennis. Drags me right into the moment. Not the last shot, not the next. Now.
Excuse: “I’m an idiot. And lazy. And I forget everything. Did I mention I’m an idiot?”
Fit: The bespoke suits handmade by the world’s greatest tailors that I wore to play Cary Grant in the TV show Archie. I was only allowed to keep one. Moths ate the arse away while I was in Thailand. But I still wear it, though. I just don’t take the jacket off or bend over.
FLAW: A filthy smoker’s laugh.
Friend: Someone you tell things you’d never tell anyone—and vice versa.
Good-bye: “Love ya. See you down the road.”
Hideaway: Koh Kradan. A Thai island with nothing but a few basic little hotels and a beach.
Hotel: Anywhere with a tennis court. I don’t need the suite they often give actors with a spare room and a dining table. It just reminds me I have no friends [on location] to invite over.
Indulgence: Ironed underwear.
Insult: On a set, “Is that how you’re gonna do it? Hmmm.”
Jacket: There’s a Michael Kors light-blue linen jacket that I didn’t take off for years. Partly because it belonged to my late designer friend, Michael Clancy—he had exquisite taste in clothes. The moths have won that battle, too, little fuckers.
Kiss-off: “I saw the movie, but I don’t remember you—which one were you?”
Last Meal: Sticky toffee pudding the size of my head subsumed under a beachball of vanilla ice cream.
Match: Rafael Nadal versus Roger Federer Wimbledon final in 2008.
Movie: This Is Spinal Tap.
Name: Not Jason. Too many of us around, and none of us are impressive. We sound dumb.
Neighbor: Trees and the ocean.
Nonfiction book: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series, by Douglas Adams. So practical.
Novel: Rooster, by Emma Hewitt. Sue me.
Pair of pants: Elastic waist with zip pockets.
Pair of shoes: Hokas. Anything else feels like your feet are being beaten by prison guards.
Pen or Pencil: What’s that, Grandpa?
Pet: My dog, Missy. Just wants to lie down all day, then lie in bed with us at night like an old stoner.
Piece of advice: “If you want to feel self-esteem at night, do something esteemable during the day.”
Podcast: This American Life. The great-granddaddy of podcasts.
President: The next one, please God.
Ride: Back home from Heathrow Airport. Always so excited to open the front door.
Saying: “This too shall pass.”
Second spouse: Hopefully, I’ll never find out.
Singer: Aretha Franklin.
Spouse: Did I mention my wife can read as well as write?
Storm: Whatever the last thing the royal family said. Who cares?
Television series: The Larry Sanders Show.
Theme song to your life: “Main Title and First Victim,” from Jaws.
Time of day: Three a.m.
Toast: Challah.
Vacation: Safari. Or so I’m told. I’ve begged my daughters to come. They sent me a birthday card last year: “Dear Dad, for your 60th, we will go on safari with you.” And they haven’t.
Victim: Me, when my kids won’t honor their promises.
View: We lived in a house on Broadbeach on Australia’s Gold Coast while shooting Peter Pan. Picture the whitest sand, the bluest ocean, and blazing sun every day. And some of the world’s most poisonous snakes. But the view …
Wake-up time: 10 a.m.
Work of art: My friend Mark Gordon sends me sketches he draws on his iPad. He doesn’t draw them to exhibit, sell, or seek praise. He just likes to make things. That’s art.
Jason’s Essentials
