I was grateful that Gareth, my character in Four Weddings and a Funeral, died of Scottish dancing. When it came out in 1994, Aids was rampant. We’d just had Philadelphia, an honourable film with noble intentions, but once again homosexuality was identified with disease. Disease and prison were the two ways most people thought about gay people. Gareth didn’t give a toss about any of that. He died from an excess of joy and generosity, which was a wonderful thing.
Life would have been very different if I hadn’t written to Laurence Olivier. I wrote as a fan, not as somebody who ever expected to become an actor. He was artistic director of the National Theatre. I explained to him what marvellous work he was staging. He replied saying, “If you like it so much, come and work in the box office.” It proved a great vantage point. I had lunch in the canteen daily with “youngbloods” like Derek Jacobi and Michael Gambon. I started to think maybe I could do this, too.
David Attenborough helped my claustrophobia. I can’t bear confined spaces, but I recently had to have an MRI scan on my spine, which meant 45 minutes lying in that ghastly tin box. They put headphones on me and played Planet Earth. I watched walruses savaging polar bears – or was it the other way around? – and the time passed in the bat of an eyelid.
Clarity is the key to life. I’ve tried to cultivate habits of mind where I get rid of everything extraneous and ask: What is this about? Who is it for? Is it important?
Coming out was my biggest act of activism. When I was cast as Mozart in Amadeus at the National in 1979, the press asked if I had a girlfriend. When I said no, they asked, “Are you bisexual?” I said “How dare you! I am entirely homosexual.” But they never printed it. People advised me that it would destroy my career, but I didn’t want a career that depended on lying about who I am, thank you.
Love is the master. I’ve been incredibly lucky to have experienced a great deal of it in my life.
Getting my CBE in 1999 was a close-run thing. I hired an expensive chauffeur to pick me up and take me there. The car didn’t show up because it broke down. I phoned a cab company, who only had one knackered jalopy; I sat in my tails as it chugged and stalled. But we got to the palace, and the Queen was delightful.
Self-consciousness is the scourge of acting. My place at drama school was hanging by a thread until I had a breakthrough. I got angry with the teacher during an exercise and thought, “You want emotion? You’ll have fucking emotion!” I made a guttural noise I’d never heard before, picked up a sofa, threw it to the floor and broke it in half. My scene partners started crying because they were so frightened. But the teacher said, “Very good!”
I only get starstruck by classical musicians. I admire them to an absurd degree. I once walked through Soho and stumbled over somebody’s legs sticking out from a pavement table at Maison Bertaux. I realised it was the great Russian cellist Mstislav Rostropovich. I felt as if I’d committed a crime and burbled away. He was baffled why I was so upset. We later performed at the same concert and took a bow together. He threw his arms around me as if we were old friends. I could have died and gone to heaven.
Marriage feels like coming home. That might sound quite ordinary, but it’s a profound sensation. Something deep within you relaxes. That’s how it’s been since Seb [Fox] and I married in 2016. It’s utterly secure, absolutely committed and the rock on which my life stands.
The Witcher season three streams on Netflix from 29 June
