Back in the day, Matthew Lillard planned to be Billy Loomis before he became Stu Macher. Either way you slice it, he was on the precipice of making a killing when he first arrived in Hollywood as a hungry young actor and was handed a Kevin Williamson screenplay called Scary Movie (later Scream). When we sit down with Lillard 30 years after the fact, he reveals he still remembers the first time he met Billy and Stu, and their fateful phone tag games.

“It’s totally clear,” Lillard says with a conspiratorial smile. He was in the Hollywood Hills, staying in the additional dwelling unit—a fancy term for a dilapidated pool house in the back—of film critic Bill Harris. The At the Movies TV reviewer was an acquaintance of Lillard’s mother, who actually raised the young burgeoning thespian not too far from the City of Angels. But that was before Lillard had seriously pursued acting, moving as far as the prestigious Circle in the Square Theatre School in Manhattan to become a stage performer.

“I was a New York actor, and it was just so much harder to get auditions,” says Lillard, “so I came out to LA for a week, and after landing, my agency out here was said, ‘We want you to meet people.’ So I got these two really great auditions immediately.” One of them was the aforementioned Scary Movie, which Lillard read alone at night, with only two lights and the sounds of the city creeping through a pool house’s wooden slants.

“I’m in the hills, so it’s like coyotes everywhere, and I’m reading the opening sequence, and I finished [the part where Casey Becker is gutted], and I remember shutting it because I was too scared to read on. That’s how terrifying that first sequence was in the movie.”

It also would change his life when he auditioned to play one of the two high school kids who did the gutting, specifically chief secret psychopath Billy Loomis. Yet when Lillard auditioned for the part with casting director Lisa Beach, she didn’t see it. She flatly told Lillard “you’re not Billy,” but she was curious what he could do with Stu—a character he hadn’t rehearsed or studied but who he would be allowed to audition for in a couple hours when Scream’s director, Wes Craven, swung by the office. Lillard did exactly that, apparently improvising a lot of the infectious tics and spasms now synonymous with the character.

Says Lillard, “I had that same energy that I’ve always had, and at the end of the audition, Wes looked at me and said ‘Well, that was pretty fantastic. Do you think you’d want to play this part?’ I’m like, y-eah!”

It was a turning point in Lillard’s career, one which he confides has seen long peaks and valleys when we meet up at a jazzy New York brasserie the night after a blizzard. These days he might even feel like the experience is turbo-charged since, along with Paul Dano and Owen Wilson, Lillard was on the receiving end of Quentin Tarantino’s inexplicable surprise attack on actors the director does not care to watch. Yet by Lillard’s own telling, the amount of support he immediately experienced throughout the industry from co-stars he works with to this day like Neve Campbell of the Scream franchise, or those he worked with once more than a decade ago, such as George Clooney on The Descendants, was an out-of-body experience.

This moment, specifically, feels like a new peak for Lillard who 30 years after seeing Stu Macher die by having a TV dropped on his head is seemingly back in Scream 7. And when we chat, it is right before a long celebratory dinner with fellow Circle in the Square Theatre alumni following a marathon reading of Tracy Letts plays.

All of which gives Lillard perspective, especially of those early days when he was coming up with peers and classmates in the 1990s Hollywood horror scene: contemporaries like Paul Rudd, Sarah Michelle Gellar, and Freddie Prinze Jr. Looking back now, he surprisingly reveals his mindset from that era was “bleak,” especially when some were getting the leads and he was being cast in supporting roles. But he also describes that time as “lovely” and informative. We discuss that time and place, Lillard’s appreciation for his community’s support after Tarantino’s dismissal, and just what his real reading is on Stu and Billy’s relationship in the conversation below, which has been edited for length.

I wanted to begin by asking you something that has been on my mind for nearly 30 years. If Stu Macher had lived, what would he say when his parents got home?

“I’m sorry, I blew it. I followed the wrong influence.”

And do you think he might have meant that?

It’s funny, I don’t think I’ve ever played that out. “I did it all for love” is probably what he would have said. 

Was it love in your mind?

I don’t really know. He’s got that line about “peer pressure, I’m far too sensitive.” So I definitely think there’s that high school thing that for Kevin Williamson is a cheeky moment. But you know, over the years it’s developed that we are these two young gay boys. Somebody called us “the First Husbands of Horror,” and I think the two of us [Lillard and Ulrich] really glommed onto that because in the current situation we’re living in politically—with the religious right pushing their authority over people who are different, people with different sexual identities, different genders, this idea of pushing back against wokeness—I think we both hold onto that moniker because it’s important to us.

If there’s a kid out there that needs these two characters to be gay because they’re a horror fan, and that somehow makes them feel seen, then I will stand chest-out and say they’re two gay young men and there’s nothing you can fucking do about it. 

How would you describe that energy you brought to Stu and maybe other characters you’ve played? 

Certainly early on there’s a youthful exuberance about my work that was really about trying to be the best actor I could on every line I had. New York at the time when I was coming up, the craft was such a big deal, the work was such a big deal, right? And I think that back then, it certainly differentiated actors in New York versus LA. It’s one of the reasons I came to New York. I wanted that next level of credibility and I wanted to be pushed. 

So back then, I think in those early days, I tried to be brilliant every line. Every line I tried to have a reason packed with meaning, packed with motivation, making bold choices, and it’s funny as I would always come to work with this whole arsenal of choices, and the reality is that a lot of times, directors are paying attention to a million things, and number six or seven or eight on the call sheet isn’t one of them. So a lot of times early in my career, directors just let me do what I wanted to do. They’re more interested in getting shots, making sure the leads are right. So I feel like a lot of the stuff I did just sort of snuck past. 

When Scream came out it was a big deal for horror, but it was also a big deal for Hollywood. What was it like being a young actor coming up in that scene in the ‘90s?

That’s a good question. I always wanted to be—and I still want to be—number one on the call sheet. I want to be the guy carrying whatever I’m doing, right? Nobody wants to play in the NBA and be the guy on the bench that doesn’t play. So for me, I always wanted more, and for the longest time, especially in the early ‘90s, I don’t think I was ever really satisfied because I was always in competition with other people. I was constantly in competition with Freddie Prinze Jr. I was constantly in competition with Paul Rudd. They don’t know that, but in that moment, I wanted their jobs. And every time I was the second, third, fourth, or fifth banana, I took it like an indictment on my work in a lot of ways because I was like, “Well, why don’t I get a chance to be number one on the call sheet?”

Is it my work? Is it because I don’t have great abs? What is it about me that wasn’t getting that job? So for the longest time in the early ‘90s, I was eternally jealous and it was a horrible place to live a career.

Also, for me, acting was more than just a job. It was like everything I was about. I started two theater companies. I’ve been acting since I was 14. I am surrounded by all these incredible artists. All these people are incredible actors. My life’s acting. So when I wasn’t working, I would be calling my agent, my manager, like, ‘What’s next? Did I get that job? When’s my next audition?’ I would just be desperate for work. So I would say that during the ‘90s, it was pretty bleak, even though it was wildly successful. It was never enough to satisfy anything. 

Was there any camaraderie as well in the horror scene? You mentioned Paul Rudd, famously of Halloween 6, of course, and you obviously were friends with Freddie and Sarah, and Neve.

Yeah, I definitely think so. I mean, Neve and I dated for a hot minute, so that thing of gathering and going to parties, or having friends over, or going to a bar or grabbing dinner, that was super relevant because we were all friends. This idea of the Hollywood scene is hilarious. It really just ends up being who are you friends with? Your friends are the people you work with, and they just happen to also be working actors. 

So we would go and play games, we would go and play pool. You would go to dinner and we’d all hang out and bullshit. It’s not like we were doing drugs and bouncing around town. We were just fucking friends that happen to have weird jobs. So I do think there’s a world where people are there to be seen or trying to status-climb, or be in the right scene. But the reality is that back in the ‘90s, it was all people we hung out with because we were just friends. It’s a very different thing. 

It’s interesting, nobody’s ever asked me about the ‘90s scene, so I don’t have any reflection on it, but my memory of it is that it was super lovely. There’s no Instagram, there’s no TikTok, you know, the world was just a simpler place. And to me, it was about working. If I wasn’t working, I didn’t know who I was. 

To jump ahead, one of your more recent co-stars, George Clooney, said some very nice things about you recently. You’ve since said his and other coworkers’ comments were like reading your own wake. Did anyone you’ve worked with personally reach out and specifically say something that meant a lot? 

Being validated by industry peers out loud meant a lot. James Gunn doesn’t have to say anything. Mike Flanagan doesn’t have to say anything. George Clooney certainly doesn’t have to stand on stage and defend all three of us. Not that we needed defense, but I’ll tell you that the thing I have really deeply appreciated is the person on the street or who at a bar will come over and be like, ‘Hey, F that guy.’ It’s one thing to read it from anonymous people online, it’s another for someone to break human barriers, come into space, and say, ‘FYI, you mean a lot to me and my family.’ That to me is super rewarding.

You know, I’ve been around a long time. And I’ve had moments of great performances and great bounties. I’m in one right now. I’ve had moments where I don’t know if I’m ever gonna work again. So the great thing about being older is that you have a depth of appreciation that you never had as a young man. So these moments remind you that you have an impact. 

We were speaking about camaraderie with your peers starting out earlier. Do you feel it even more so today?

Yeah, because there’s a rallying call, right? You could be driving along blissfully and have no idea anyone’s thinking about you, and all of a sudden a pebble drops in a huge ocean, and it’s like everyone comes running. This bell went off that said it’s time to remember this person.

Somebody once asked me what is the performance you want people to remember most. And the reality is that I’d actually rather people remember who I am on set, how I treat fans, how I treat actors, how I treat my students when I teach. That to me is way more important than if you liked Stu Macher.

You mentioned your students. What is the most important lesson about this craft you want to pass on to the next generation? 

That’s a great question. Every time you work, you’re collecting hours and you’re collecting experience. It’s not about what’s next, it’s about duration and longevity. And the greatest thing teaching taught me is that it allowed me to put language to my own beliefs around my own craft and practice.

I went to Circle in the Square Theatre School. I’m an alumni of the school. I’m very proud of the work that school does but I was given thought bubbles to what great acting meant, and it’s not until I have to live it, articulate it in others, and then in a laboratory, which is the classroom where I see it in practice, that I understand really what my beliefs are. If you’re arguing politics or religion and at some point you don’t feel connected to the argument, you know you’re not arguing based on your beliefs. You’re arguing based on what you think are facts. 

And it’s when you are arguing full-chest with everything you have that you know that this is a core tenet of who you are as a person. Same thing with teaching. What am I as an artist? What do I believe? Well, I’m going to apply those beliefs directly to people in the process. 

You mentioned longevity, and you’ve had longevity. What is the greatest lesson you’ve learned from that?

That it doesn’t matter. Whatever Scream 7 does on this upcoming Friday, or Thursday starting at midnight, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that on the other side of this bar, I have fucking 10 actors who I am so excited to go spend the next three hours talking to. It is who you travel with in this job, in this career, that gives you joy.

I have zero fucks to give about a box office number, but we did a reading of Tracy Letts’ plays, in which I sat in a room and read scripts for five hours on Friday and I’ve never been happier. The community and the people you gather with is the reason to do anything.