#2381 - Taylor Kitsch

If I want to shoot clean at forty, I practice at ninety or a hundred so forty feels easy. Would I open at eighty-five? No. If the animal is already going down, I will take a follow-up at eighty-five.

Ever hit one and it ran? Yeah. My one deer with the SEALs ran a few hundred yards. We tracked it, had to finish it with a pistol. Later in Montana I got hooked on bow tracking for photos—wind, calls, getting in tight. When an elk screams near you, it shakes your whole body. Bow hunts make you earn it—days to get within fifty.

You live in Montana now? That elk energy is wild. I love that close game. How long you been out there?

Just over five years. Coming into Austin is memory lane—Friday Night Lights started here. Pete Berg dragged me to Richard Lord’s to box and I loved it. Pete’s a savage in the ring—no rules once you tag him.

We trained here last time—gym next door, cold plunge. American Primeval is so intense and probably the most accurate I have seen for the West.

Living in Montana helped. I worked with a shaman, then elders on Wind River to honor the Shoshone—language, customs, even a feather on my horse. In sweats we fast, heat river rocks, set intentions, pour water, and go deep. I did them before shooting to ground Isaac. You meet him in mourning; everything is circular—he fights feral, to die honorably and reunite his family.

Those fights felt raw. How do you run them when it is that improvised and freezing?

We clear hazards, call moves mid-fight—“I am flipping you,” “getting on top”—and Pete screams, “Find a rock—kill him.” That river was near twenty-eight degrees. I let loose a war cry I had built for months and it shocked him—in a good way.

How much prep did you put into Lone Survivor? You had never shot before?

First time I ever shot a gun was for that. Live fire day one with Chris Carracci—no joking. Marcus showed up mid-range while a PA brought banana shakes. Bad look. Then simunitions: we got ambushed, I froze a call, Marcus ripped me—“You are all dead.” It leveled me. We learned fast.

Do you stay in character all day? And how did you carry the weight of Murph’s death scene?

I am present at lunch, then lock back in. Prep is everything—kill self-doubt. Pete brought the families; meeting Dan Murphy had me sick with nerves. For Murph’s climb I needed Marcus’s detail—rifle push-ups—and we shot his death in a parking lot against green screen. I had Explosions in the Sky in my ears, broke down, then we nailed it in three takes. First time I watched was with the Broncos—I was wrecked. I emailed Dan. That is all I needed.

SEALs changed me—the brotherhood is real. Marcus even took my sister and me to his ranch when she was using—no fentanyl there, just hogs and fishing. That love pushed me to start Howler’s Ridge to support the sober side—addicts and vets.

Texas’s ibogaine program for vets is saving lives. Pills wreck guys. That addictive drive can make you great or ruin you.

My sis hit hell—detoxing on my apartment floor, muscle contractions, pacing all night. A hard-nosed detox nurse said no methadone—Gatorade and a topical relaxer—and got her through in four and a half days. Sober livings bled cash; she ran; was Narcaned; once swallowed sixty-plus sleeping pills—time-release saved her. I sat in Al-Anon waiting for the worst call. She scared herself straight in Vancouver. Westie House took her back; she stayed nine months and has been clean since. That is why I am building Howler’s Ridge.

In Terminal List, Mendoza told you workups leave no time to mourn, right?

Yeah—you lose a guy Thursday, you are back Tuesday. That caged grief made my character a live wire. And vet addiction? Common. Hurt Locker nailed the “can not go back” feeling. Buds is mostly mental—often the scrawny guy drags the D-one athlete. Comfort kills; work and nerves are your friends.

I train the same for elk—cardio, legs, three hours pulling an eighty-pound bow—so when the moment comes, I am calm. Nerves mean you care.

Same with roles. I was starving and scarred for American Primeval—lost about thirty. I even broke my foot stealing horses—doc cut a small bone and sealed it with bone wax, basically a tamponade, so I could get back. Uneven ground still bites. I wrote the teepee scene—you see Isaac completely raw.

Waco—Kuresh—did you want to bail? I almost bought his Camaro once, then said no to carrying that energy. Same with a cult-built theater here after I saw Holy Hell—guy was a hypnotist grifter who gave people this “knowing” that felt like God. Placebo or breathwork can spike a DMT-like state—Kundalini does it—but I did not want that building.

Month three I was judging Kuresh hard and it blocked me. Once I dropped judgment and rooted him in his broken childhood, I could fly and let audiences judge. After dark roles I purge—ride, write letters, burn them. Bang Bang Club hit me worse—nightmares in South Africa, carrying a troubled mind. I do not really do drugs—weed three times. First time was Oliver Stone’s medicinal—my buddy brought a bong. Terrible idea.

Charlie Sheen’s doc is wild—crack, chaos, ice cubes to wake up on set—yet he is eight years sober. He was on Apocalypse Now’s set at ten, then starred in Platoon ten years later—Oliver Stone, Defoe, Berenger. If I could time-travel on set, Braveheart or Apocalypto—Gibson can make epics.

I had dinner with Gibson—he was riding horses camera to camera, speech, playback, falling asleep standing. My dad played bagpipes; that sound is him. He was an alcoholic, not around much, but at Christmas he would fill the pipes and play—beautiful.

You got to say goodbye to him, right?

Yeah. My shaman texted—he had a dream I was losing someone. I drove to Canada; my dad did not recognize me under a beard, then lit up with all three sons there. I snuck a piper into the hospital courtyard—Amazing Grace. He woke, asked, “Play one for my mother,” like he knew. We laughed through a “weekend at Bernie’s” bed jam on a ramp, then I got ten minutes alone—promised him what I would build. He passed on Father’s Day. I went back to set Tuesday, riding Banana Bread, carrying that loss straight into the work.

Art was mirroring life. I was playing a guy in mourning when my dad, who I barely knew, died. The crew found out before I was ready and that rattled me, but older guys shared their father stories and it turned into something beautiful. I rode into the scene, did the take, buckled, and Pete sent me home. To the minute I broke down, he was being cremated. It was cathartic. I sweat, I mourned right, and then spent months asking, am I really living? I am now, but it knocked me.

Loss makes you appreciate people. My best friend back in New York was a hardcore addict. He even detoxed at my place in LA. I knew he would die, and when he overdosed it still felt impossible. Then you just go back to work with a piece of music missing from the world. It is so abstract until it happens.

I never went at my dad with where were you. People are who they are. I even leaned into his roots. I love the Highlands and the Games. For the funeral I hired three pipers, and one guy turns out he played next to my father at the world championships. He played my dad’s favorite songs. It brought the three brothers back together. I stood up in the church and said the light here is we are good again. Then it was right back to Prime Evil.

When you did Koresh, what messed you up the most about preparing to play him?

Rooting him emotionally. He was a master manipulator, always the victim, reading people like a great coach. When cornered he weaponized the Bible and no one could keep up. He debated theologians, recruited off that, sent tapes overseas. Smart, but all fear and insecurity. I still will never fully understand. He shot himself, and part of me wishes he had lived so we could learn from it. Survivors told us he thought he was coming back. One sweet guy on set said he was off to see blueprints for an alien warship. Most people are followers. He announced a new light where only he sleeps with the women. Some left. A lot stayed.

A lot of brains do not steer well, and people crave a leader. It is tribal DNA. Primates have a top monkey. We are not that different.

And Waco itself was madness. After Ruby Ridge the ATF needed a win. They could have picked me up on a jog but instead staged a spectacle. Tanks, fire, fifty one days. They blasted torture sounds, blocked fire trucks. There is even the wild Dick DeGuerin story: the FBI drove my lawyer to the door in a tank, bullet holes in the ceiling, bodies, and Koresh literally hiding inside a piano listening. That is how paranoid and theatrical it all was.

It is criminal to watch. Tanks pushing fire and then denying it. How long did it take you to get that guy out of your head?

A month to six weeks. I dream him. Your subconscious opens up; you are haunted until you can exercise the ghost. Then you hear Waco deniers and realize people believe anything. I stopped reading reviews after John Carter. It put me in a dark place. Friday Night Lights was pure because there was no social media noise. We just worked.

Do they still do focus groups? Critics and social media reward negativity. But audiences can override them. Look at Adam Sandler: critics hate, people love. It is real.

Tests do not mean much. John Carter tested through the roof and I still got hammered. Terminal List season one got crushed by critics, but the audience spoke. That is why we got the green light to tell Ben’s story.

Jack Carr is a monster in the best way. He set out to become a SEAL, get real experience, then write. Lifelong prep, voracious reader, and it shows in the authenticity.

When Jack hits set it is like a kid in a candy store. He trusted me and gave me a long leash. We had SEALs and an Army Ranger around us daily, so the authenticity meter was right there. I built a CIA room moment from my buddies’ stories. And I rooted Ben’s season one twist in Marcus’s idea of dying with your boots on. Some SEALs told me they got it. It is all gray.

People are complicated. And if you were there, what would you do?

Exactly. These are not robots. In the moment, if a guy is about to sell girls into a black market, he does not get to live. American Prime Evil reminded me how brutal the eighteen fifties were. You would kill me for my jacket on a river. I want no part of living back then.

Montana mountains are a cure. That majesty humbles you. People out there are chilled out for a reason.

Nature fixes perspective. I land in Bozeman, bike, fly fish, and the noise drops. I even bought a thirty five dollar smoothie by accident. I kept adding stuff like a clown.

Austin’s traffic is adorable compared to LA. LA is a terrible way to live now.

Nothing films there anymore. How did they blow that? I love the lake life here. LA got transactional. Everybody wants something.

Well, listen, brother, you are a very interesting guy with awesome stories, and you are a really great actor. I have been a fan for a long time.

Likewise. This was really fun. Thanks for having me.

That is awesome. Great show. Hi everybody.