Fresh off a Golden Globe win and an Oscar nomination, Rose Byrne continues to take on interesting roles that allow her to show off her acting range.

Rose Byrne / Photo by Chelsea Lauren/Shutterstock

There is a calm assurance to Rose Byrne these days, the kind that comes not from certainty, but from lived experience. Once positioned as an elegant dramatic presence in films such as Troy and television series like Damages, Byrne has since reshaped her career with quiet confidence, emerging as one of the most intelligent and adaptable performers of her generation.

That evolution is brought into sharp focus by If I Had Legs I’d Kick You, a performance that has already earned the 46-year-old actress a Golden Globe win along with an Oscar nomination—and reaffirmed her instinct for material that blends discomfort, humor and emotional precision. It is a film that resists neat categorization, much like Byrne herself.

Balancing an expansive screen career with family life alongside partner Bobby Cannavale and their two sons, Rocco and Rafael, the Aussie star speaks thoughtfully about comedy, creativity, motherhood and longevity, and about why curiosity, rather than ambition, continues to guide her work.

If I Had Legs I’d Kick You has become a real career marker for you, including the Golden Globe win. What made this project feel so significant?
It felt significant long before any awards came into the conversation. When I first read the script, I remember laughing and then feeling slightly uncomfortable, almost in the same breath. That combination is quite rare. The film wasn’t trying to guide the audience gently—it trusted them to sit with contradictions and unresolved emotions.

At the end of the day it deals with issues we all encounter—a mother protecting her child, yet also desperately trying to keep hold of what it is to be herself, and that can feel like a difficult combination to assimilate, at times.

Winning the Golden Globe was obviously extraordinary, but what stayed with me more was the process itself. I felt challenged in a way I hadn’t for some time. There were moments where I genuinely didn’t know how to approach certain scenes, and I love that feeling. It reminds you that growth only really happens when you’re out of your comfort zone.

The film balances humor with emotional exposure in a very exposed way. Was that daunting?
Yes, but in a good way. If something doesn’t scare me a little, I usually question whether it’s worth doing.

You’re often credited with a kind of “comic renaissance.” How do you look back on that shift now?
With a lot of gratitude, honestly. Early in my career, I was very much cast as the composed, dramatic woman—restrained, elegant, often quite serious. I enjoyed that work, but I also felt there was a whole part of me that wasn’t being seen or used.

Comedy arrived almost sideways. It wasn’t part of some grand plan. Films like Bridesmaids opened a door I didn’t even realize I’d been knocking on. Suddenly, I was allowed to be messy, physical, flawed, sometimes even unattractive, and that was incredibly liberating.

I think sometimes in a career you need to feel as though you have the licence to step outside yourself and do something different; then once you do, there is no going back.

Comedy is often underestimated, yet it can be brutally exposing. Did it change how you think about vulnerability?
Absolutely. Comedy is unforgiving. If something doesn’t land, you know immediately—there’s nowhere to hide. But that’s also its strength.

At its best, comedy is deeply human. You’re revealing insecurities, vanity, desperation, tenderness, often all at once. I think that’s why it resonates so strongly with audiences. We recognize ourselves in those moments.

Your performances feel very observational. Has that always been instinctive?
Yes, I’ve always been a watcher. I notice how people behave when they’re uncomfortable, or trying to impress someone, or pretending not to care. Those small details tell you everything about a person.

I used to love the audition process when I was younger, but also open auditions where I could really look at how people were carrying themselves both when trying to impress a casting agent, and before/after it.

I love to watch and gauge people, and as an actor, that kind of observation is invaluable. It stops characters from feeling generic.

Did becoming a mother intensify that instinct?
Without question. Watching children experience the world is extraordinary. Everything is immediate: joy, frustration, curiosity, anger. There’s no filter, no self-consciousness.

It reconnects you with something very raw and very real. As an actor, that’s incredibly powerful.
You’re reminded of what unguarded emotion looks like.

You’ve spoken before about how unprepared you felt for parenthood at first. How do you reflect on that now?
I think that sense of unpreparedness never completely disappears. You just become more comfortable living with it. Early on, I genuinely thought I could educate my way through parenting. I read everything, asked everyone, tried to anticipate every scenario. And then, of course, reality arrived.

What I’ve learned is that parenting is a constant process of adjustment. You’re learning alongside your children and there’s a humility that comes with that, definitely.

Does it benefit your acting to be able to look inside the minds of children?
There is such an innocent view on the world, and it does make you realize how, as adults, we can become so bitter and skeptical.

My friend said he was teaching his kid manners and they gave him ice cream for the first time, so all the way home he kept saying, ‘please!’ And he knew exactly what the word meant. Something happened in his brain where he thought, ‘If I say that word, I can get exactly what I want,’ and I love that.

It’s such a simple mechanic and I wish we could all be a little bit more like that, at times.

Tiredness is something many parents talk about. Is it something you’ve simply accepted?
It’s getting better now, as the boys are older, but in the early days, yes, most definitely. Much like being an actor on set for 12-14 hours a day, you just learn to recalibrate. You’re tired all the time, but it becomes part of the gig and you just get on with it.

What surprised me is how little resentment there is. The joy outweighs the exhaustion in ways that are hard to explain until you experience it.

Bobby Cannavale had already been through parenthood once. How did that shape your dynamic?
It helped enormously. Bobby has a calm confidence that comes from experience. He wasn’t rattled by things that felt overwhelming to me early on.

He carries with him, across all things, a sense that things will be OK. That’s just the way he is, and when you’re a woman exposed to that, it feels like the greatest thing in the world.

Your career has spanned studio films, independent projects, television and comedy franchises. How do you choose projects at this stage?
I listen to my instinct more than anything else. I’ve learned to trust my initial reaction when I read something. If a script stays with me, if it unsettles me, excites me, or raises questions, that’s usually a sign I should pay attention.

I’m less interested in repeating myself. What motivates me now is curiosity—the feeling that a project will teach me something new or stretch me in an unexpected way.

Has success changed your relationship with ambition?
It’s softened it. Early ambition is loud and urgent—you’re constantly proving yourself, chasing momentum. Over time, that fades.

Now, ambition feels quieter and more intentional. It’s about alignment rather than accumulation. Does this work fit my life? Does it reflect who I am now? Those questions matter more to me than scale or visibility.

Finally, what excites you most about what lies ahead?
The uncertainty. I still want to be surprised: by material, by collaborators, by myself. As long as I’m curious, challenged and able to laugh, I feel incredibly fortunate.