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Emma Corrin’s look on the day we meet—khaki trousers, pale blue button-down, navy pullover, and a mop of short, insouciantly tousled blond hair—calls to mind not so much the late Princess Diana but a young Prince William, from the era when he might have adorned the bedroom walls of smitten schoolgirls around the world. The smile seals it: When the 26-year-old actor ushers me into a roomy Tribeca apartment they’re renting (while filming the FX whodunit series Retreat over in New Jersey) and offers me tea, they flash the shy yet undeniably charming grin of an aughts teen idol.
Diana has long been linked with LGBTQ+ identity in the public consciousness, supporting the still-nascent gay-rights movement years before Ronald Reagan dared to utter the word AIDS—usually while immaculately clad in something by Versace or Ferragamo. Recently, though, a subtle filmic queering of her legacy has taken place, with the openly bisexual actor Kristen Stewart playing a somewhat sapphically inclined Diana in Pablo Larraín’s 2021 film Spencer. Earlier that year, Corrin, who received a Golden Globe for their portrayal of a young Diana on season four of Netflix’s The Crown, quietly came out as queer and nonbinary, adding “she/they” pronouns to their Instagram bio. (Corrin currently uses “they/them.”)
It might not seem noteworthy for a star of Corrin’s stature to identify in that way; after all, they’re in good company, as musicians such as Demi Lovato, Kehlani, and Halsey now use they/them pronouns. With over 100 anti-trans bills filed in states across the U.S. so far this year, though, there has rarely been a more dangerous time to publicly transcend the gender binary, even if you’re protected by the sheen of celebrity. It also couldn’t be a more critical time. There’s something galvanizing about Corrin rising to fame by playing an English rose, a genteel, distinctly British vision of femininity, even as they discard that same ideal of femininity in their own life.
“I feel much more seen when I’m referred to as ‘they,’ but my closest friends, they will call me ‘she,’ and I don’t mind, because I know they know me,” explains Corrin as some of these friends drift in and out of the room; they’re both former classmates from St. John’s College, Cambridge, where Corrin studied education and drama, and are currently visiting on a break from their studies at Yale. Corrin’s dog Spencer—no relation to the People’s Princess—sniffs my shoes with mild interest before settling down for a nap as we discuss the boxing class that one of Corrin’s flatmates is headed to, which naturally leads me to recommend Outbox, a trans-owned boxing gym in Brooklyn. (So often, when queer people of similar ages and demographic backgrounds meet, this is how we operate; we trade names of restaurants and gyms and hotels and gay bars, a sort of impromptu, word-of-mouth LGBTQ+ Yelp.)
Corrin is enthusiastic but admits they’re more of a runner, heading out daily for a winding on-foot route near their South London home. They haven’t spent much time in New York before this, and are visibly animated by what the city has in store, from a Broadway matinee of Company, to an upcoming trip to a lakeside Airbnb in the Catskills with friends, to the all-important Pride celebrations in June, which they’re excited to experience despite admitting they’re not exactly a fixture on the international party circuit. Corrin tells me they can regularly be found cold-water swimming in the Ladies’ Pond in London’s Hampstead Heath, which makes me determined to sell them on the queer and trans haven that is New York City’s Riis Beach—a rocky stretch of coastline where members of the community walk in everything from board shorts to micro-bikinis, exposing miles of unairbrushed skin, often hand-in-hand with same-sex partners or with chest scars from top surgery fully visible.
I ask Corrin about a photo they posted of themself in a chest binder last July along with a caption about safe binding practices. Posting anything to Instagram about gender identity can be “really scary,” they say, and the July post prompted a flood of comments, not all of them respectful. “In my mind, gender just isn’t something that feels fixed,” they say, “and I don’t know if it ever will be; there might always be some fluidity there for me.” As for their dating life, Corrin doesn’t place limits on who they’re attracted to, shrugging and simply saying, “I like people,” but also fondly remembering a date they went on not long after they came out that served as a kind of entrée to a new world. “My first date with a girl, they were like, Oh! You’re a baby queer!” recalls Corrin as they sip tea, adding, “It was amazing. We actually didn’t end up seeing each other again, but she really gave me the lowdown.”
Corrin has also dated men and admits they’ve occasionally felt “intense pressure” to justify their LGBTQ+ identity: “I’m working out all this complex gender and sexuality stuff. And yet, I’m seeing a guy? That feels very juxtaposed, even if I’m very happy.” Corrin is focused, they say, on building a queer and trans community. Taking to Instagram helps on that front: “If you have a platform and you’re able to use it, that’s obviously so important—and I met some incredible people through it.”
When we meet again a month later, in a downtown park on a May day so alarmingly hot that children and adults alike are making good use of nearby sprinklers, Corrin’s outfit is less preppy Eton grad and more late‑’70s London flaneur; they’re clad in a checked pastel Fiorucci shorts suit and baseball cap, the clear blue eyes that so adeptly communicated Diana’s private anguish on The Crown now free of makeup and taking in the managed chaos that seems to engulf New York City whenever the temperature rises above 80.
Corrin’s looks have been much remarked on and tracked ever since they wore their first Celine suit and tie for a British Vogue party just before the start of the pandemic. Collaborating with stylist Harry Lambert, they favor of-the-moment brands like Loewe, Marco Ribeiro, and Charlotte Knowles (they are also a brand ambassador for Miu Miu and Cartier). Corrin claims Tilda Swinton as an inspiration in fashion, and it’s not hard to see a link between the two actors’ instinct for play and irreverence. “What’s exciting about working with Emma is that they’re a risk-taker,” says Lambert, adding, “They want to have fun. They’re excited by fashion. They’re not scared of it.” There is, at times, a joyful weirdness to Corrin’s style, in the most wholly reclaimed sense of the word. Think of the Loewe balloon bra they wore over a floral dress to the 2022 Olivier Awards—where they were nominated for their role in the West End play Anna X as a “fake heiress” inspired by real-life grifter Anna Sorokin. There’s a touch of camp here too, even a subversion of award shows that have long prized a strict adherence to traditional gender roles. (It feels worth noting that there is no “best nonbinary performer” category at the Oscars.) For the 2022 Met Gala, Corrin wore a custom Miu Miu coat and top hat inspired by the 1880s New York socialite Evander Berry Wall, who was commonly known as “the King of Dudes.” The outfit was masculine, but also foppish and historically inclined and just the slightest bit silly, sending a clear message about how Corrin wanted to be perceived on that night. As a queer, nonbinary actor in Hollywood, Corrin was never going to blend in, but their Met Gala look felt like a love letter to standing out.
There was plenty of masculine energy to draw from in Corrin’s own family, which consists of a businessman father, a speech therapist mother, and two younger brothers, Richard and Jonty, who are currently working in music production and finishing university, respectively. Corrin describes themself as an outdoorsy, frequently free-running child who “thrived in summer,” building forts on their family’s property in Kent and nurturing a preteen fascination with insects. Corrin’s family was supportive when they came out, they say: “I started dating a girl and told my mum, and then my little brother DM’d me saying, ‘Hey, I wanted to say welcome, because I’ve been bi for ages.’ ” Corrin says they are consistently amazed by the fluidity and ease of their younger brother’s peer group, noting, “the next generation is so much more chill. They are finding a way to express themselves which is less binary in a very organic way. While we’re almost caught in between.”
As close as Corrin is to their parents, brothers, and college friends, the actor is equally enthusiastic about their queer “chosen family”; one of their best friends in Hollywood is Schitt’s Creek creator and star Dan Levy, who came to see Corrin onstage in Anna X and solidified his starring role in their life when he nursed Corrin through a bout of kidney stones while they were his houseguest in Los Angeles.
“He’s full of wisdom,” says Corrin simply of Levy, praising his Schitt’s Creek character David Rose’s dry description of his pansexuality: “I like the wine and not the label.” Levy has equal admiration for Corrin’s acting talent, telling me, “I remember watching Emma in The Crown and being so taken by their choices. Stepping into the shoes of the most famous woman in the world couldn’t have been easy, and yet their interpretation of Diana was so assured and thoughtful and realized. It takes a great brain to be able to figure out a part like that, and I wanted to know that brain.”
Another of Corrin’s closest industry confidants is the Canadian comedian Mae Martin, who has explored self-expression and the limits of gender identity on their semi-autobiographical Netflix series Feel Good. Martin and Corrin bonded over the experience of having their shows come out during the pandemic. “If I had to liken our friendship to a fictional one, I would say maybe Gordie LaChance and Chris Chambers in Stand By Me, but that’s mostly because we both look like small boys sometimes,” jokes Martin over email, adding that Corrin “has a streak of Larry David about them. They’re very funny, always in a scrape of some kind, and they are an excellent observer of human nature.”
While Levy and the rest of Corrin’s friends know Corrin to be constitutionally upbeat, they’re developing a reputation for typifying emotional dissatisfaction onscreen. In the upcoming Michael Grandage–directed romantic drama My Policeman, Corrin plays the jilted third party to a clandestine love affair (this one between a policeman and a museum curator played by Harry Styles and David Dawson, respectively), but where Diana took the pain of her failed marriage out on herself through disordered eating and self-harm, Corrin’s My Policeman character Marion aims her rejection and fury squarely out at the world, determined not to be the only one hurting.
“Emma has a sharp intelligence, and they’re able to communicate the essence of a character sometimes with just a look. They’re someone who can do a lot with a little, and that’s a tremendous quality for a performer,” says Grandage of Corrin. Corrin’s role in My Policeman is, by nature, somewhat secondary to the crackling passion between Styles’s and Dawson’s characters, but Corrin manages to bring a keenly felt emotional desperation to the proceedings that’s difficult to look away from—or stop thinking about once you’ve left the theater.
Corrin is used to playing what might be called corset roles in projects like Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre’s upcoming adaptation of Lady Chatterley’s Lover (due on Netflix this year), but that doesn’t mean it’s always comfortable for them to enact femininity onscreen. “I remember struggling with having to wear bras in Chatterley and as Marion, but it’s quite difficult, because I’m not Emma, right? I’m an actor, and I have a job to do,” they say, noting that working with a queer dresser on the set of My Policeman was a comfort. “My dresser and I really had a laugh about me putting on these 1960s bras.” As much as Corrin is enjoying their foray into film, they’re not ready to break up with the stage quite yet: “Theater is where I started acting, and returning to it feels like coming home,” says Corrin, promising, “I’ll be back. Watch this space.”
Filming the new show Retreat is an every day affair, but in spare moments Corrin is working on a screenplay of their own (which they describe merely as “an adaptation of a true story”) with writing partner Avigail Tlalim—or reading. Recent favorites include Olivia Laing’s To the River and Paul B. Preciado’s An Apartment on Uranus, the latter of which struck them so deeply that they shift from their perch on the park bench we’re sharing to present me with a delicate astral tattoo on their right arm, inked there in honor of Preciado’s work. “I’m going to butcher what the book is about, but he basically likens queerness to having an apartment on another planet, because it feels like nothing works in the way you need it to in order to feel seen.” On the guilty-pleasure front, Corrin and I share a mutual fascination with the budding relationship between Selling Sunset star Chrishell Stause and nonbinary Australian rapper G Flip. “Did you see their music video together? I feel like they’re both having a teenage sexual awakening,” Corrin says.
As the sun beats down and ice-cream-crazed children run amok, our conversation turns to another topic that animates both of us: the hunt for the perfect car. For some LGBTQ+ individuals, the search for the right car—or handbag, or lip ring, or any other material good—can be an opportunity to clue the world in to how you want to be seen. In his 2019 memoir A Year Without a Name, the writer and activist Cyrus Dunham relays the story of hunting for the perfect convertible during the early months of his transition, writing, “If it sounds like I let a commodity become a proxy for my identity, that’s because I did.” Corrin’s own dream car, a 25-year-old green Jeep Wrangler with a tan roof and a noisy transmission, recently came into their possession by way of a location manager they met while filming. Their eyes light up as they describe the process of fixing up the somewhat dilapidated Jeep, and it’s easy to imagine them in the driver’s seat, making their way down the narrow streets of London or along the route from New York City to the Catskills, one arm propped out the window as they pilot their vehicle on a winding journey to futures unseen.
In this story: hair, Jimmy Paul; makeup, Dick Page.