Page 28 of 32 Days in May

Marco Antoniou Is Done with Acting

Years in the limelight—and away—have taught Marco a lesson he’ll never forget: Som . . .

The preview pane cleaves the sentence mercilessly. What had it taught him? What had he learned? Above the headline is a thumbnail photo.

I can tell the photo was taken recently because he has the mullet and he’s on the beach. An Evergreen beach. I would recognize the dunes—which Marco lounges against, his weight shifted backward onto an elbow so that his linen shirt dips open perfectly, revealing a triangle of tan chest—anywhere. His hair is expertly styled, smoothed away from his face in careful waves. The party part of his mullet, the worst part, is brushed back and cast over his shoulder. Marco’s gaze holds mine from the photo, eyelashes framing his chocolate-brown eyes like kohl. He’s not smiling; instead, his full lips are pushed together and parted ever so slightly, like he’s been caught mid-sentence.

God, he’s perfect, I think.

The thought comes to me so fast, I can’t even stop myself.

Marco Antoniou Is Done with Acting

Years in the limelight—and away—have taught Marco a lesson he’ll never forget: Some bad days will haunt you forever.

By Sage Liu

When Marco Antoniou agreed to do an interview, I didn’t think I’d have to take two trains and a bus to reach him. But these days, the former Dude’s Ranch star spends his time hiding out on the tiny island of Evergreen, a lesser-known Jersey Shore point fifty-five minutes east of Philadelphia and two hours south of Manhattan, where Marco usually lives. My trip down is organized directly with Marco, who prefers to manage his own schedule. He buys me a first-class Amtrak ticket to Atlantic City, and apologizes profusely for being unable to pick me up. Marco assures me that the bus ride to Evergreen will, at best, leave me feeling inspired—or, at worst, give me some time to catch up on emails. And like that, I agree.

Marco’s charm has long been noted—by critics, who mostly panned Dude’s Ranch as low-brow junk to fill the airwaves before Thursday Night Football, with the exception of Antoniou’s performance as the winsome Vinny Baldacco; by business managers on both sides of the negotiation table, who describe him as humble and hardworking; and best of all, by his friends, who have stuck with Marco through thick and thin.

I take the train to Atlantic City and then a bus to the little shore-point island Marco refers to as his “sort of hometown”: Evergreen, New Jersey.

Evergreen is a juggernaut; a tiny town of 10,000 residents that balloons to a cultural hot spot of nearly 200,000 during the summer season. Comedians and musicians travel from all over to play to a boisterous, sold-out crowd at The Billiards Backroom, and there are rumors that even pro ballers and A-listers have looked into purchasing bayside property on the hyper-secluded micro-islands that freckle the southernmost tip of Evergreen. This is to say, it’s not weird that Marco is here. But it is certainly a choice.

“New York gave me my livelihood back, but when I’m here I reconnect with who I really am,” he remarks while giving me a tour of his family’s sleek, European villa, which includes a private dock on Malaga Bay and a row of perfectly pruned fig trees.

Marco has a tendency to do this—to sort of speak in greeting card phrases. I can’t tell if he’s the sweetest man on Earth or messing with me, sending off one-liners he knows will click into place perfectly for a cover story. It’s this tension that keeps me on my toes.

Having grown up in the PNW, I wasn’t familiar with the cultish fervor tristate locals feel for the Jersey Shore. Like many Americans, I associated the phrase with a reality TV show and the ensuing mid-aughts hedonism. But Marco assures me I am in fact in the greatest place on Earth. Evergreen is a place of paradox, he says while thumbing a ripe fig. “That’s why I fit in perfectly.”

From the balcony off the back of Antoniou’s temporary home, you can see exactly where the bay meets the Atlantic. “This is my favorite view,” he tells me, passing me a mug of what looks to be perfectly brewed black tea. Marco has been living a sober lifestyle since 2019, but he still feels awful for only being able to offer guests sparkling water or some form of caffeine. “I try to remove all temptation and then I look like a total asshole.” His accent crests on the word asshole.

The mention of temptation feels like a natural segue into talking about the notorious, albeit very private, heartthrob’s love life. Strangely, unexpectedly, when I mention the idea of love, Marco is incredibly forthcoming.

“I’m a romantic. It’s the only core belief I have that I haven’t managed to destroy.” This is delivered with a soft laugh. “People are falling in love all over the place, all the time. Even in their darkest, most fucked-up hours. That was the most consistent part of rehab, actually. Illicit romances.

“I just don’t think it’s in the cards for me,” he adds. This feels like a profoundly vulnerable revelation, delivered with a cigarette hanging from the center of his lips—his only remaining vice. “I think different people have different energy. For a long time, my energy was not attractive. And now, I’m old.” He laughs.

“Too old for love?” I ask.

“Too old for heartbreak.”

What a correction.

These days Marco stays busy with a number of investments in small businesses, most of which are run by the dear friends he made in the wake of sobriety. He’s part owner of an olive grove in southern Lazio that produces award-winning oil; he’s an investor in a woman-run healthcare app; he provided start-up capital for a tattoo shop in Bed-Stuy. He’s liable to show up at any of these places, at any time, to lend a hand wherever needed. Marco is a jack of all trades, and by his own judgment, a master of none.

“I was a fine TV actor. I can deliver a line, hit my mark, have a positive attitude. But really, I think what I’m good at is just being there for people. It’s a skill, and I’m always working at it. I like the idea of being a reliable guy. You need a ride? A plus one? Someone to sit with you when things suck?”

“So, I take it this is your way of saying you won’t be making a comeback to TV?”

Marco scoffs playfully. “A comeback? Are you kidding me?”

We settle into matching rocking chairs on the back deck and talk for what feels like both fifteen minutes and five hours. When the sun starts to set, Marco tells me he’ll take me to his favorite barbecue place. He drives a ten-year-old Cadillac that’s in near-pristine condition.

“I feel like an old-school mobster in this thing,” he says with a rakish grin. Behind the wheel, Marco looks like he could easily star in a glossy remake of The Godfather. He’s a testament to the existence of star power. Even in a navy-blue T-shirt he claims came in a pack of three, Marco looks like someone worth watching.

And he is. Marco Antoniou may never cross our screens again, but I have a feeling we haven’t seen the last of him. When I ask him what’s next, he details a project that is equal parts glamour and sophistication.