GQ's Actor Of The Year has battled zombies, Batman and the British army to win his second major award in 12 months.

There's a piece of arithmetic that's long been known in Hollywood which says the secret of a successful career is to do two bad films to pay for one good one. Two roles where you swallow your pride and look at the pay cheque rather than the script, to subsidise the one you think is actually worth doing. But GQ's Actor Of The Year, Cillian Murphy, has hit upon a new and winning formula. Just keep making great films. Eureka.

Consider the 30-year-old Corkonian's track record since his breakthrough in Danny Boyle's 2002 sci-fi zombie hit, 28 Days Later... There have been cameos in the Oscar-winning Cold Mountain and the excellent Girl With a Pearl Earring, a brace of highly regarded Irish independent movies (Zonad, Intermission), a scene-stealing turn as the villain Scarecrow in Batman Begins, the best outing yet for the caped crusader, and a further touch of evil in Sam Raimi's (sic) accomplished shocker, Red Eye. And it can't be complete coincidence that Ken Loach and Neil Jordan both recently turned in their best films in years, with Irish Civil War story and Palme d'Or winner The Wind That Shakes the Barley and Pat McCabe cross-dressing adaptation, Breakfast on Pluto, respectively, both of which have had Murphy as leading man or man/woman, if you prefer. Bringing things full circle, next year sees the release of Sunshine, teaming him up once again for more sci-fi with Boyle and scriptwriter Alex Garland, as a physicist charged with reigniting a dying sun to save the earth. There's no Jaws 4 lurking in that CV.

"People have to pay mortgages," he reasons modestly, sitting outside a grimy Kentish Town alehouse on a summer afternoon. "People have to pay fucking alimony, people have to do whatever, but at the moment I've yet to have to make a choice purely for the cash and that's a nice position to be in. Now I am not going to pontificate about it because next year I could find myself in a position where I need to do one for money but as of now I have been lucky in that I can not work for long stretches of time and wait for the big thing."

Bearing this out, with more than half the year gone, Murphy has yet to strike a bat in 2006. The arrival of his first child, Malachy, last October, prompted him to take an extended spell of paternity leave, but he's now keen to end his days of "Daddy day care."

"Actors are a mix of deep insecurity and overreaching self-confidence," he laughs, between sips of coffee (quite possibly the first the pub has served this millennium) "and I oscillate between the two. I wanted to take the time off. I've turned things down, but I'm anxious now to get back."

And there can be few more agreeable ways to end a sabbatical than to star in a romantic comedy—Watching the Detectives—opposite Lucy Liu. Indeed, comedy is one of the few things missing from his CV and while he muses over the "weird combination, the big Irish head of me and gorgeous Lucy Liu," it's clear the same common sense informs this decision as it has many in the past.

"A lot of the movies I have done have been fucking intense," he laughs. "I'm invariably running around, covered in blood. I wanted to do something where I could have a laugh. I'm pretty laid-back, I like to have a bit of fun but people can get the wrong impression."

The reason for this misconception, if that's what it is, isn't difficult to see when Murphy is seated across the table. The eyes have it. Unnervingly intense, piercingly clear and instantly recognisable, they carry the same gravitas as those of Pacino, Newman, or Mitchum in earlier generations.

Had his parents had their way, those eyes would now be employed studying the find print of legal cases and that long procession of noughts on the end of his clients' cheques, but Murphy disappointed them. Then years on from his acting debut, it seems a reasonable time to ask the question: what kind of lawyer would he have made?

"I have no idea," he replies, "because I genuinely didn't even go in, I just went on the piss and played music."

Perhaps he wouldn't have made it at the bar but further interrogation of his putative music career—along with his brother he was in a Zappa-influenced band, Sons of Mr. Greengenes—suggests he would at least have had the ability to answer a leading question.

Asked to quote any lyric he had written, he simply laughs, "No way, no way, not a fucking hope. It would be embarrassing."

He'll go no further than cite his musical influences—the Beatles, the Band, Stevie Wonder, Jeff Buckley—but considers his own brush with a musical career—the band were offered a five-record deal but turned it down because Murphy's parents considered his brother too young to live in London—something of a lucky escape.

"I have so many friends in the business," he reasons, "and it's fucking vicious. Of all of the branches of entertainment it's the worst in terms of picking people up and dropping them. Also, in acting you are autonomous and you don't have this five-way decision on everything which I used to find so frustrating."
Resolutely non-starry, he celebrated his 30th with seven old mates in France—"I don't have famous friends." Murphy talks about acting with a clear head that suggests he could have made a success of just about anything he chose, even the law.

He knows, for instance, what he wants to do and what he doesn't.

"I don't want to play any more bad guys," he states, but he has said he'd reprise the role of Scarecrow if asked. "I've only done two and what's weird is how they stay in people's minds."

What does he want to do?

"The main mission is that I want to make a piece of art, one piece of art, one film that you leave behind in your CV or your legacy or whatever that affects people or that people hold up as something worthwhile."
Many would say he's already accomplished this. As for whether he made the right choice in becoming an actor, the prosecution rests.