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There’s something wonderfully poetic about two friends bonded by the shared experience of disappearing beneath layers of prosthetics to become one of Batman’s most memorable villains. Danny DeVito and Colin Farrell, who’ve known each other for decades, each took their turn wearing the mantle of the Penguin, separated by thirty years but united by the peculiar torture and triumph of complete physical transformation.

DeVito first waddled into Gotham’s underworld as Oswald Cobblepot in Tim Burton’s gothic masterpiece BATMAN RETURNS in 1992, a performance so deliriously unhinged it remains the gold standard for comic book villainy. Three decades later, Farrell emerged from his own chrysalis of makeup and prosthetics as Oz Cobb in Matt Reeves’ THE BATMAN and the subsequent HBO series THE PENGUIN, delivering a grittier, more grounded take on the character that somehow managed to honor DeVito’s legacy while carving out entirely new territory.

When the two actors sat down for Variety’s Actors on Actors interview, their conversation inevitably turned to the shared ordeal that defines their Penguin experiences: the makeup chair. “I was obsessed with that film,” Farrell confessed to DeVito, before diving into the practical realities of their transformations. Both men spoke with the weary camaraderie of soldiers who’ve survived the same battlefield, trading war stories about seven-hour initial makeup tests that eventually got whittled down to a more manageable three to three-and-a-half hours each morning.

The ritual became almost sacred in its repetition. DeVito would arrive at 4:30 or 5 in the morning, deliberately dawdling with his tea while the makeup artist stood ready with brush and glue. “She’d be there all ready with her weapon, the brush,” he recalled with mock dread. Farrell understood completely, describing that first moment when the paintbrush touches skin as “a bit depressing.” But both actors discovered something transformative in the process once they surrendered to it. Coffee, music, and conversation became the gentle distractions that made the hours bearable, turning what could have been daily torture into something approaching meditation.

What emerges from their conversation isn’t just shop talk between professionals, but a deeper appreciation for the craft of complete reinvention. “The first time I saw yours, I said, ‘Oh my.’ It was a total transformation,” DeVito remarked about Farrell’s version, and “Burial,” Farrell replied, perfectly capturing the sensation of disappearing beneath someone else’s skin. Both actors understood that playing the Penguin wasn’t just about putting on a costume; it was about allowing themselves to be completely subsumed by the character, to the point where their own faces became unrecognizable.

The contrast between their interpretations speaks to the evolution of both Batman lore and cinematic storytelling. DeVito’s Oswald Cobblepot was a creature of pure theatrical malevolence, perfectly suited to Burton’s expressionistic Gotham. Farrell’s Oz Cobb exists in a more tactile, street-level world where the grotesque serves psychological rather than purely aesthetic purposes. Yet both versions required the same fundamental leap of faith: trusting that somewhere beneath all that latex and spirit gum, they could find the character’s beating heart.

Neither actor minded the daily ritual, finding unexpected pleasure in the enforced stillness and the gradual emergence of their alter ego. There’s something almost monastic about spending three hours each morning in contemplation while artists literally reshape your face, and both DeVito and Farrell seemed to recognize this as one of the unexpected gifts of the role.

As DeVito prepares to return to another beloved character, the equally shameless Frank Reynolds in the seventeenth season of IT’S ALWAYS SUNNY IN PHILADELPHIA, and Farrell continues to make waves with his Penguin portrayal, their shared experience stands as a testament to the peculiar alchemy of performance. Sometimes the most memorable characters emerge not despite the constraints of elaborate makeup and prosthetics, but because of them, forcing actors to find new ways to communicate humanity through layers of artifice.

In the end, the Penguin belongs to both of them, and to neither. It’s a character that exists in the space between actor and role, in the daily ritual of transformation, and in the strange intimacy that develops between performer and prosthetic. DeVito and Farrell understand this better than most, having both discovered that sometimes you have to disappear completely to find the most authentic version of a character, even when that character is a flightless bird with a taste for mayhem.