Man cobbling

Danny and I worked on his first scene for five hours. He was happy with the second reading. “If you were harder to please,” I was friend enough to tell him, “you might have been the new Vin Diesel. Instead you have gurned and wotchered your way into a post as the new Shane Richie. It may behoove you to take counsel.” While my Nancy was broad but serviceable, there were murkier depths of Johnny I needed time to uncover.

I worried I had gone too far, but my co-star was unperturbed. ”Look at Moz,” he urged an imaginary audience, “giving it the verbals.” His mind is placid as a lake, its silver-glaze surface unrippled by a pebble of fear or thought. I envy him this.

We break at last for a cigarette (him) and a squint at the Guardian (me). An artist in Moscow has nailed his scrotum to the ground. I experience a burst of fellow feeling. I signed to Rough Trade. 


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