It is just before 10am and Sean Penn does not want to be here. He made the mistake, he confesses, of sleeping last night with the curtains closed. He slips into acting mode and does a funny impression of a groggy man being jolted awake. Now he craves daylight.
So we abandon Off the Record, a basement bar at Washington’s venerable Hay-Adams hotel, and head up to a room on the third floor. Penn’s publicist hastily wheels room service breakfast out of the way and apologises for her unmade bed. The 63-year-old actor settles into an armchair by an open window, sunlight exploring light and shade on his chiselled features. He drinks a bottle of Sprite and says contentedly, “Whatever time you need,” – words guaranteed to make his scheduler nervous.
