Actors are practised at charm, so when Matt Smith barrels into the room, wearing a striped sweater and swinging his bag like the Artful Dodger, I try hard to remember the pinch of salt with which I should take everything that he says. But it’s no good. Half man and half puppy, he’s so friendly, it fairly knocks me over. Am I warm enough? Where have I come from? He’s so sorry he is late (he is not late). “Bring it in!” he shouts, enveloping me in a bear hug when I hand him a book I’ve brought for him. “A present? You didn’t need to do that!” As for the small collection of chocolate biscuits someone has kindly left for us on the table at which we will sit, it provokes an expression of such delight, it could be myrrh or frankincense or – I don’t know – the kind of fabulous watch he might model for a men’s magazine. Biscuits? What next? The moon? In fact, what’s next is a cup of tea, and though he’s “a real pedant” about tea – when he was on Desert Island Discs, his luxury was an indefinite supply of English Breakfast – this, too, enraptures him. Oh, the luxury of a fresh, malty brew.
It’s early in the morning. He and I are in the hall of the Victorian chapel where he is rehearsing a new production of Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People. High above us is a gallery with elaborate wrought-iron balustrades: a place, perhaps, from which men in hats and women in twin-sets once watched choir practice, or waited for Sunday school to end. But otherwise, the scene is quite boring. Apart from the words “a day later”, chalked by an unseen hand on a blackboard, I can find no clues as to what might be happening here: no helpful props; no signs of any sturm und drang.
