‘They like to smoke,” says the publicist ahead of my interview with Paolo Sorrentino and Toni Servillo. That’s why the table and chairs have been hastily dragged outside. That’s why today’s audience will be conducted alfresco. We’re on the cramped sixth-floor balcony of a Venice hotel, overlooking the sea, beneath a tumult of dark clouds. The publicist points down at my recording device and asks: “Will it pick up what they say, or just the noise of the wind?”
They like to smoke – of course they do. The Italian film-maker and his muse are both men of old Europe: rigid and courtly and serenely unreconstructed; dignified at the core and a little rackety around the edges. They’ve made seven pictures together and dearly hope they’ll make an eighth. But who can predict? Even the best-laid plans can come a cropper. Sorrentino and Servillo know that time is finite and that the reassuring old order is slipping into the past. They’ve barely whipped out their cigars before the rain comes in sideways. We survive two minutes on the balcony and trundle back to the table indoors.
