Another morning of low-grade acting. A crowd growing ever smaller behind Kevin who is in his element – playing a big, bold, unequivocally central role – full of physical attack and extemporaneous embellishments.
In marked contrast to the rest of the sunburnt unit K has preserved an almost deathly pallor. He is followed around the location by his standing, Joshua Andrews, son of Anthony, bearing an umbrella like some punkah wallah. K drives himself around in one of the buggies.
Jamie regards it all with ill-concealed impatience.
We talk more today – Jamie and me. I improvise some great ‘Ifs’ of history – If Joan of Arc had been deaf, If Hitler had been nice, If Shakespeare had been dyslexic, that sort of thing. Jamie insists that I call my agent ‘within the hour’ to sell the idea.
Some of the others are trying on their animal costumes for Monday. ‘I’m giving my beaver,’ shouts Robert L.