The Venice Film Festival in August, the end of a long hot day at the end of an immorally long hot week. After a comical photo call with a lot of Italian photographers in a hotel garden, Bill Murray has agreed to spend five more minutes being photographed by me for Premiere, an American movie magazine. Affected badly by the heat I have somehow by osmosis mutated into the combined personae of all the Italian photographers. I begin to direct him like they did and also with their accents.
“BEEL! BEEL! AMAYZING!! WHY NOT YOU GO IN THIS HOUSE, YOU GO!”
And I gesticulate wildly to the disturbing playhouse that sits idle on this overly clipped lawn. Beel, powerless, does as I command.
“Like this, how about this? You like?”
Beel is also now speaking English in the style of someone whose first language is not English. The picture is made. I approach him with gratitude and shake his hand.
“Cheers mate. That was brilliant, thanks a lot,” in my normal English accent.
“Wait a minute! You’re not Italian…..”