I’m definitely going to die, here, aren’t I? Damian Lewis just said the full name of his boarding school out loud and blood started seeping out of my peasant-bred ears. “Alexander Plantagenet Cary, the hereditary viscount of Falkland.”
And is it also secretly a comment on the ruling class in Britain, and how it suits the elite to keep a certain stiff-lipped order to things, even to this day?” Perfectly cut suit and a smoke out on the balcony. But then muggins here went to Beirut and confronted him about it in a motel. And – dash it all – my best friend in all the secret service has defected to bally Russia.” The shocking aftermath of the second world war to contend with, too. “Well there’s been a spot of bother in Europe. Do not even start on who the Englishman played by the Australian is meant to be. Everyone who sounds American is actually Russian and everyone who sounds Russian is actually American. A man on a bench will swap umbrellas with me in silence. A waiter will bring a glass of champagne with a napkin I have to eat after reading. A flashback, a sleight-of-hand, a big gasping identity reveal. You never quite know whether Damian Lewis is really feeling all of his emotions or going through some complicated act. Someone is a double agent and someone else is a triple one. I’m in a period thriller-coded spy drama. “Is it one where you’re fighting secretive forces against the backdrop of a modern war, or where you’re fighting secretive forces against the backdrop of a period one?”Īll right, fine.
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