Rupert, Rupert, Rupert

The chief pleasure of a Rupert Everett interview is that he can be counted on to produce 30's & 40's style movie dialog on command.

To see Everett interact with older British women, as I would twice, was to see an exercise in hand-to-hand combat, white-glove division, that doesn’t exist in America. Everett, who grew up a son of a military-officer-turned-businessman, chafes at orders of any kind. Women of that age, no matter how polite, tend to give them. As he resists, Everett’s manners are sterling, but he gives as good as he gets. As she got off her bike, recognition dawned.

“I remember you,” he said, once we were inside the apartment. “I asked a friend to see the house for me, and you screamed at him because I didn’t go. You said, ‘I don’t show to assistants.’ And he was a friend.”

Godson stiffened her upper lip. “You have a bad view of me, then,” she said.

He parried. “No, not at all, very good actually,” he said. “That place brought me luck.”

She recovered. “This place could, too,” she said instantly.

He looked vaguely sorrowful, contemplating the living-room walls. “Not in the same way,” he said, finally. “Avocado could never give me good luck.”

He wandered through the bedrooms, each with child guards on the windows. “It’s a bit family-ish,” he said.

“From what point of view?” she asked sharply.

“From my point of view,” he retorted. Babst and I burst out laughing. This wasn’t conversation. It was dialogue.

She pushed some more. He pushed back. It was time to go. The parting shot was his.

“Be good,” he called as we headed down the stairs. “Careful on the bike.”