But just as Martin starts to take some pictures, the publicist says we can only photograph Firth from the waist up. Otherwise, Sunday Times readers would see his Roman trousers and Timberland boots, also customised to look Roman. And we can't have that.
It's at this point that the artist loses his cool. He throws up his hands and says: "I can't do this. I can't make a hundred compromises in one day!" The artist in question is Martin.
Firth steps down off the crate. "I'm sorry about your compromises." He looks sincere, but it is impossible to rule out the possibility that he's also a little amused. Martin is already regretting his outburst. It's not Firth's fault, he says, and apologises effusively. Firth steps back up and Martin places me behind him, holding a screen of black felt. Look closely at the picture and you can see my fingertips.
It's not that Firth asks much, he says jovially. He doesn't demand outfits by Armani, for instance, or Hugo Boss. He's willing to be photographed with his hair and face smeared in glycerine - lending him a sweaty appearance appropriate to a legionnaire but less so to a movie star. He'd just prefer not to be pictured in trousers with a leather gusset, if that's possible. "You try to be a good bloke," he says, "and to make yourself available. But I don't want to open a magazine and think, 'Why on earth did I let them do that?.....more
