Welcome to Paris. Beautiful sunny day, five-star hotel, as many croissants as we can pocket, and still we’re not happy. A cabal of smoky hacks are whispering. ”I got three minutes, and he didn’t even say anything.””They know the film’s a turkey, so they won’t talk about it.” ”But they won’t talk about anything else either.” ”One of the actors sat in silence, shredded a flower, and that was it.” Welcome to the press junket. Not only do we get to interview Morgan Freeman, we have been promised 50 minutes one to one. There is only one catch; the allotted 50 minutes is between 11.30am and noon.11.40am. No sign of Morgan. I tuck into another croissant, and swot up some more.
For 30 years Freeman worked in theatre, and then enjoyed a long stint in the American TV series The Electric Company. His first major film role came in 1987, when his pimp in Street Smart won him an Oscar nomination. Two years later he made it big with three substantial roles: as the tolerant chauffeur in Driving Miss Daisy, the inspirational sergeant in the American Civil War epic Glory, and tough-love teacher in Lean On Me. Freeman became famous for playing dignified men. Some people suggested he specialised in Uncle Toms, but they were quickly silenced by über-critic Pauline Kael, who crowned him the greatest actor of his generation — which was pushing it a bit. Recently, he has been allowed more ambiguous roles. In his new film, Lawrence Kasdan’s appalling adaptation of Stephen King’s Dreamcatcher, he plays the psychopathic Colonel Curtis, a man given to blood, vengeance and dodgy maxims.
11.55am. Ushered into the hotel suite. Freeman greets me. He is an imposing figure. Well over 1,8m, and although he is in his mid-60s he could pass for his early 50s. He sits down, stretches his legs. ”Wellllll,” he says. The voice is astonishing — Deep South, honeyed gravitas. Colonel Curtis is different from most of your roles, I say. ”I certainly hope so,” Freeman replies. His character doesn’t suffer fools gladly. In fact, he shoots them or blows them up. I tell Freeman that when Curtis says we should concentrate on the big picture and not get gooey over the little stuff, he reminded me of George W Bush. ”OK, you can think that,” Freeman says. I tell him that I found it hard to keep up with the film. ”Maybe you’ll have to go back and see it again,” he says. Did he find it hard to follow? ”No.”
Things aren’t going well. If he’s this reticent about the movie, what’s he going to be like on sex (four kids from three different partners), drugs (he had a problem) and rock’n’roll (he must have listened to some in his time)? Better throw him a few looseners. A while ago Nelson Mandela asked Freeman if he would play him in the film of his autobiography. So how’s it going? ”Slowly. It’s a 700-page book. We’ve got to trim that down to something manageable.” Is he working on the script? ”No, I’m the actor.” Is Mandela involved? ”He wrote the book, so yeah, he’s involved.” Why is it important for Freeman to make the film? ”It’s what I do, it’s my work.” He pauses, and concedes there is another factor. ”Mr Mandela has said he wanted me to play him, so it’s important for me to do it.”
Why did he make Dreamcatcher? ”I wanted to do this movie because it’s gonna pay well.” How much? ”I’m not gonna tell you because it’s none of your business.” Oh go on, Morgan, give us a hint? ”Nope.” A tiny clue? ”Nope. But a lot. In truth this was a chance to work with somebody whose work I really admired, Larry Kasdan.” It’s surprising, I say, that Kasdan chose to make a horror film — after all, he is best known for buddy movies such as The Big Chill. ”Ah,” Freeman says, ”there you go. You want to block him into one movie.”
We talk about his early career. Does he miss theatre? ”No.” Why not? ”It’s a lot more work, for one thing, for a lot less pay. And aside from that all my life I wanted to be in the movies.” You came to film late in life, I say. He corrects me. ”I came to a prominent place in film quite late.” Freeman grew up in Mississippi, and returned there a few years ago after spending most of his adult life in New York. Profiles of him suggest that about 20 years ago his life was a mess. He was drinking and taking drugs. He corrects me again. ”No, I wasn’t taking loads of drugs.” Then he corrects himself. ”I was doing one or the other.” Did he feel he was on the way to imitating his father, who abandoned the family and died of cirrhosis at 47? ”Nooooah,” he cries. ”I couldn’t possibly imitate the pattern of my dad’s life. My dad was an alcoholic. He didn’t have a life. No, I had a period when I was unhappily successful, doing something I didn’t want to do, and making enough money from it that I couldn’t in good conscience leave it.”
12.02pm. Last question, the PR says. Is it true that Colin Powell is a friend? ”Yeah!” he growls. So has he ever had a word with him about the war? He looks appalled. ”I wouldn’t dare.” The PR ushers him to the make-up room. I hover, hoping they won’t notice I’m still here. He sits whistling to himself as he is made up. I ask him which of his films he likes best. He looks puzzled that I’m still here, but answers. ”Glory. Because it was an entertaining film, but it was also a lesson in history.” What’s his favourite movie of all time? ”Orfeu Negro,” he answers instantly. What’s that? ”Aha!” He looks pleased. ”Look it up.” (Later, I do. It’s Marcel Camus’s 1958 recreation of the Orpheus myth set in Rio de Janeiro, with a black cast.)
A while ago Freeman said although he had given up hard drugs, he still enjoyed his ganja. ”Oh!” his eyes light up. ”Never give up the ganja.” The PR closes in, and gently leads me out of the room by my shirt. I ask her if she wants me to go. ”I do want you to go,” she says desperately. But Freeman seems to be enjoying himself now I’ve touched on a subject close to his heart. ”You keep asking him about drugs,” she says. What if I ask him some more questions about Mandela, can I stay then? I’m given a stay of execution. Has he met Mandela? ”Yes, I told you.” No, I say, I don’t think you did.”Yeah, you said, ‘What did you talk about?’ Was it you? No, it was somebody else. I get you guys confused. No, we have an agreement that whenever we’re near each other, a short drive or plane ride, we will meet and have dinner or lunch.” He talks about Mandela’s courage; how he set goals in prison and never strayed from them. Has Freeman ever been inside a prison? ”Sure,” he says. ”I was in the military and I was hitchhiking with a friend, and he didn’t have a hitchhiking pass, and they asked me where was mine and I had my class-A pass, but I told them I didn’t have any money so my friend wouldn’t go to jail by himself.” It seems an innocent, rather noble story. But the PR’s not having any more of it. Again, she takes me by my shirt.12.40pm. I shake Freeman’s hand and tell him it was nice to meet him. He doesn’t say a word, just stares. ”If I read anything bad that you wrote about me, I’m going to kill you,” he says as I’m escorted off the premises. Well, I say, I think we know what the closing quote will be. And, for the first time, he laughs. — Â