Last year, Kevin Kline spent a fortnight in Las Vegas shooting his latest movie. It was his first trip to that infamous mecca of sex and excess. "And my last," proclaims the 66-year-old, voice rolling, theatrical. "Everyone looked so miserable. I would see these couples pushing babies in strollers through the casinos like zombies. It was horrible." He shakes his head, sorrowful.
"And I just couldn't bear the constant noise. I would step outside the hotel to get some fresh air and it would be 'boom, boom, boom'" – he does an impressive impression of pounding bassline – "disco music blaring on the kerb, by the pool, everywhere. That is not my idea of tranquillity."
This, I suspect, is more like it.