At noon, Hugo Weaving slid into the worst table for two in the Odeon, next to the wet coats, and ordered himself a three-egg omelet. He sported a massive beard, close to but far fuller than Trotsky’s, really more like Marx’s, though not white or quite as bushy. With his jeans and short-sleeve T-shirt over long-sleeve shirt, he looked like a naughty hippie-surfer daddy. The beard also made his Agent Smith face invisible. That suits Weaving — 46 in a few weeks — who on film always is, and always wants to be, something slightly less present than a ghost. [More]