(Laura Collins-Hughes’s article appeared in The New York Times, 1/26; via Pam Green.)

Sitting on a bar stool, the glass in front of him mostly drained, the actor Richard Roxburgh leaned in to make a point. It was early afternoon on a Tuesday, but the muscles in his jaw were slack, his blue eyes vague.

He spoke with quiet urgency, his words faintly misshapen, and when he gestured for emphasis, he didn’t seem to notice that his hands were right in my face. The sober boundaries of social behavior had dissolved, abruptly, in an alcoholic haze.

That was the idea, of course. Perched in the window of an espresso bar on West 47th Street, drinking nothing stronger than a cortado, Mr. Roxburgh, 55, was demonstrating a well-honed skill: playing drunk.

“In terms of the study of alcohol and its effects, I probably have an unfair advantage in that I am, A, Australian, and, B, an actor,” he said, his eyes perfectly clear now, glinting with humor. “I’ve had probably an unhealthy overexposure to the shenanigans of booze over time.”

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