Waiting for my ten minutes with Richard Gere in Karlovy Vary, sweating it out with about 20 other journalists in a cramped and steamy anteroom of the neo-baroque Grandhotel Pupp, I felt as though I was auditioning for a role in an Eastern European production of “A Chorus Line.” (When the door finally opened and I was nudged inside, I half expected to be facing a young Michal Dûglašek shouting, “A five, six, seven, eight!,” or, more likely, “Pět, šest, sedm, osm!“) But, no, it really was Richard Gere, looking not at all 65 with his boyish smile and perfect white hair. Having arrived the day before to hundreds of cheering fans outside the dark grey functionalist Hotel Thermal, the...
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