Michael Mann is running out of time. I am in the 80-year-old director’s West Los Angeles office, talking to him about his new film, “Ferrari,” and he asks me to move closer and speak up.
He then fills the room with beeps and boops as he takes a minute to start his own tape recorder — I already have two running.
I was told, a few days ago, that Mann, a known control freak, prefers to have, if not the questions, then the areas of interest of his inquisitor in advance.
I thought this was rude and decided to comply by overwhelming him with convoluted queries like a white-shoe law firm doing a document dump on an underfunded plaintiff.
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