Welcome to Six Damn Fine Degrees. These instalments will be inspired by the idea of six degrees of separation in the loosest sense. The only rule: it connects – in some way – to the previous instalment. So come join us on our weekly foray into interconnectedness.

As Alan talked about in his Six Damn Fine Degrees instalment last week, there are very good reasons to dislike some actors even when we enjoy their performances and the films they’re in. The same is true for directors, producers, writers, and so on. Hollywood has its fair share of bigots, racists, antisemites, homophobes, abusers, and various bastards of any shape or size. And the more we find out about what went on in yesteryear’s film industry, the more skeletons pop out from the closet. This may make our feelings about some of our favourite films more complicated, but I’d agree with Alan: all in all, it’s better to know.

However, sometimes we develop irrational dislikes of the faces we see on the silver screen. I started off hating Eddie Redmayne for no better reason than, well, literally disliking his face… and, yes, his acting style and often his choice of roles. Possibly his voice as well. But I’m mostly over it. Mostly.

But for a long, long time I nursed an irrational dislike of an actor who had done even less than poor Eddie to deserve my ire. Reader: I used to hate David Morse.

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