One of my favourite cinematic sartorial moments is Peter McCallister running through Chicago O’Hare airport to catch a plane in his Burberry duffel coat in Home Alone. How warm! How chic! How preppy! How I longed for that wonderfully-clad-in-knitwear male specimen to cross continents for me. With his smooth, smooth skin and curious eyes, Mr Heard played Mr McCallister with relaxed ease. Wasn’t it wonderful when he shouted pidgin French down the phone to the authorities in exasperation? Wasn’t it manly when he swept the milk-sodden napkins into the bin after Kevin ruined dinner? Wasn’t their house grand, yet welcoming, in the semi-tasteful way only a middle-class, affluent, 1990 property in Chicago could be? He made that house.
(For Hannah! PIZZA! PIZZA! PIZZA! xxx)