Frid didn’t stand to greet anyone. He didn’t need to. He just watched the playback of the last take on a nearby monitor. Depp sidled over, his Barnabas makeup looking suddenly like a costume next to the real thing.

“Beautiful words,” Frid said softly. His voice was a low, rusted instrument. “But you’re playing the monster, Mr. Depp. The curse. The teeth.” He set down his tea. “You’ve forgotten to play the man.”

“Mr. Frid,” Depp said, his voice stripped of affectation. “It’s an honour. I hope we’re… doing it justice.”

A ripple went through the crew. Depp froze mid-gesture. Burton lowered his camera. There was a sacred, almost fearful silence.

He wasn’t in the call sheet. He simply materialized in a high-backed chair near the fireplace, a spot that had been empty seconds before. He was wrapped in a tweed coat two sizes too large, his white hair thin, his face a map of gentle creases. He held a paper cup of tea, and his eyes were the colour of a winter sea.

Frid took a sip of his tea. He looked at the monitor, where Depp’s Barnabas had just delivered a thunderous line: “I have crossed oceans of time to find you.”

He then told a story. About a rainy afternoon in 1966, when he first put on the fangs. He was a classically trained Shakespearean actor, terrified of being a ham. The director told him: Don’t play a vampire. Play a man who has just realized he will never see the sunrise again. Play the loneliness.