Peter Dinklage - Call me a midget, but just be real. I am
I t was one of those moments when you wish the ground would open up beneath your feet. The strikers outside the Hotel Maria Cristina in San Sebastian were in socialist heaven - the sun was shining and the stars in town for the film festival were having to make their own beds while the chambermaids outside feasted on trays of homemade pintxos, Basque tapas, and drank from flagons of fizzy txakoli brought to them by their supporters. A samba beat was being hammered out on the picnic tables of the picket line and rumours were flying that Sean Penn was about to join them in solidarity with their protest at not being paid the agreed national wage increase by the hotel's new American owners. One of the strikers spotted Peter Dinklage standing on the steps of the hotel, nonchalantly puffing on a cigarette. The striker had clearly been among the audience the night before that had given The Station Agent, and Dinklage's performance in particular, a four-minute standing ovation. Dinklage, who had grown a scroggy beard since the film was made, didn't move a muscle.