Welcome to Paris. Beautiful sunny day, five-star hotel, as many croissants as we can pocket, and still we're not happy. A cabal of smoky hacks are whispering. "I got three minutes, and he didn't even say anything." "They know the film's a turkey, so they won't talk about it." "But they won't talk about anything else either." "One of the actors sat in silence, shredded a flower, and that was it."

Welcome to the press junket. Of course, the Guardian doesn't do junkets. Normally. But, there has to be an exception. And this is it. Not only do we get to interview Morgan Freeman, we have been promised 50 minutes one to one. There is only one worrying thing; the allotted 50 minutes is between 11.30am and 12 noon.

11.40am. No sign of Morgan. I tuck into another croissant, and swot up some more. For 30 years Freeman worked in theatre, and then enjoyed a long stint in the American TV series The Electric Company. His first major film role came in 1987, when his pimp in Street Smart won him an Oscar nomination. Two years later he made it big with three substantial roles, as the tolerant chauffeur in Driving Miss Daisy, the inspirational sergeant in the US civil war epic Glory, and tough-love teacher in Lean On Me. Freeman became famous for playing decent, dignified men.

Some people suggested he specialised in Uncle Toms, but they were quickly silenced by übercritic Pauline Kael, who crowned him the greatest actor of his generation - which was pushing it a bit. Recently, he has been allowed more ambiguous roles. In his new film, Lawrence Kasdan's appalling adaptation of Stephen King's Dreamcatcher, he plays the psychopathic Colonel Curtis, a man given to blood, vengeance and dodgy maxims.

11.55am. Ushered into the hotel suite. Freeman greets me. He is an imposing figure. Well over six foot and straightbacked, he is in his mid-60s but could pass for his early 50s. Even the freckles that dot his face are imposing. He tells me he knows about the Manchester Guardian. How come, I say. "Because I'm well read. I'm very well read. I know the Manchester Guardian and I know the one that has the naked women in it. OK, would you like some coffee?" That would be lovely, I say.

"Uh-uh!" says the PR disapprovingly.

"Oh come on, he's got time!" Ah, moral Morgan, just like those men he plays, already defending me against Big Sister.

He turns away from me and pours the coffee. Very slowly. And then he pours his. Very slowly. And he ambles over. And although I'm grateful for his kindness, I can't help noticing that's five minutes gone.

He sits down, stretches his legs. " Wellllll, " he says. The voice is astonishing - deep south, honeyed gravitas.

Well, Colonel Curtis is certainly different from most of your roles, I say. "I certainly hope so." His character doesn't suffer fools gladly. In fact, he shoots them or blows them up. I tell Freeman that when Curtis said we should concentrate on the big picture and not get gooey over the little stuff, he reminded me of George Bush. "OK, you can think that," he says. Silence. Well, did he think he had anything in common with Bush? "No."

I tell him that I found it hard to keep up with the film. "Maybe you'll have to go back and see it again," he says. Did he find it hard to follow?

"No."

Things aren't going well. If he's this reticent about the movie, what's he going to be like on sex (four kids from three different partners), drugs (he had a problem) and rock'n'roll (he must have listened to some in his time). Better throw him a few looseners. A while ago Nelson Mandela asked Freeman if he would play him in the film of his autobiography. Freeman has said how proud he was, and since then the project has been in development. So how's it going? "Slowly. It's a 700-page book. We've got to trim that book down to something manageable. Now we've got what we think is a viable place to start script-wise."

Is he working on the script? "No, I'm the actor." Is Mandela involved? "He wrote the book, so yeah, he's involved." Why is it important for him to make the film? "It's the same as it's important for me to make any film. It's what I do, it's my work, it's what I like doing." He pauses, and concedes there is that other factor. "Mr Mandela has said he wanted me to play him, so it's important for me to do it."

I ask him if it's a funny time in America. "Yes, very," he says quietly. In what way? "I don't know. Just not good." Is this a war America should be prosecuting? "No." So what's it all about? "Unfortunately, I think it probably has a lot to do with American hegemony in the oilfields. We use more than anybody else, and we don't like to be at the mercy of anybody over that need."

It's strange the way America has conflated Saddam with the bombing of the twin towers, I say - a recent survey suggested that 50% of Americans now believe Saddam was responsible for the twin towers. "I find that hard to believe," he snaps. "We're not that stupid. That's just disinformation. The CIA have already told us there's no connection. Now, we're here to talk about this movie, so let's stay with that. We're not going to solve this problem sitting and talking about it."

I've never run out of questions in an interview before, but I'm about to. His answers are so terse they verge on the non-existent. I realise that I'm not really here to ask questions, I'm here to shake hands, revel in his aura and tell my friends about it.

Why did he make the film? "I wanted to do this movie because it's gonna pay well." How much? "I'm not gonna tell you because it's none of your business."

Oh go on, Morgan, give us a hint? "Nope." A tiny clue? "Nope. But a lot. But in truth this was a chance to work with somebody whose work I really admired, Larry Kasdan." He strolls off into Oscar-acceptance spiel which takes up another couple of minutes.

It's surprising, I say, that Kasdan chose to make a horror film - after all, he is best known for buddy movies such as The Big Chill. Ah, he says, as if he's finally cornered me. "Well see, there you go. You want to block him into one movie. So you name one movie, and that's what he does. And that's not good. No. Because people can do a lot of things."

We talk about his early career. Does he miss theatre? "No." Why not? "It's a lot more work, for one thing, for a lot less pay. And aside from that all my life I wanted to be in the movies." You came to film late in life, I say. He corrects me. "I came to a prominent place in film quite late."

Freeman grew up in Mississippi, and a few years ago returned there with his second wife after spending most of his adult life in New York. Profiles of him suggest that 20 odd years ago his life was a mess. He was drinking too much, taking drugs. He corrects me again. "No, I wasn't taking loads of drugs." Then he corrects himself. "I was doing one or the other." Did he feel he was on the way to ... " He finishes off my sentence "Perdition? No that's not the case."

No, I say, did he feel he was on the way to imitating the life of his father, who abandoned the family and died of cirrhosis at 47. " Nooooah," he cries. "I couldn't possibly imitate the pattern of my dad's life. My dad was an alcoholic. He didn't have a life. No, I had a period when I was unhappily successful, doing something I didn't want to do, and making enough money from it that I couldn't in good conscience leave it."

12.02pm. Last question, the PR says. We've had 17 minutes including coffee. Is it true that Colin Powell is a friend? "Yeah!" he growls. So has he ever had a word with him about the war? He looks appalled. "Colin Powell is secretary of state. I wouldn't dare call him up and say, 'Colin I don't think you're doing right'. He knows what he's doing, whatever that is he knows." For a second he sounds like Donald Rumsfeld.

The PR, whom I later discover is Freeman's sister-in-law, ushers him to the make-up room. I hover, hoping they won't notice I'm still here. He sits in a barber's chair whistling to himself as they make him up. I ask him which of his films he likes best. He looks puzzled that I'm still here, but answers. "Glory. Because it was an entertaining film, but it was also a lesson in history. When I was growing up I learned American history from the movies. But only white people were history." Now the interview is over, he seems willing to engage. "You know, you'd see a movie set in the future, after the world has been bombed out of existence, and only a few people are left and you realise those few people are white. I thought, wait a minute, where's everybody else?"

What's his favourite movie of all time? "Orfeu Negro," he answers instantly. What's that? "Aha!" He looks pleased. "Look it up." (Later, I do. It's Marcel Camus' 1958 recreation of the Orpheus myth set in Rio de Janeiro, with a black cast.)

A while ago, Freeman said he may have given up hard drugs but he still enjoyed his ganja. I ask him if he still smokes a lot. "No. I don't smoke a lot." Ganja, I say. "Oh!" his eyes light up. "Never give up the ganja." He calls it God's own weed and talks of the burning bush.

The PR closes in, and gently leads me out of the room by my shirt. I ask her if she wants me to go. "I do want you to go," she says desperately. But he seems to be enjoying himself now I've touched on a subject close to his heart. "You keep asking him about drugs and cocaine," she says. No, I explain, he doesn't do coke any more, just the ganja. What if I ask him some more questions about Mandela, can I stay then? Eamonn is taking the photo. "We're a team, he's my man," he says, coming to my rescue.

12.30pm. I'm given a stay of execution. "What would you prefer to talk more about, ganja or Mandela?" I say to him. "Well, you're going to sit down here and write this shit so it's better if we talk about Mandela."

Has he met him? "Yes, I told you."

No, I say, I don't think you did.

"Yeah, you said, 'What did you talk about?' Was it you? No, it was somebody else. I get you guys confused. No, we have an agreement that whenever we're near each other, a short drive or plane ride, we will meet and have dinner or lunch."

He talks about Mandela's moral courage; how he set his goals in prison and never strayed from them. Has Freeman ever been inside a prison? "Sure," he says. Has he done time? "Yeah, I've done some. Soft time. Jail time. I was in the military and I was hitchhiking with a friend, and he didn't have a hitchhiking pass, and they asked me where was mine and I had my class-A pass, but I told them I didn't have any money so my friend wouldn't go to jail by himself." For how long was he jailed? "Four days."

It seems an innocent, rather noble story. But the PR's not having any more of it. Again, she takes me by my shirt.

12.40pm. I shake Freeman's hand and tell him it was nice to meet him. He doesn't say a word, just stares. "If I read anything bad that you wrote about me, I'm going to kill you," he says as I'm escorted off the premises. Well, I think we know what the closing quote will be, I say. And for the first time, he laughs.