In the new film, directed by Liliani Cavani, Malkovich's Ripley is altogether more recognisable as the slithery American expatriate, living the good life in Italy on the abundant proceeds of wickedness. With the arguable exception of Alain Delon, in René Clement's 1960 French version of Purple Noon, Malkovich is the most persuasively repellent Ripley yet. It is all good work, and, presumably, all good money, but at 50, Malkovich can be forgiven for wondering why he still spends so much time playing baddies. He prefers to see himself as a wholesome family man, subject, perhaps, to the occasional mood change - like the one that took him when he was bothered by a passer-by in New York's Central Park and went home, changed his clothes and returned with a 14-inch butcher's knife. But really, he isn't usually like that. And certainly not like the people he plays in his movies. "I don't think," he mused at the Venice Film Festival last year, "I'm like any character I've ever played," - trademark pause, affording sufficient time for two Italian governments to collapse - "including John Malkovich."