Russell Crowe's publicist has two pieces of information she wishes to impart before I'm ushered into the actor's hotel suite. The first is a warning that Crowe "may be smoking" during the interview, about which I couldn't care less, beyond wondering how much it is costing him to have a ciggie. Clearly whatever eye-watering charges Claridge's levies against those who break the hotel's smoking ban are but a mere bagatelle to the highest-paid actor in the world – one who has reportedly earned $82m (£55m) at the box office in the past year. The second is that Crowe is "on good form, very talkative". It's said brightly, but is clearly intended as reassurance. The one thing everybody knows about Crowe, other than the fact that he was nominated for the best actor Oscar three years in a row, winning it in 2000 for Gladiator, is that he has a fractious relationship with the press. For the prospective interviewer, Googling his name is quite the nerve-jangling experience: testimonies from other hacks that he offered "the worst interview experience ever", tales of bitter Twitter spats and surly stormings out.

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As it turns out, the publicist is right on both counts. Seated on a sofa, wearing a tracksuit, Crowe, 50, is making his way though a packet of Benson & Hedges with the kind of determination you seldom see these days, especially among Hollywood stars. And he does appear to be on good form. In fact, he is the very model of gruff antipodean charm: so antipodean in fact that at one point he uses the phrase "fair dinkum" entirely unironically. He talks cheerfully about everything from the difference between his brand of intensive, immersive preparation for a role and the kind of method acting that requires staying in character between takes (the former is about "giving over time to the contemplation of what you're going to do and respecting cinema as an art from", the latter is apparently "a load of old shit"), to his apparent refusal to do commercials or endorse products, a stance that led to a well-publicised spat with George Clooney over Nespresso coffee-makers. "Look, there will possibly come a time when I start doing commercials and you'll know then that I've just given up. Other people can do whatever they want. It's just my thing. But it's just reaping, you know? We're supposed to play different characters. We're not supposed to lock ourselves and become an icon. I have a …" His voice trails off. "A certain opinion about that level of vanity," he says, picking his words carefully. In fact, the only time he shuts a question down – he doesn't want to talk about his audience with the pope that came about as a result of his performance in the biblical epic Noah – he's virtually apologetic: "Is it OK with you if we leave that one? I'd rather, if that's OK."