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GQ AUSTRALIA – There’s a punter’s chance that Scott Eastwood has frostbite. We’re on a rooftop in West London. It’s two degrees.

Eastwood, bravely, is wearing a lightweight jacket – something James Dean would’ve rocked on a balmy summer’s night.

Fashion assistants, wearing approximately four more layers than Eastwood, are shivering. Their breath is visible. Momentary career regret is written on their faces – it’s that cold.

The moment we’ve been waiting for arrives: the clouds part and the golden hour light opens up a studio of cosmic proportions, the last nuggets of daylight dancing perfectly across Eastwood’s face. Camera goes snap. Magic is made.

Finessing a pose, Eastwood grabs a nearby iron ladder. He jerks back in shock.

“This feels like it’s been cold since the beginning of time. This has never been hot.”

Though his style is rooted in low-key Cali cool, Eastwood takes to high fashion with ease. “Looking good!” yells a jogger running by as Eastwood freezes his arse off next to an inner-city canal that backs on to the studio. “Thanks man!”

Back inside, between shots, we hear whispers of the night before – the night Eastwood’s all-American entourage touched down in London. They’re whispers of nightclubs and table service and models populating those serviced tables. Old Blighty, it seems, has already been good to the Eastwood clan. Even so, the 30-year-old has left a film set in totally preferable Marseille to be with us in this chilly misery. He flew economy class to boot. Yeah, dude’s got style.

We decide to do the decent thing: get the actor inside, in a cosy pub, and get a beer (and, possibly) a whisky in his hand. He’s earned it.

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