Watching Alec Guinness quietly-yet-forcefully react to various catty declarations through Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy is like a slow canoe ride down Bitchy River. It’s facial Tai Chi, as he ever-so-slowly slides from one moue to another, with eyeglasses like two moons hovering serenely over his big white bagpipe of a face.

• Yes

• No

• Would you say that?

• Ye-e-e-e-e-s

• Are you quite sure of that one, Rand?

• Who else has seen this?

• Not young, surely.

• As far as that?

• How well did this contact know him?

• Mmm.

• Well, then — that’s breakfast.

• Hmm.

• [Audible restraint]

• Who runs it, really?