“I’ve always felt as if rage is something that I struggle to conjure up,” the actor says, within minutes of sitting down. We’re in a dark Austrian restaurant, below the head of a taxidermied boar mounted on a wooden shield. It feels like we’re in the belly of a ship. Outside, in London, it’s spring; on the way here, Comer bought a bunch of cream-coloured daffodils, and is glowing in crisp yellow and white cotton. But here among the wild animal trophies, the first thing on her mind is rage. Why women bury it. What it means when they do.

“I’ve realised my own [rage] just immediately goes to a very emotional place – my anger can so quickly go to tears. I think I swallow it as well,” she says. “I think, as women, we suppress it and that’s probably why I have trouble accessing it – I’ve done t

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