unshaven, not stirred; In the face of intense media scrutiny of his artistic and private life, Daniel Craig, the new James Bond, is as chic and elusive as . . . 007.(Interview)

Byline: Gaby Wood

Since it was announced, in mid-_October, that Daniel Craig would become the sixth 007, his looks have been dissected with a fervor usually reserved for female stars: He is too short, it's said (he's five feet eleven); too blond, too craggy, too old (38). "Everybody's got an opinion about Bond," he explains over a drink in Baltimore. "They feel they have a right to him."

When I first met Craig, less than three years ago in London, he was quietly going about the business of being one of the most respected British actors of his generation. He was neither pretty nor pompous; he had an incredible range-as the novelist and film director William Boyd put it, Craig could express emotion of the most vehement kind as well as the most poignant-and he'd built up a body of fearless, exceptional work. His portrait of Ted Hughes in Sylvia, opposite Gwyneth Paltrow's Sylvia Plath, was about to be released, and he'd made the most of a restricted role in Sam Mendes's Road to Perdition; other than that, his relations with Hollywood appeared to be confined to the aftertaste left by Tomb Raider, in which he played Angelina Jolie's love interest, with little interest or love.

Since then, things have been "rocking through at 100 miles an hour," as Craig puts it. He stole the show as the suave

cocaine dealer in Matthew Vaughn's Layer Cake; he played the impassioned getaway driver in Munich, Steven Spielberg's controversial ensemble piece; in The Mother, he seduced a 65-year-old woman; and he drove himself mad in Enduring Love, each role a tightrope walk of ambiguity. Yet despite these strong performances, what made him truly A-list, in the parlance of the British tabloids, was his private life. He'd left his girlfriend of seven years and been seen on the arm of Kate Moss. He was spotted with Sienna Miller not long after _"Nannygate." When Bond came along, it was open season for the paparazzi: Craig locked himself away for two days-closed the curtains, ignored the phone.

Although the passenger seat of his car now boasts a party invitation from Nicole Kidman where books of poetry used to be, Craig insists that in many ways nothing has really changed. "Well, no," he corrects himself almost immediately with a quick, staccato chuckle. "Of course it's changed. I mean, I'm now James Bond, for God's sake! I've got to test-drive an Aston Martin, and I cannot wait. When [Bond producer] Barbara [Broccoli] rang me to tell me I'd got the part, I was buying dishwashing tablets in Whole Foods. I promptly dropped them and went and bought a bottle of vodka! But I don't know. I feel very relaxed about it. All I can say, to anyone who's prepared to listen, is: Wait and see. If it's crap, then hands up, I'll walk away."

He certainly appears relaxed. Craig is dressed-in sweat pants, black parka, and pulled-down woolen beanie-as if to mug you any minute, an outfit that so screams incognito that he is, of course, recognized instantly. His beguilingly worn face is a little bristly; his eyes stand out like searchlights; physically, he's fitter than ever. (When he told Broccoli that he felt he should prepare for Bond, she sent over a personal trainer. It's the first time he's had one.) He flew back from L.A. just two hours ago-he's been on more planes in the last six months than he ever had in his life, and yes, he is afraid of flying-yet his feverish demeanor is undented. He moves fast; his hands fidget around his mouth as he speaks; he mumbles modesties at the end of each sentence, laughing at himself and scattering expletives. Somewhere within the ...