“His dressing room, where he spends most of his time when he’s not at home in the West Village, is cramped and featureless, but he has cheered it up with a pink hyacinth atop the air conditioner; photos of his husband, the composer Mark Bradshaw, and his family; and a volume of Emily Dickinson poems to help put him in the Puritan mindset. There is a bright purple yoga mat, though little space to unroll it, and a large chunk of smoky quartz, which has a nicely witchy look to it and which Whishaw sometimes clasps. ‘It’s my rock,’ he says. ‘I just have it around’”