The huge solemnity of his eyes, grave and sober as a child’s but with a spark of ancient, euphoric irony back in there somewhere. The gangster-ish heaviness of his hands, dynastic hands, Godfather hands. The too-big head. The carved, impassive face that suddenly droops, drags, goes baggy with the weight of being alive. The voice, New York nasal as a young man, roaring and combusted as he ages, the lungs working like bellows, the larynx shooting flames. The timing—the beat, the lag, the throb of the void—between stimulus and reaction. And the energy, Jesus, that barely-inside-the-body Dog Day Afternoon energy, as if 30 seconds ago he disintegrated utterly into tics and ravings, splinters of self, and then 10 seconds ago—via some act of Looney Tunes reversal—he was whooshingly put back together.
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