How beautiful he was in the 1950s! How fearsome (and simultaneously humble) he was as a cotton-cheeked Mob boss in the 1970s! How riveting he remained even in ruin, at the end, his inner mysteries unresponsive to Method but the old instincts still flickering. Brando's voice only got odder and more constrictedly nasal in later life, as if the man wanted to commit the least amount of corporeal real estate necessary to the jobs he reportedly took to pay the bills. But Brando's hands, please notice, remained as sure and graceful as a dancer's, even in his final performances.

He died sad, in isolation, outliving a daughter who committed suicide, and outlived by a son who went to prison for voluntary manslaughter and an untold number of other children born of various wives and non-wives. He also died the great actor of our movie-hungry era, a neurotic giant whose talent -- conflicted as it may have been -- was an offer we couldn't refuse.

Originally posted Jul 16, 2004 Published in issue #774 Jul 16, 2004 Order article reprints
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