Al Pacino Quotes

I always tell the truth. Even when I lie.

I don’t understand the hatred and fear of gays and bisexuals and lesbians… it’s a concept I honestly cannot grasp. To me, it’s not who you love… a man, a woman, what have you… it’s the fact that you love. That is all that truly matters.

You'll never be alone if you’ve got a book.

The World Is Yours

It turned out that time doesn't heal the wound , but in its so merciful way , blunts the edges ever so slightly

sometimes it's better to be with the devil u know than the angel u didn't know

Vanity is my favourite sin.

If you get all tangled up, just tango on.

Most of the time when I have met artists who have meant a lot to me, the experience has been well above expectation. People like Iggy, Lou Reed, Jerry Lee Lewis, Black Sabbath, Nick Cave, Hubert Selby Jr, Billy Gibbons, Al Pacino, John Lee Hooker, James Brown, Johnny Cash etc. have been really great to me. What strikes me is most of the time, the bigger the celeb/legend, the more polite and cool they are. It's the insecure ones who treat you like they're doing you a favor by shaking your hand.

There is no happiness. There is only concentration.

Women! What can you say? Who made 'em? God must have been a fuckin' genius. The hair... They say the hair is everything, you know. Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls... just wanted to go to sleep forever? Or lips... and when they touched, yours were like... that first swallow of wine... after you just crossed the desert.

My weaknesses... I wish I could come up with something. I'd probably have the same pause if you asked me what my strengths are. Maybe they're the same thing.

I don't belive in God. I believe in...Al Pacino.

Attica! Attica! Attica!

I couldn't believe when I first got a fan letter from Al Pacino, it was unreal.

As I start home she waves at me and says, "Al Pacino!" I raise my hand and wave back and say, "Al Pacino!

deplasmanda plasebo allah'ım kaderimde anarşi ve protesto antidepresanlar ve içi boş bir gardırop ne de çok yer kaplıyor mesela al pacino yardımın gerekiyor kadıköy'deyim stop. allah'ım kaderim bu sentimental ambargo: alternatif referans potansiyel salvo yok, sadece klostrofobi, hicran türbülans ve şok; cariyeler çekilmiş yeraltına cumburlop. allah'ım kaderimi sen yazdın sen bilirsin kalbim oyuncak mı ne, ne kolay kırılıyor? "deplasmandır bu dünya" diyor albino şeyhim plasebo yutturuyor bana depresif doktor. allah'ım kaderimden şikayetçi değilim aksine bahtiyarım evrende bana da rol verdiğin için şahsen, allah'ım bizler senin falsolu kullarınız, n'olur bizden razı ol.

It's easy to fool the eye, but it's hard to fool the heart.

I asked God for a bike, but I know God doesn’t work that way. So I stole a bike and asked for forgiveness. -Al Pacino

I don't know what I expected – no maybe I do, Al Pacino from Scarface- but this drug dealer is more like Al Pacino at the beginning of The Godfather reasonably bemused, untouched by his criminal world, sitting with Diane Keaton whispering about Luca Brazzi, not yet asleep with the fishes, or like Al Pacino from Glengarry Glen Ross, although actually, now that I think about it, he's not like Al Pacino at all but more like Kevin Spacey from that film, and who's ever been afraid of Kevin Spacey?

Well, well, well, look who’s here riding solo.” Victor would make Al Pacino seem gigantic,” said Conner. You two can look eye to eye my friend.” God only lets things grow until they’re perfect—some of us didn’t take as long as others. The ladies call us fun-sized.

- Виждаш ли се като образ на Достоевски? - Вече не. Преди няколко години – определено. Сега май съм по-скоро чеховски герой. Израсъл съм в компанията на мнозина различни писатели – от Балзак до Шекспир. Известно ми е, че съм продукт на улицата, лишен от систематизирано образование, но аз чета много, а руските писатели са ония, които истински ми допадат. Четенето ми спаси живота.

Ако ти е писано да ходиш по опъната жица, това и правиш. Няма да си нарисуваш линия върху пода я. Рано или късно се качваш там горе, на високото.

I don't believe in God, I only believe in Al Pacino, and that's the truth.

I always tell the truth. Even when I lie. Al Pacino in Scarface

Late that night, I get back to Grant and Eric’s, and they are watching a movie where Al Pacino is blind. Al Pacino is angry and talks with an unplaceable accent. He is maybe Canadian.

For my number-one favorite kill, I almost went with Johnny Depp being eaten alive and then regurgitated by his own bed in A Nightmare on Elm Street, but the winner, by a finger blade’s width, has to be the death of that feisty Tina (Amanda Wyss), who put up such a fight while I thrashed her about on the ceiling of her bedroom. Freddy loves a worthy adversary, especially if it’s a nubile teenaged girl. A close second goes to my hearing-impaired victim Carlos (Ricky Dean Logan) in Nightmare 6. In these uber-politically-correct times, it’s refreshing to remember what an equal opportunity killer Freddy always was. Not only does he pump up the volume on the hearing aid from hell, but he also adds a nice Latino kid to his body count. Today they probably wouldn’t even let Freddy force-feed a fat kid junk food. Dream death number three is found in a sequence from Nightmare 3. Freddy plays puppet master with victim Phillip (Bradley Gregg), converting his arm and leg tendons into marionette strings, then cutting them in a Freddy meets Verigo moment. The kiss of death Profressor Freddy gives Sheila (Toy Newkirk) is great, but not as good as Al Pacino’s in The Godfather, so my fourth pick is Freddy turning Debbie (Brooke Theiss) into her worst nightmare, a cockroach, and crushing her in a Roach Motel. A classic Kafka/Krueger kill. For my final fave, you will have to check out Freddy vs. Jason playing at a Hell’s Octoplex near you. Here’s a hint: the hockey-puck guy and I double team a member of Destiny’s Child. Yummy! Now where’s that Beyonce…

Когда все получается, ты перестаешь хвастаться и доказывать это окружающим. Когда ты сильный, ты становишься спокойнее и не лезешь в драку. Когда любишь по настоящему, то перестаешь кричать об этом. Человек становится самодостаточным лишь тогда, когда он уверен в себе и знает на что способен сам, а не заставляет других поверить в это.

...She recalls talking to her 'about how there were no women in The Godfather.' Or rather, that the women only served to reaffirm that it was a man's space, that they were only there to serve drinks and be shut out. In classic Hollywood cinema, a woman walks on-screen; She is there to be looked at. She interrupts the action. Diane Keaton in The Godfather is a foil for Al Pacino: She whines, she interrupts, and at the end, she's put in her place. She makes drinks and gets the door shut in her face.

George Lucas based Han Solo on his friend, director Francis Ford Coppola. Before Harrison Ford was chosen to play the role, Kurt Russell, Nick Nolte, Christopher Walken, Jack Nicholson, Al Pacino, Chevy Chase, Steve Martin, and Bill Murray were considered.

Нека ти кажа какво е анонимността за един актьор. За мен е много важна. Затова се дърпам толкова много от интервюта.Когато един път научиш лични неща за един актьор, започваш да разгадаваш работата му, докато я наблюдаваш. ... Дори когато ходя на театър, у мен има желание да не отивам зад кулисите.Просто защото искам да запазя в съзнанието си само видяното. Не искам да разбивам илюзията.

Marginal gain can be technical, physical, practical, operational, and even psychological. In the film Any Given Sunday, the Al Pacino character calls it ‘Inches’: —— You find out that life is just a game of inches. So is football. Because in either game, life or football, the margin for error is so small . . . On this team, we fight for that inch. On this team, we tear ourselves, and everyone around us to pieces for that inch . . . Cause we know when we add up all those inches that’s going to make the fucking difference between WINNING and LOSING.

Women! What can you say? Who made 'em? The hair... They say the hair is everything, you know. Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls... just wanted to go to sleep forever? Or lips... and when they touched, yours were like... that first swallow of wine... after you just crossed the desert. Tits. Hoo-ah! Big ones, little ones, nipples staring right out at ya, like secret searchlights. Mmm. Legs. I don't care if they're Greek columns... or secondhand Steinways. What's between 'em... passport to heaven. I need a drink. Yes, Mr Sims, there's only two syllables in this whole wide world worth hearing: pussy. Hah! Are you listenin' to me, son? I'm givin' ya pearls here.

Люди забираются в дерьмо,что бы научиться из него выходить.

Меня часто называют занудой, зазнайкой и мизантропом. Предупреждаю всех: на самом деле я гораздо хуже.

We tangoed every night, while I was blinded by the scent of you, I’m Frankie Slade, shoot my head, you held me back.

Whenever I get feel an urge to exercise, I lie down and take a nap.

Presi in disparte Ryan, sistemandogli la cravatta per non dare nell’occhio. «Fammi un favore. Resta qui e, quando mi girerò verso di te, fissami nella maniera più tenebrosa e scocciata che puoi». «Tenebrosa?». «Sì, beh… hai presente, no?». «No». Gli riassestai il bavero del cappotto, cercando una definizione che non scadesse nel solito stereotipo. «Guardami come se fossi un vampiro cattivo». Ryan si lasciò scappare una risata monosillabica alla Al Pacino. «Tu vuoi lo sguardo di un voivoda, e io non lo sono mai stato». «Improvvisa». Il vampiro piegò il capo in un gesto d’intesa. «Sei tu la stratega, Elizabeth». Masticò il mio appellativo, spolpandolo fino a raschiarne il nocciolo. Com’è che si dice? Se vuoi qualcosa, o qualcuno, prima devi far tuo il suo nome. Quel millenario, nel più assurdo dei momenti, e nel più sbagliato dei luoghi, aveva fatto l’amore con tutte e nove le lettere del mio.

Th e basic principle of Method acting is that you should draw on your own personal experience—“You know how you felt when you were seven, and your dog died? Well, think about that when you’re playing Hamlet.” It sounds simple enough, but it involves learning lots of techniques to heighten your capacity for emotional recall. Those techniques were westernized from the original Russian templates by people like Lee Strasberg, who taught James Dean and Al Pacino, and Stella Adler—another teacher in New York at the time—who taught Brando.

I have always liked women, but from the time I was very young, I have been shy around them. I don’t woo them. I don’t pursue them. Women either respond to you or they don’t, and if they don’t make the first move toward me, I am a bit reluctant to try again. But with Diane this time things were different. We always had a connection. She understood my read on things, and it felt comforting to have someone who got me. So I went after her. We hung out together, and after a couple of months we decided to get together. We found a tempo and a temperature that was right.

Frank, why didn’t you take those payoffs?” I asked him. “Just take that money and give your share away if you didn’t want to keep it?” He said to me, “Al, if I did that”—long pause—“who would I be when I listen to Beethoven?” There was something about that statement that just made me want to play him.

- Когато те разпознаят, вълнуват ли се хората? - Стават особени – така бих се изразил. Гледам напълно нормални хора, понякога високо интелигентни, излъчващи усещане за силно присъствие и изтънчена чувствителност. Но заставаш пред тях и всичко това заминава. Познават те и оглупяват. За миг. После отново се връщат към нормалния си облик. Но е много особено. Цялата работа при звездите … е като… издигат те накъде нагоре и ставаш звезда, сетне суперзвезда. Какво ще рече това? Че си някъде горе, извън останалите. Това може да се окаже тъжно.

I think back to that moment and I realize that I’m still here because of my mother. Of course that’s who I have to thank, and I never thanked her for it. She’s the one who kept a lid on all of this, who parried me away from the path that led to delinquency, danger, and violence, to the needle, that lethal delight called heroin that killed my three closest friends. Petey, Cliffy, Bruce—they all died from drugs. I was not exactly under strict surveillance, but my mother paid attention to where I was in a way that my friends’ families didn’t, and we all knew it. I believe she saved my life.

QUICK MENTAL RECAP: KIDNAPPED BY Mafia gang ruled by insane, chain-smoking reject from the sixties—female; discover husband has alias name and FBI badge that he’s been able to keep hidden from me for seventeen years (reminder to self: get a clue!); follow half-baked scheme provided by Brad Pitt look-alike to make a quick getaway through guest bathroom; wind up playing bad game of Twister in bathtub with Elvis Presley wannabe; witness the whacking of FBI husband; hear Elvis Presley wannabe proclaim, regarding husband’s whacker: “That’s No Toes” and follow up with obvious comment, “Dis ain’t good.” Would Al Pacino be caught dead in this movie? Definitely not.

You’re the type of ho that is always trying to talk your friends out of the guys that holla at them, right? You’re just jealous because no one is tryna talk to your Al Pacino, Tony Montana, ‘Say hello to my little friend’, lookin’ ass! You’re single, but hating it. Liiiivin’! Single! In a ’90’ s kinda, woooorld! I’m, glad, I, got, my girls!” he sang, laughing.

Politie Westland, Wanted, BB King daughters.

The inches we need are everywhere around us. They are in every break of the game every minute, every second.

Fame is the perversion of the natural instinct for validation and attention. It's kind of simple to assess something if you allow it to happen. It's when the ego and greed get in the way that it's harder to assess what the situation is.

Well, then you’d better come back again and watch. He’s the best—Al Pacino!” she says, a big grin on her face. “What’s that?” “You know—the film we just saw—Lieutenant Hanna. Al Pacino plays him.” “Oh, it’s somebody’s name. I thought it might be how you say goodbye in some other country.

Al Pacino is one thespian that shuns limitations which acting leans upon in order to remain the integral part of the reverse side of life. His language carves out wits from the eternal verse of theatre, posting subtly the eclectic sequence of point-to-point muse on the banners of collective mirth. His actions, deft in synthesis of life and culture, capture the essence of true indices of his specified roles. He’s one of my favourite actors. ~ Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu

Another young actor in Charlie’s class with me was a guy by the name of Martin Sheen. In one session Marty did a monologue from The Iceman Cometh, and he blew the roof off—I said, this is it, this is a great actor we are witnessing. He was the next James Dean as far as I was concerned. I got to be friends with Marty Sheen, and one day he said to me, “You know what my real name is, don’t you? Estevez.” He was half Spanish and he came from Ohio, out there in the Midwest, where he had a tough upbringing. He was one of ten kids in a working-class family that was always struggling for money. He had tenacity and grit and I could tell he was one of the best people I’d ever know, all grace and humility. I loved him. I still do. Marty Sheen moved in with me in the South Bronx so we could split the rent. We worked together at the Living Theatre in Greenwich Village, where we cleaned toilets and laid down rugs for the sets of the plays they put on.

I saw how much it meant to Francis that I play the part of Michael, even more than it meant to me. He saw me in the role, gave me a great opportunity, and he fought for me. And yet we were worlds apart. I actually reached out to him recently and asked him about that time in our life together during The Godfather: Part II. He couldn’t recall it and couldn’t quite say. But I remember it as a period when we were somewhat distant from each other and I’m very grateful it didn’t last long. Francis and I saw a lot of things the same way, and I admire him greatly. He has a brilliant mind and talent of epic proportions, and I enjoy hearing his take on any subject. He had made this one incredible film and now we were trying to finish a second.

When I turned twenty-one, having hardly started working as an actor, I was asked to do a reading with Elia Kazan, practically the biggest director in the world in both stage and screen, for a new movie he was casting. It was called America, America, and it was going to tell the story of a young Greek man’s journey to the States. They were trying to find a young actor, relatively unknown, probably ethnic looking, to play the lead role. I thought I had a shot at it. I don’t know if I would have excelled at it, but I felt I had a real chance because I fit the description. But I was late and I missed the audition. I went there and they were gone and it was over. They got somebody else.

And then, one night, onstage, just like that, it happened. The power of expression was revealed to me, in a way it never had before. I wasn’t even searching for it. That’s the beauty of these things. You’re not looking for it. I’m opening my mouth and I’m understanding somehow that I can speak. Words are coming out, and they’re the words of Strindberg, but I’m saying them as though they’re mine. The world is mine, and my feelings are mine, and they’re going beyond the South Bronx. I left the familiar. I became a part of something larger. I found that there was more to me, a feeling that I belonged to a whole world and not just to one place. I’m thinking to myself, What is this? It feels as though I’m lifting off the ground. I thought, Yes, this is it. It’s right there and I can reach out and touch it. This is out there, and this is what I know now is possible. All of a sudden, in that moment, I was universal. I knew I didn’t have a worry after that. I eat, I don’t eat. I make money, I don’t make money. I’m famous, I’m not famous. It didn’t mean anything anymore. And that’s lucky, in this business, when you don’t care about that. A door was opening, not to a career, not to success or fortune, but to the living spirit of energy. I had been given this insight into myself, and there was nothing else I could do but say: I want to do this forever.

But then I met Frank Serpico in Bregman’s office. Bregman had set it up. I took one look at Frank and I knew. I said, I can play him. I’ve got to play him. I saw it in his eyes, and I thought, I want to be that. I’m often offered real people, and I turn them down. I didn’t want to be them. Not because they’re bad or good. Just because I didn’t feel any connection to them. I spent more time with Frank that summer before we made the film. He came to visit me at a house I was renting in Montauk. We were sitting on my deck, looking at the waves coming in. Finally I said something to him that he’d probably heard a thousand times before. “Frank, why didn’t you take those payoffs?” I asked him. “Just take that money and give your share away if you didn’t want to keep it?” He said to me, “Al, if I did that”—long pause—“who would I be when I listen to Beethoven?” There was something about that statement that just made me want to play him.

I’m popping Valiums and waiting for something. To my left was Jeff Bridges. I could still tell time at that point. I looked at my watch, and I thought, This is crazy. They haven’t gotten anywhere near to the Best Actor award. So I turned to Jeff, who I would come to know in the future as one of the most wonderful human beings and such a great actor. But at the time, I didn’t know him at all, and I guess the impending dissipation of my altered state led me to say, “Hi, excuse me,” as he looked at me like he was looking down from ten feet high. I said to him, “The hour is almost up. I guess they’re not going to get to the Best Actor.” He considered me like I was some poor, pathetic wretch. “It’s three hours long, man. Three hours long.” And I said, “Oh. Thank you.” I went numb after that.

Back when I was a messenger for Standard Oil in Rockefeller Center, I worked with another guy there named John Cazale. He was a few years older than me, lean looking, with a low-key manner. He had a modesty about him, but also a sense of reality, a groundedness about how the world really worked. He seemed to know something about everything. My grasp of the state of global affairs was that Hitler was gone and that was a good thing. Other than that, I had no idea what was going on. Johnny would be reading The New York Times, understanding every issue and making it comprehensible to me. At least, he tried. To my great surprise, when I showed up in Provincetown to start rehearsals for the play, there was John Cazale, who had been hired to take over the role of the Indian. He was the sweetest man ever, but he had a unique way that he liked to rehearse. He did not just simply want to run lines. When you did a scene with John, you’d start talking through the scene, and he would question every line, every word choice. It was an interrogation. He’d say to you, “What am I doing? I’m standing here. What do I think of that? I don’t know what I think of that.” They call it the unconscious narrative. And this is how he was. Then before you knew it, as you kept talking and talking and talking, you’d just slip into the scene with him. There’s a certain trust that comes with acting, like tightrope walking. With John, I knew that I had found a scene partner for life.

A strange and discordant mix of roles followed. I liked one film I did, The Humbling, because I did it with Barry Levinson. It was based on the novel by Philip Roth, who I met at a party in New York. I found Roth there, sitting in a chair, and he was very serious when he looked at me. I said, “Hi, Mr. Roth. I’m Al Pacino.” He had a look on his face that was haunting. In a cold, impassive voice, he said, “I. Know. Who you are.” I just thought to myself, Well, I’m famous. He’s seen me in films. Maybe he saw The Godfather, I don’t know. But I loved his writing and was a real fan, so I kept spouting to him. I said, “I’m doing a film of your book The Humbling. And it’s very funny.” In that same funereal voice as before, he said, “It’s. Not. Funny.” I said, “No, I know, it’s not really funny. But to get through the drama, sometimes you need a little funny.” Again, he said, “It’s. Not. Funny.” I said, “Sure. Okay. You’re right. It’s not funny.” And I backed out of the room into the street.

I had my lunch with Marlon in a modest room in the hospital where we were filming on Fourteenth Street. He was sitting on one hospital bed, I was sitting on the other. He was asking me questions: Where am I from? How long have I been an actor? And he was eating chicken cacciatore with his hands. His hands were full of red sauce. So was his face. And that’s all I could think about the whole time. Whatever his words were, my conscious mind was fixated by the stain-covered sight in front of me. He was talking—gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble—and I was just mesmerized. What was he going to do with the chicken? I hoped he wasn’t going to tell me to throw it in the garbage for him. He disposed of it somehow without getting up. He looked at me in a quizzical way, as if to ask, what are you thinking about? I was wondering, what is he going to do with his hands? Should I get him a napkin? Before I could, he spread both his hands across the white hospital bed and smeared the sheets with red sauce, without even thinking about it, and he kept on talking. And I thought, Is that how movie stars act? You can do anything.

As I was heading back, I began to hear the sound of someone crying, which you sort of expect in a graveyard. I looked around to see where it was coming from. And there, sitting on a tombstone, was Francis Ford Coppola bawling like a baby. Profusely crying. Nobody was going near him, so I went up to him, and I said, “Francis, what’s wrong? What happened?” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, paused, looked up at me, and said, “They won’t give me another shot.” He had wanted to film another setup that day, and he had not been allowed it. Even he had to answer to someone else. And he wanted this so badly that to have it denied had actually wounded him. One never knows if a film is going to be great. You know one thing, if it’s a really good script—and Mario and Francis wrote a really good script—there’s a chance. An actor comes in and plays his role, but the film is all in what happens after, how an editor cuts it together and how the director figures out the storytelling. But there in that graveyard I thought: If this is the kind of passion that Francis has for it, then something here is working. I knew I was in good hands.

We shot The Local Stigmatic for a few weeks in Atlanta, with David Wheeler as our director, and a principal cast of myself, Paul Guilfoyle, Joe Maher, and Michael Higgins. When it was finished, we showed the film around to people we admired. We had a great dinner gathering of artists and literati in London. People like Tom Stoppard and David Hare, who all sat at a long table. Harold Pinter had seen the film twice at this point; he sat at the head of the table, and when he wanted to speak to everyone, he rang a little bell and the group fell silent. “Every once in a while,” he said, “we see something different. We come into contact with art in film.” I just sat there stunned. Heathcote was in the room, fiddling with a coin and not looking up at anyone, playing the role of the shy genius. He’d been described as a protégé of Pinter’s, but to actually be in the same room as his literary idol, I guess it all was just too much for him. I ran the film once for Elaine May, the great actress and filmmaker, who told me, “I liked it very much. But don’t you ever show this to the public. You don’t know your fame. You don’t understand it, and you don’t understand how it registers. You must recognize it.” And she was right. You’re too well-known for this sort of thing. You have to be careful, because you’re going to startle people. Don’t put this in a theater. I showed it to Jonas Mekas, the independent-film impresario of downtown Manhattan, who ran The Local Stigmatic at his Anthology Film Archives and told me, somewhat optimistically, that I was going to win an Oscar for it. I kept calling Andrew Sarris, the film critic for The Village Voice, to come and see it. And he said, “Stop bothering me, Al. I’ve seen it three times already. I’ve told you what I think. Just show the thing already.” I was trying to get the confidence to screen it for wider audiences. I never did. I’ve come to realize that when I do my own things, nobody goes. Those avant-garde influences that I was brought up with never left my brain. When I’m left on my own, that’s just what seems to come out. It’s a drawback. People come in with expectations, and they leave angry. The Local Stigmatic is such a specific distillation of me and my take on this subject. It’s 150 proof, which can be a little strong for some people.

It had started with Brando. He was the influence. The force. The originator. What he had created, together with collaborators like Tennessee Williams and Elia Kazan, was more visceral. It was threatening. Brando had become part of a triumvirate of actors, along with Montgomery Clift and James Dean. Clift had the beauty and the soul, the vulnerability. Dean was like a sonnet, compact and economical, able to do so much with the merest gesture or nuance. And if Dean was a sonnet, then Brando was an epic poem. He had the looks. He had the charisma. He had the talent. There’s that classic sequence from A Streetcar Named Desirewhere Brando completely loses it during the card game, until he’s at the bottom of the stairs, yelling, “Stella! Stella!” It’s an episode that builds gradually, which of course comes from Kazan’s original staging of the play and Brando’s memory of it as he had done it every night. But by the time Brando got this on film, he had become one with the elements. You experienced that sequence like you experienced a tornado or monsoon. It was that captivating. But evolution always makes people nervous. There was anger toward Brando. People said he mumbled. They said his features were too soft, too delicate. They said he liked to show off his chest. If people disparaged his approach it was because they didn’t see the technique that went into it. But he found whatever it was that opened the door to his expression, that allowed him to reveal himself and communicate it to audiences so that they identified with him. Brando made possible the Paul Newmans of the world, the Ben Gazzaras, the Anthony Franciosas, and the Peter Falks, people like John Cassavetes, who was his own special kind of phenomenon. These were the idols of an era just before mine, actors who had already moved beyond the studios and had been out in the world for a decade or more by the time I arrived there.

And then Dustin Hoffman just blasted open the door for actors. Dustin was a student of Lee Strasberg’s at the Actors Studio when I started to hear about him. You would pick up on other students discussing him with a strange reverence, like he was a ghost or a wanted criminal. There was such energy around his name you had to see him for yourself, to see if he lived up to his formidable reputation. And then Mike Nichols got hold of him, all of him, for The Graduate. The Graduate was contemporary and of the moment, a commentary on the world we were living in, and it fit him perfectly. It came along at the right time, right when we were ready for it. And its success made Dustin a movie star supreme. I was working up in Boston when The Graduate opened, and I said, this is it, man—it’s over. He’s broken the sound barrier. The excitement for me was in seeing an artist doing something so well, something original, that you recognized had never been done before.

The sexuality of the character I played in Dog Day Afternoon is a complex thing. What I interpreted from the screenplay was that he is a man with a wife and kids who also happens to be in an affair with a person who identifies as a woman, and who today we would understand is transgender. But knowing this about him didn’t excite me or bother me; it didn’t make the role seem any more appealing or risky. Though I may be a kid who started in the South Bronx, I had been living in the Village since my teens. I had friends, roommates, and colleagues who were attracted to different people than I was attracted to, and none of that was ever rebellious or groundbreaking or unusual. It just was. Perhaps at the time of Dog Day Afternoon it was an uncommon thing to have a main character in a Hollywood movie who was gay or queer, and who was treated as heroic or worthy of an audience’s affection—even if he did rob banks. But you have to understand that none of that enters into my consideration. I am an actor portraying a character in a film. I am playing the part because I think I can bring something to the role. As far as I was concerned, Dog Day Afternoon was just cool, a continuation of the work I had been doing my whole life. It was inevitable that an audience would have certain feelings about me because of the choices I made, and the slings and arrows were going to keep coming either way. I try to stay away from things that are controversial, and I find myself in controversies anyway. If people think that I helped to advance a particular issue of representation, that’s fine. If there is credit or blame to go around, I don’t feel entitled to any of it. All I know is, I play a role to find as much humanity as there is that I can portray.

Getting more into one-on-one therapy helped. It helped me to keep going, and it helped me to quit drinking. I almost feel it’s mandatory in my position. C’mon, buddy, you’ve got to get your head shrunk. Because your head gets so big, you need to shrink it. You need to go to some guy who’s going to tell you what you already know about yourself and pay attention to you for an hour straight. Which we all like. We all need a little attention. The first time I ever considered therapy was back in Boston, during my run in Richard III. I was staying at our director David Wheeler’s house for a few days, and he came into my room one morning to share some good news with me. “Hey, Al!” he said. “You just won the National Board of Review!” It was my first major film award for The Godfather. I said to him, in the softest voice I could summon up, “I was going to ask you, David, do you have the name of a psychiatrist? Because I need one.” That was my answer to him. Not that I was unhappy about winning such a prestigious award, but there were just other things on my mind. I saw a psychiatrist in Boston first, and then I went and got myself a guy in New York. I fell in love with the process, and I got to a point where I was in therapy five days a week at certain times. I highly recommend therapy if you’re at all leaning in that direction. Maybe you don’t need it five times a week, but give it a whirl. There’s an old story: A woman goes to a therapist for years. It’s her last appointment, because she feels she’s come to a great place in her life and is ready to move on. She wants to congratulate her therapist and say goodbye. So she tells him, “You’ve done so much good for me. I love my husband so much. Every day with my kids is just a joy. My work is going off the charts. I’m seeing a whole new side of life. You’ve been so wonderful. I never hear you speak. You just take it all in. Please tell me, how did you do it?” The doctor looks at her and says, “No habla inglés.” That’s an interpretation of therapy too; you need to talk and get it out. When I was living with Jill, before I ever went to therapy, I used to just sit in the bathtub alone and talk about things. I cleared my mind to myself. It’s an unusual relationship that you forge when you find a good doctor, someone you feel has that kind of commitment to you. And then they take some colossal amount of time off, and you don’t see them for the whole summer. I had one of those episodes when I couldn’t find my doctor. I might have been spared about twenty years of tsuris if I could have avoided it. It’s a good idea that when your psychiatrist goes away, you know where they are and you can call them when you’re in trouble. They need rest too. I can deal with, “Hey, my daughter’s graduating college, I’ll be out for a few days.” But going up a fucking river somewhere, to not be available for, like, six weeks? Come on, my life was capable of going right off the rails in far less time than that. I used to have recurring dreams in which I go to my psychiatrist’s office but can’t find him anywhere. He’s in the building, but he’s unavailable. I’m at the door, but there’s not even a buzzer I can press to let him know I’m there and no way to let me in. That was my dream. Now I have that feeling about my agent.

And he said, “Because life’s on the wire. The rest is just waiting.” I understood immediately why Charlie was telling me this story. It stuck with me for a long time. Life’s on the wire, man. That’s my acting, my life. When I work, I’m on the wire. When I’m going for it. When I’m taking chances. I want to take chances. I want to fly and fail. I want to bang into something when I do it, because it’s how I know I’m alive. It’s what’s kept me alive.

But this is just who I am and always was. I look at a situation and I say, what am I doing here? And it seems to not matter where it is, what situation I’m in. I want to leave. I don’t leave, because I really don’t want to be rude, so I stay. But I really want to go.

A New Yorker anywhere outside of New York is an alien.

It was threatening. Brando had become part of a triumvirate of actors, along with Montgomery Clift and James Dean. Clift had the beauty and the soul, the vulnerability. Dean was like a sonnet, compact and economical, able to do so much with the merest gesture or nuance. And if Dean was a sonnet, then Brando was an epic poem. He had the looks. He had the charisma. He had the talent.

By the time Google was telling Semel $1 billion, $3 billion, and then $6 billion, they had a plan. Now it was time to put that plan into action. It was time to go to the mattresses. At first, they called it Project Godfather. They called it that because, in the movie The Godfather, there’s a montage where, as Al Pacino’s Michael Corleone has his godson baptized in church, his hit men take out all of his family’s enemies at once. That was the plan Decker, Weiner, and Coppel had come up with for Yahoo. They were going to have Yahoo’s M&A team take out the entire search industry—except Google, of course—all at once.

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Every few blocks were vacant lots where victory gardens had been planted at the height of the war. By then, they were wrecked and full of debris. Once in a while, when you looked down at the sidewalk along the lots, you’d see a blade of grass growing up out of the concrete. That’s what my friend, the acting teacher Lee Strasberg, once called talent: a blade of grass growing up out of a block of concrete.

Where do I go to get a director? I’ve never hired one in my life. I’ve only starred in three films. I said, “Marty, I don’t know how to interview anybody. This is completely crazy.” He said, “No, you’ve got to do it. That’s it.” So now I had to go to California. I was very unhappy. I went to San Francisco to talk to Peter Yates, who made Bullitt. I went to LA to talk to Mark Rydell. I wound up in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, in what I called the Pompous Room—I didn’t know any other name for it. I’m talking to some guy who’s sort of quiet like me, who’s young and just starting out, but he’s hot off an art film of sorts called Mean Streets, which I hadn’t seen yet, and I’m too busy looking at the tables with red and green felt and the wallpaper with ducks and peacocks on them to understand that I’m speaking to one of our finest filmmakers ever, Martin Scorsese. I was just dizzy and I don’t think we hardly said a word to each other. I guess he must have known I didn’t know my ass from my elbow when it came to hiring a director.

Libros en los rincones, un balcón hermoso, de piedra, la computadora sobre la mesa y un poster vintage de Tarde de perros, la película de Al Pacino.

At one point in one’s life you get a sense of your own mortality. You view death in a certain way. From that point on you look at your fellow man with a new understanding. I have some feelings for it now. They say it happens in your mid-thirties. Sometimes I have a fantasy of my corpse being carried around in a box, people mourning me. Saying, “We shouldn’t have treated him so badly.

The relationships that we have with writers are quite a thing; they’re different from the ones we have with actors or musicians or composers or politicians. Everything for me is the writer; without him, I don’t exist. So he is first. The actor gets all the fame and glory, but I don’t know about endurance.

They got back to the house late. Myron's father was feigning sleep in the recliner. Some habits die hard. Myron "woke" him up. He startled to consciousness. Pacino never overacted his much.

Hitler is still a historical figure, but he’s predominantly a placeholder for cognitive darkness; he’s the entity we use in the same way people once employed the devil. But the devil is no longer a villain in pop culture. The devil is sympathetic. He’s charming. If you’re making a movie about the devil, you cast Al Pacino. In the pop world, the devil is mostly depicted as a fair-minded gambler; if you’re a good enough musician, the devil will give you a golden fiddle and concede his defeat, allowing you to peacefully live the rest of your days in rural Georgia. There really isn’t “another category of radical evil.” That category has a population of one.

Whenever I feel the urge to exercise, I lie down and take a nap instead.

And, possessed by the tormented spirit of Ricky Ricardo, Rod Steiger plays an old Cuban don with an accent and gestures that make Al Pacino in Scarface seem subtle.

The guys of Savino’s generation liked what they saw in the movies and wanted to be that. So Lou ain’t trying to be Lefty Ruggiero, he’s trying to be Al Pacino being Lefty Ruggiero. He ain’t trying to be Tommy DeSimone, he’s going for Joe Pesci being Tommy DeSimone, not being Jake Amari but James Gandolfini.

Whenever I feel the urge to exercise, I lie down and nap until the urge passes.

Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. —AL PACINO (AS MICHAEL CORLEONE), THE GODFATHER, PART II

As I found out in Hollywood, sometimes not wanting something is the best way of getting it.

a good cop can't sleep because he's missing a piece of the puzzle. And a bad cop can't sleep because his conscience won't let him.