Some sounds and faces will live forever

David Sherman

Robert Redford never died. He’ll forever be the guy with the carefully dishevelled blond hair, the killer smile, the guy you wanna have a beer with, the shoes of whom the ladies, as my dear departed mother would’ve said, would like to find under their bed.

Brad Pitt will never die. One wag called him the last of the great film stars. He also doesn’t age, doesn’t take life too seriously, has a great body to go with the face, a body he proudly shows off in Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, uses it to put a dent in a prized car by throwing into it a character playing Bruce Lee. His acting chops -- not a Spencer Tracy here -- but he’s a scene stealer as a financial wizard and whole-foods freak in The Big Short, scalping Nazis in Inglourious Basterds – No, I don’t know why it’s spelled that way.

But, even in the silly heist films, Ocean whatevers, the camera loves him, maybe the last of the breed. And he will always be the handsome, glib, tough guy no matter what he does later or how long he lives.

Keef and Mick will always do a number to your head. Richards with his junkie guitar riffs, giving you goose bumps, over and over and over again. They are in their 80s, heart surgery, concussion, addictions in the rear view, but my sympathy for the devil has not waned and who doesn’t need shelter from the storm in its many guises? Yes Richards’ hands are gnarled by arthritis, playing is not as easy as breathing as it used to be, but Richards at his best will always be there.

Duane Allman checked out after a motorcycle accident. He was 22. He had yet to reach the pinnacle of what would’ve been historic blues guitar. You can listen to him on Boz Scaggs’ Loan Me a Dime for the rest of your life or the Allman Brothers’ Statesboro Blues and remain enthralled at what he could wring out of an electric six-string, with or without a bottle neck.

He’s long gone but part of him is just a few clicks away. And those few clicks can be life affirming for us, for our children, our children’s children as long as they’ve not gone over to the dark side of “beats” and other computer-generated, nerve-wracking synthetic music. Allman was one of the last guitar heroes.

Meg Ryan will be the ditzy blond forever, the confused bookseller in You’ve Got Mail. The confused celibate lover in When Harry Met Sally. And despite her and a surgeon’s best efforts, she’ll always be the ditzy blond of her youth. And perhaps some men will always want her and some women will always want to be her. Bereft of guile, stacked with innocence, definition of typecast, we’ll always remember her as the woman in her late 30s looking like a ditz in her 20s.

Billy Crystal has moved on. Like every human, he has aged. He’s no longer box office, keeps away from hosting the Oscars and herding cows in ersatz westerns. He will go the way of his contemporaries, Jack Palance and Bruce Kirby. Gone, but the laughs he gave us or the tears in his tribute to his friend, Muhammad Ali, who called him “little brother,” will stay with us until we go the way of all flesh. The laughter he provoked can still be heard. The city slicker with his pal, Norman the cow, will always be here.

Dustin Hoffman is no longer Dustin Hoffman. He graduated to a less convincing second-tier star, who like Gene Hackman, will disappear one day. Unlike Hackman, remembered for the thin veneer of an ironic smile over a penchant for sudden violence, we will probably not see dementia and neglect transform him.

Al Pacino was at the top of the mountain for decades and admits in his autobiography he’s now waiting for the phone to ring. Careers also go the way of flesh but not those who forged them in great performances. Pacino will always be Michael without a heart in the Godfather, Scarface buried in cocaine, Serpico, the cop who couldn’t be bought. He’ll always look great in trademark long trench coats and we’ll be hearing him say, “Hoo-ah” for the rest of our days.

Yes, he could act. You could forget he was Pacino for the two hours or so he controlled the screen then celebrate Pacino when the credits rolled and you were able to catch your breath and store the memories of great scenes.

And Spencer Tracy, be it the Tracy in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, Inherit the Wind, Judgment at Nuremberg or Adam’s Rib, will always be the uncle you wished you had. He’s the guy who takes the high road. The man with the morals, the uncle you could confess your sins to. His face may have been etched by time, but his image is immortal.

Bruce Willis will never be demented in our minds, regardless what his wife tells the media. He’s the snarky, smirking killing machine in a multitude of Die Hards and other films where he could hit you with quips as well as a platoon of 45 calibre slugs. No, he couldn’t sing or dance, just make you laugh and kill a few hundred as he sang, “Yippee-ki-yay, Motherfucker.”

His brain has cheated on him and his loved ones but to us he will always be the indomitable and lethal funny guy, playing a tune on an automatic weapon.

The big screen has, for the most part, shrunk to the size of the widescreen in your home, but it hasn’t shrunk the grandeur of the Julia Roberts of the world who can drop into her savings whatever the tax man doesn’t take from her $20-$25 million a picture, including those made for streaming where films last forever, longer than our memories.

Pitt earns as much as $40 million plus a slice of profits which keep on coming as do the films on Prime, Netflix, Crave, etc., etc., etc.

We pay the money gladly. It pays for the myth of immortality. If they don’t age, maybe we won’t. Just click on the TV or YouTube, see Pitt or hear Richards do their thing.

Some things really don’t change.