I have noticed something that has been
happening to me lately. When a beloved artist passes away, I feel the need,
beyond the expected urge to revisit their work, the legacy they leave behind,
which was always the only relationship I had with them in the first place, to
read something related to them. Just as I did after Ozzy’s passing, when I
reread the autobiographies of Lemmy and Halford, today I will talk to you about
Al Pacino, since not long ago Robert Duvall also left us. What is interesting
here, however, is that although I could have chosen to read Ozzy’s
autobiography, I instead picked one written by a friend of his. Why? I think I
simply wanted to remember, to recall, to “place myself” close to that feeling
that even though these people are no longer here with us, some kind of
connection still remains, either through their art or through a record of their
journey. After finishing Lemmy’s book I moved on to Halford’s, in order to
complete, in a way, this short journey, this brief retrospective with a
personality we are still fortunate enough to have among us.
What I am about to say is not pleasant, I know, but even though the realization that within the next few years we will no longer have all those classic artists in this world deeply saddens me, I honestly do not know how to handle it. I suppose that, as with every other time this happens, I will write something, say something, share something with someone, and continue moving forward for as long as I can.
To lighten the mood a little, today I want to talk about the beloved Al, who in 2024 gave us his autobiography. I bought it, yet instead of reading it I listened to him narrate it himself through the audiobook. If you have the option to hear Pacino speaking with that remarkable voice of his, I think the choice is obvious.
The first thing I noticed in this book, and again it matters that my experience came through the audiobook, is the way he handles his voice. There are rises and falls in volume, different tones, at times it becomes quite raspy, at others it softens, and occasionally he laughs, sometimes he even sings or recites lines. None of this could have been experienced simply by flipping through the pages. The way, for instance, he describes losing his mother at a young age, or how he felt when he had almost no money in his pocket and worked various odd jobs just to survive, while feeling with every part of his being that he was an artist and had to find a way into the world of creation.
It is essentially a record of his life, of his path, with many references to his friends and his career in cinema. Starting out completely broke, he took whatever jobs he could find, stayed with acquaintances, lived wherever someone could host him, until he eventually left school and devoted himself to acting, particularly theater, which remains his greatest love to this day. From there he was noticed by the right people, he received his first role, and soon after he appeared in the first Godfather, where Coppola fought hard to keep him in the film. From that point on he reached the height of his fame, then, as often happens, there was a period when he nearly withdrew and it seemed nothing else of the same magnitude would follow, until he returned with films such as The Godfather Part III, Scent of a Woman, Carlito’s Way, and Heat.
Naturally a book like this, one that concerns such a famous figure, has the peculiarity that many of the things mentioned in it are already known, or perhaps not. Pacino, who always existed somewhat both inside and outside the industry, never particularly enjoyed following the system’s expectations. Although he was part of it, he managed to keep many details of his personal life out of the public eye, which was a wise choice, especially today when everything is expected to be publicly available. This was true in earlier decades as well, but in the twenty first century, and particularly after the arrival of social media, the entire landscape has changed.
For me, Pacino has always been one of those actors whose films I grew up with. His work left indelible marks on my soul and became intertwined with those decisive years of adolescence and preadolescence. Yet he never stopped being present in my memory, since roles such as Serpico, Michael Corleone, and of course my personal favorite Carlito remain points of reference, sometimes even standards of comparison, perhaps unfairly, although it happens naturally rather than intentionally, and in recent years I no longer give it as much thought.
You know how these things are. When you admire an artist deeply, you keep searching for them everywhere, consciously or unconsciously, and inevitably you find similarities and echoes. Fortunately for me he is not the only actor I have felt connected to. There are others, including his friend Bob, and I would very much like to hear him tell his own story someday.
My experience with Sonny Boy was deeply emotional. I did not want to finish it, I did not want to part with this book. At some point I will also buy it in print so I can keep it on my bookshelf and leaf through it whenever I feel like it, because I cannot stop thinking about that realization I mentioned earlier, that unsettling awareness I would rather not repeat now.
Art constantly offers us extraordinary things, extraordinary moments and memories, and we appreciate them differently depending on where we stand in life, in age, in mind, in body. Yet nothing can truly compare with those hours when a child watches a film that captivates them and carries it with them for the rest of their life.
Scenes such as
Sorry boys, all the stitches in the world can't sew me together again. Lay down, lay down..
Accompanying Notes:
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