S I write this, Clint Eastwood has turned 81.
Happy Birthday, I say, to one of the true enduring stars of the last 50-odd years. Eastwood is one of the few celebs who has turned my knees to jelly on meeting them.
Yet he’s a softly-spoken chap who finds it easy to smile and appears genuinely self-deprecating about himself, his image and his long career.
On the release of Mystic River in 2003 Eastwood was in the UK to promote the film along with Tim Robbins and Laurence Fishburne.
In truth Robbins and Fishburne, with writer Brian Helgeland, needn’t have bothered turning up. All eyes were on Clint who, at 73, was the only one anybody wanted to talk to.
The night before he had been interviewed on stage at the National Film Theatre by Michael Parkinson, who is, like Eastwood, a jazz aficionado. It was hardly the most gruelling question and answer session but then Eastwood wasn’t there for a Paxman-esque grilling.
My impression of Eastwood is of a man who has single-mindedly pursued his goal over more than 40 years. From his days on Rawhide, which ran from 1959 to 1965, this was a man who wanted to occupy the hot seat. He wanted to direct.
0 comments:
Post a Comment