I love Al Pacino.
When everything is clicking with him, there are few pleasures than I enjoy more than watching him do his thing. Think about his credits: “The Godfather”, “Dog Day Afternoon”, “Donnie Brasco”, “Insomnia”, “Carlito’s Way”, “The Insider”, “Heat”, “Scent of a Woman”, “Scarface”, “Glengarry Glen Ross”, the list goes on and on. Okay, so maybe “Simone” and “Dick Tracy” weren’t quite up to par, but I’m willing to cut the man a little slack – he was probably on meth anyway.
I love Al Pacino so much that I would be willing to pay full admission to watch a 90 minute film of him sitting silently eating breakfast cereal and absentmindedly leafing through a Pottery Barn catalogue. Seriously, the man is that good. In fact, I would gladly give the man a wad of cash if he would be so kind as to scream at me so fiercely that hot spittle would fly from his lips.
I mean it, Al. If you’re out there, I’ll pay you right now. I will pay you so hard.