When Paul Newman died, we were left with what many considered to be an unfillable void (admittedly, unfillable isn’t a word. But I enjoyed writing it. Twice). Who among our legions of actors could live up to his theatrical standards? Who could sell the emotion? The passion? The heart?
Sure, we have Denzel and Leo and Sean Penn. But, well, Newman was an original. And there are so few originals left in the world.
Yes, Mr. T. The greatest of the greats; the kings of kings. Many seem to think T is only good for two things—this and this. Yet his career is one to be admired and praised. He was versatile, sporting a mohawk through the 1970s, 80s, 90s and even today. Heavy chains that would reduce the necks of ordinary men to mere particles have only strengthened his resolve. As a boy, I watched Mr. T’s Saturday morning cartoon and thought, “This sucks really badly—but T is the man.” And so it was.
Anyhow, worry not—Mr. T didn’t die. Rather, I am writing this ode to the man because I just stumbled upon the greatest Mr. T performance of all time, and desperately want to share his brilliance with the world.
And if you can’t see it, well, I pity you.
