Certainly there are those who truly have a passion for the craft of acting - those who would be just as happy doing summer stock in Peoria as they would be as the lead in the latest Spielberg blockbuster. But I fear those dedicated thespians are few and far between. No, I believe the majority of the hopefuls migrating to Los Angeles, stocking up on Uta Hagen and Strasberg at the Samuel French shop and dreaming of that first SAG card long for the kind of mega-star success so synonymous with the words "superstar" and "celebrity." They dream of De Niro-like dedication to their work, extravagant suites at the Ritz-Carlton, jettisoning downtown to do late-night chat shows before being whisked away via car and driver to their latest glamourous movie premiere. They let their minds wander down that imaginary red-carpet, paparazzi bulbs flashing blinding white and blue, press peons screaming their names, rabid fans barely being held back by temporary security. The ultimate dream for any actor, is, of course, the ability to pick and choose which roles to play - which scripts to even bother having the agent messenger over. This is De Niro-Streep success; this is more than your name on a chair, your table waiting at the Ivy - this is the ultimate power and control. This is the means to control your career, to shape your destiny, to, in a sense, write your own biography long before your demise. Sure, the star on Hollywood boulevard would be nice (preferably post- renovation) and the chance to scream "Dolce and Gabbana" into Joan Rivers' witchy face at the Oscars is a nice pipe dream, but hey, it's really all about the acting, right?
Yeah, right. Just when you think that all hope has been lost in this final year of the millennium as far as any real acting talent goes, along comes somebody from out of left field to knock your proverbial socks off. Just when you've had enough of De Niro's snarling (come on, Raging Bull was almost 20 years ago!) and Pacino has become such a caricature of himself (it was great in Dog Day Afternoon, but Al, come on, tone it down a bit) that you sit in the theatre laughing as he apes himself over and over and you can't tell one "young Hollywood" star from another on the WB teen-obsessed televisionnetwork (Jennifer? Felicity? Cameron? Dawson???) and the biggest movie event of the year isn't a movie at all but a two hour prequel doubling as Madison Avenue's marketing wet dream (Phanton Menace indeed) along comes a strangely beautiful, quiet young man, with an unusual name, from a small country in the United Kingdom called Wales. Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the incubation of a true actor's actor - a man-child named Ioan Gruffudd (pronounced Yo-awn Griffiths) who proudly speaks his native tongue of Welsh, had a blink-and-you-missed-it role in the biggest sinking boat blockbuster of all time (Titanic, in case you were in a coma for the past year and a half) and who recently made both historical dramas and literature smolder with a sensuality, a genuineness and a seriously unbelievable amount of talent in A&E's Horatio Hornblower and PBS's Great Expectations. Any actor who can send thousands of people rushing to turn the TV to their local PBS station has got to have something special. And Mr. Gruffudd has got that something, and more.
Sure, he's good-looking. But not in any real classical sense. And yet, somehow, the pieces do fit together magnificently. Wavy dark hair, dark chocolate eyes with hints of golden brown, a lovely square jaw and a slightly-too big nose....but the real magic is in the smile. Wide, warm and welcoming, it is perhaps, the most gorgeous smile I've ever had the pleasure to see in my 32 years on this earth. It is, as they say, a smile that lights up his entire face, the entire room, the entire depth of his being. He smiles, and his eyes dance, he smiles and you melt into a puddle on the floor, regardless of age, intellect or wisdom. And yet he is more than pin-up boy pretty - he has an other-worldly loveliness that is part youth (he's 25), a good deal of genetics, and quite simply, a tremendous amount of charisma and light - the stuff that stars are made of (those in Tinseltown and floating above us in the Milky Way). He's an elegant construct - a tallish, lanky creature who is still growing into himself, both body and soul. He embodies an exquisite classiness and nothing or no one will be able to cheapen him though I can well imagine the greedy, parasitic, nebulous dark forces roaming the formica and glass hallways of the studios will want desperately to try.
At this point in his career, despite his tiny role as Kate Winslet's saviour in Titanic, I long desperately to ring him up across the pond and furtively beg him not to let the Hollywood bastards get him. Alas, I know that kind of stardom isn't far out of his reach - such luminous talent can't and won't stay confined to the likes of BBC television forever. For not only has Ioan been blessed with the graceful, beatific looks of a Renaissance man-child, but he has been gifted with the purest of acting talent - the ability to not merely pretend, not merely transform himself, but the mysterious and magical ability to absolutely transcend himself in any role he chooses. He simply outclasses his peers - the Ethans, the Matts, the Bens, the Brads and the interchangeable "Friends" - by miles and miles. Although he studied at RADA and kept busy during his youth doing a Welsh television show, Ioan's talent is quite obviously innate - a God-given gift that no book, no instructor, no class could give him.
On screen, Ioan not only becomes another character, another being entirely, but he somehow manages to slough off the trappings of the 25 year old young man that he is - the one who drinks at the pub with his buddies, the one who, in interviews, still sounds like a goofy 25 year old - and metamorphisizes into a maturity far beyond his earthly years. This transformation is done entirely without make-up or costume - it is a sheer act of will that goes beyond method acting, beyond anything apparent to the naked eye. It is nothing short of divine to gaze upon the likes of this much talent. It is almost as if the boy re-arranges every molecule and atom in his being and fast-forwards himself to a place beyond where he is physically located at now. And with his slightly too-large face, in its smooth, translucent beauty, he conveys each emotional state with the barest hint of expression - subtlety at its finest. A small shift of his eyes, a tiny look, the smallest hint of a smile, a lone tear cascading down a chicken-pox marked cheek - the quick blinking of those long eyelashes and you are gone, gone forever into his world.
He's the kind of actor that makes you crazy. Still somewhat anonymous on the world's stage, you know he's headed for greater things and that kind of makes you sad. In a way, you want to protect him, keep him this tiny golden secret. You want to hold him close and keep him hidden like a fine, precious jewel. You know talent will out, but part of you can't bear to share him with the rest of the world. You see genuine sweetness in his soul and pray that in 5, 10, 15, 20 years, some of that will still exist. It's a whole other universe from Cardiff to the slum-laden streets of Hollywood, paved with stars as they may be.
He's going to be a star. You know that. Like Julia, like Brad, like Tom. But so completely unlike any of them. He'll be different. And so will you, for merely standing in the luminous pool of his stellar light. This is how stars are made, and how they fall to earth.
