Paul Newman falls under that very exclusive category of actors who are wholly responsible for my infatuation with anything film, particularly old Hollywood with a bold capital golden H.

He was an utterly beautiful man to behold on screen, be it at age 20 or 80, and he never wasted audiences’ precious time by getting involved with subpar scripts that lead to even worse films. He had an amazing instinct for the types of films that had a compelling story to tell and let him display his cocky talents. For he was always pretty full of himself while strutting across that screen.

And why shouldn’t he have been? Even when he played despondent losers (and there were plenty of them from “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” to “The Verdict”), you felt drawn into that vertiginious charisma he possessed. He wasn’t a minor star manufactured by celebrity mags, gossip blogs, and entertainment “news” programming, but a true blue radiant Supernova.

For me, it’s peculiar to witness the rise of a new breed of Man-Child stars that everyone seems to be raving about because I madly miss those actors digging deep into full-blown adult roles with intricate histories, personalities, and relationships. Spend a few quality hours with Hud, Nobody’s Fool, Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid, The Hustler, Harper, Cool Hand Luke, and The Sting, and you’ll know what I’m talking about. The magic behind Paul Newman’s artistry is that he did it effortlessly.

May he rest in peace in that grand theatre where creative passion from his generation of actors shall reside for an eternity . . . .