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Lucky, yes. She is seventy years old, more rounded now than curved, and more beautiful for that. She smiles at him with that look that women have who have stuck it out, who have come to cherish the boy in their man. But this much is no joke: He has slowed.

• Slave portraits!
• Article Page!
• Subduing Witchcraft.
• Anarchism and the politics of ressentiment?
• Film Review – The Devil Lives Here | The Kim Newman Web Site;
• Curse of Russia.

He retired from auto racing in , after winning the GT-1 championship at the Daytona Rolex 24 at the age of seventy, and the movie work is sparse, redundant, cued by his creases and old white head and dusty pipes. Since Nobody's Fool in -- a fine job, garnering him his eighth Oscar nomination for Best Actor; he lost, of course, to Mr. Box o' Chocolates -- he has played a creaky shamus in 's pat but watchable Twilight , and he did his level best as Kevin Costner's pop, crusty and wise, in Message in a Bottle , the purest celluloid tribute to nausea since Mickey Rourke died.

His new film, Where the Money Is -- he plays yet another cranky alter kocker , a bank robber who fakes a stroke to get out of prison and into a nursing home, where Linda Fiorentino, playing the hot 'n' nasty nurse, cajoles him into one last heist -- was shot two years ago. And since?

It's dry, a dry season. I ask about The Homesman , a project he's talked about the past few years, a character-driven western he's written and rewritten. He has said that he'd like to direct it and star in it with his wife -- they've done eleven pictures together -- and then call it quits. He squints, frowning. Tell him you love his popcorn and red sauce and salad dressing and he'll thank you kindly with a twinkle in his eyes, but don't blow smoke up Paul Newman's bony old ass.

Don't even try. Behold the man. Listen to him. No complaints. A pretty good run. My lady. Bud in a pony bottle. Pally, you can argue that Newman was not all that fine an actor -- although the only men with as many Oscar nominations are named Nicholson, Olivier, and Tracy. You can belittle the car racing as a rich man's hobby -- as long as you give props to the dude for huevos grandes. Hell, you can keep the charity stuff out of it, too; he won't mind. The name was a cloak and a joke, a guarantee that the checks he wrote would be cashed right away, but the money, hundreds of thousands of dollars, was real.

Then came the Scott Newman Foundation. Then the Hole in the Wall Gang Camp for terminally ill children. But even leaving all that aside -- and stowing, too, the old-codger-facing-thehorizon, the living-legend hagiography -- answer me this:. He's going back to Daytona to drive in the Rolex He swore that he'd return at seventy-five.

If he's drawing air, he'll be there. More than ever, now is all he has.

So, if the scripts he sees these days are few and far between, if the directors now come from MTV and NYU, if the writers are fresh from Harvard, and if the actors are from the San Diego Zoo, digitally enhanced planks of pine who piss and moan about the emotional agony, the soul torture, of playing a part in a fucking movie -- if he never acts again, so what?

They were merely roles, anyway. He shot a decent stick at best; he never ate those fifty eggs; he didn't die in Bolivia. He was a working actor, the kind who took his script and broke it down scene by scene and beat by beat, who worried about having enough rehearsal time, who'd show up on location a week or a month in advance of shooting to ground himself in the reality he hoped to capture.

He was not a confident actor. He never could stand to watch the movies everyone else adored. He saw himself up there sweating to create, forcing things, working too hard: the Un natural. In , when his Hustler costar George C. Scott told the gossips how unimpressed he was by Newman's work, they went to Newman for a piss shot back. He agreed with Scott and kept working. A box-office hero with his pick of any script -- and nearly every one asked him to puke up another Fast Eddie, another Hud, another Luke, another Butch -- he took roles in films that no one wanted: a Mexican outlaw in The Outrage , a Western version of Rashomon ; a disc jockey turned freedom fighter in WUSA ; a union-busting logger in Sometimes a Great Notion.

He began to produce and direct his own films; the first, Rachel, Rachel , starring Woodward, earned a Best Picture nomination in It lost to Oliver! The idea was that they would produce quality films, films they cared about. The reality was that the lunatics couldn't run the asylum, and he himself was bored, frustrated, sick of playing Paul Newman playing Paul Newman. Christ, I played those parts once and parts of them more than once. It's not only dangerous to repeat yourself, it's damned tiresome.

It had come full circle: He was back behind the counter at Newman-Stern Company, retailing skates; hell, he was up there on the shelves himself, a product. The Towering Inferno: This they went to see him in. The Sting: This won Best Picture.

Fuck the work, fuck the industry, fuck the money. Fuck the fucking eyes especially. Worse than toting Jayne Mansfield's rack, worse because he had worked hard to become a solid, versatile actor, had taken the craft seriously, and wound up candy on a stick. Besides, he had discovered racing. This circle he liked -- fast and faster, no thought beyond the screaming cockpit, no introspection, no box office. You won or you didn't. He kept his filming schedule clear from April to October -- racing season -- and turned pro in He was fifty-two years old, and acting was now something he did on the side.

And this -- fuck it, just fuck it; just drive the bitch like you stole it and pass the fucking Scotch -- this he could use to become the actor he'd always wanted to be, free of all the smirking boyo shit and freeze-framed machismo. Then Slap Shot : Newman on skates, playing a muff-diving hockey lifer who sports a brown patent-leather leisure suit off-ice and isn't above diddling a teammate's wife. And when Redford pulled out of The Verdict because playing the boozehound shyster wouldn't gloss his image, Newman took the part, pouring himself into a raw wound of a character and -- stripped of all mannerism -- bared the soul and spirit of the man, coming out on the other side in the flat-out best ride of his career.

He's the codger now , dressed in a Sarah Lawrence sweatshirt and chinos, bifocals perched on the tip of his nose, at home in Westport, Connecticut. He takes his cup of coffee into the den and sits, surrounded by books and pictures, facing the window that looks out across the yard, sits in an old wooden desk chair that squawks like a dented cornet, sits and watches his wife tote a basket of wash up the walk to the house. He reaches into the bottom drawer of the desk and fishes out a chocolate bar. Newman's Own -- he buys them at the grocery.

Another circle closed, another arc of life returned to earth. He is what his father was: a businessman, a brand name.

He is what his father was, a family man. Five daughters. His first child, Scott, his only son, overdosed and died at the age of twenty-eight, in Scott had tried to become an actor, had tried stunt work, had changed his name to William Scott and tried to become a singer. It had been bad between them for a long time before the pills and alcohol carried Scott away, worse than it had been back when he himself was his father's son and a fuckup.

When the phone call came, he was not surprised to hear that Scott had died. What shocked him was the anger and the hurt.

What enveloped him then was the length of the shadow his own father had cast, and the darkness of the shadow now belonged to him. He can't act it away, can't drink it into light, can't outrace it or out-tough it. He can't even name it.

Not grief. Not guilt. It is past naming, and he is long past trying.

It is always there. But sixty yards away stands another house, where one of his daughters now lives with her family. That is where he goes to try to close the circle -- to play with Peter, his three-year-old grandson, who takes him by the hand into the playroom and bids him to sit on the floor. Wipe your mind. And he will wipe his mind of everything, and it will fill again with the color of winter light and the smell and sound of the little boy on the floor pretending with him.

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Then a line of dialogue drifts back to him from twenty-five years ago, from when he played Buffalo Bill for Robert Altman:. He's the codger at home , in the old stone house built in , in the sunlit kitchen, grinding organic coffee beans for a fresh pot. The Scotch and the smokes are a long way behind him now. We have split a small piece of the Newman's Own chocolate, and we have walked the dog.