From the Introduction

27 years ago I received a phone call from my editor at Playboy saying that Al Pacino had finally agreed to sit for an interview and was I interested? Of course, I said. What journalist wouldn't be? But there was a catch. I had to fly to New York the next day and meet with him the day after that. I said there was no way I could get ready on such short notice. "You don't understand," my editor said, "he said he would only do this with the guy who did Brando."

Pacino had read the interview I had done with Marlon Brando that had appeared in Playboy's 25th Anniversary issue that month and, apparently, felt that if I was good enough for Brando, then I'd be the right match for him. So I flew to New York and didn't return home for nearly a month.

Before we met, I had an image in my mind: Michael Corleone, of course. Don Corleone's son. The second Godfather. Cold as ice. Someone who could take a gun hidden behind a toilet in a restaurant bathroom and shoot a bullet through the forehead of a corrupt cop. Someone who could tell his wife Kay he'd never lie to her, lying to her as he said it. Someone who could give the kiss of death to his older brother Fredo. The other image I had was of Sonny Wortzik, the inept sexually confused Brooklyn bank robber who was brazen enough to pace the sidewalk shouting "Attica! Attica! Attica!" in front of locked-and-loaded cops, TV cameras, and a cheering crowd. These were the guys I was about to interrogate: the cold, calculating mob boss and the wild romantic bank robber with a perverse sense of justice.

The man who answered the door to his brownstone apartment on 68th Street between Madison and Fifth Avenue was nothing like either of the men I imagined. Of course, he had those men in him, but it would take years for me to meet them. But my first impression of Al Pacino was of a somewhat shy and wary actor who happened to be burdened by also being a movie star. His lifestyle brought to mind a line from Hamlet: "I could be bound in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space." His three-room apartment consisted of a small kitchen with worn appliances, a bedroom dominated by an unmade bed, a bathroom whose toilet was constantly running, and a living room that was furnished like a set for a way-off-off-Broadway production of some down-and-out city dweller. I knew poor people who lived in more luxury than that. Which made me instantly like this man, whose material needs were obviously slight. All around the living room were dog-eared paperback copies of Shakespeare's plays and stacks of scripts, including one that Costa-Gavras had recently given him based on Andre Malraux's Man's Fate.

Between the apartment, his trailer on the set of Cruising, and a few restaurants, we talked every day, often into the early hours of the morning. For an hour or two, he would sit or lie on the couch, then jump up and go into the kitchen to light a cigarette from the stove, check the time, walk around a bit. One night I smelled something burning and we ran into the kitchen to see a potholder in flames on the stove. Pacino picked up the teakettle and calmly, as if such things happened all the time, put out the fire. On another night, I arrived to find him downstairs in the hall, picking up the pieces of a broken Perrier bottle that he had dropped on his way to the elevator. "People wouldn't believe I do this, but I do," he said.

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During our initial meetings in 1979, Al had trouble completing his thoughts—his mind jumped, his sentences dangled, he spoke in dashes and ellipses. But as we got to know each other, his sentences and thoughts became complete. He was fascinated with the actual process of being interviewed. "Nobody ever asked me for opinions," he said.

It was on a Saturday when we finished that interview and I was scheduled to fly back to Los Angeles the next evening. Sunday morning Pacino called, wanting to know when my plane was leaving. When I told him, he said, "Well, that gives us enough time for one more talk." I put the batteries back into my tape recorders and grabbed a taxi to his place.

After our interview appeared, I continued to talk to Pacino. We talked over the phone, and face-to-face whenever he came to Los Angeles or I went to New York. Over the years I've written about him for different magazines, ranging from Rolling Stone and Playboy to Premiere, Movieline, and Entertainment Weekly. I've visited him at his homes in New York, and on location in Devonshire, England and Vancouver, Canada. We've traveled to the desert to escape the aftershocks of the 1994 Los Angeles earthquake. He's attended my older daughter's bat mitzvah and my younger daughter's piano recital. We've played cards, chess, baseball, and paddle tennis.

Because of the nature of our relationship, I was always up front with the editors I dealt with, and they were pleased to be able to get an "insider's" take on Pacino. The challenge for me was to not repeat myself with things we had talked about previously. When we returned to some of his films or to his private life, I tried to get him to say something new. I was always looking to keep it fresh, to make it an enjoyable read, and to provide new insights into the actor and the man.

 I've had the opportunity to interview hundreds of actors, writers, and politicians. I've been lucky to spend time with artists like Henry Moore, Saul Bellow, Richard Feynman, John Huston, and Barbra Streisand. And what has always attracted me to Pacino is his artistic sensibility. Far more than just an actor, Al Pacino is an artist. He has a great need to do what he does, as well as a great desire. He has turned down huge offers for commercial movies and has instead returned to the stage to do a small play. Brecht, Mamet, O'Neill, and Shakespeare speak to him. Especially Shakespeare.  You can throw out the name of most of Shakespeare's plays and Al can quote lines to you. I know, because I've done this with him.

I didn't know when I first met Al Pacino that we would strike up an honest friendship—not one of convenience, where he'd be nice to me hoping I'd write nice things about him. Over the years he and I have had our confrontations and disagreements. But I believe that he respects what I do, as I respect what he does. We come at things from different angles. He has to deal with agents, publicists, studios, and producers who warn him not to trust people like me. I have to wrestle with turning in honest copy whenever I am asked to write about him. It's not an easy position for either of us. I told Al when I wanted to put together a book of all the pieces I've written about him over the years that I see it as I see the conversation books I've done with such cultural icons as Truman Capote, Marlon Brando, and James A. Michener. To me Pacino is equally as fascinating and complex. I've been privileged to observe how such men think and work, how they make choices, and how they deal with their public and private personas.

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Pacino is an actor first, a stage actor, then a movie actor who happens to also be a movie star. He'll take Merchant of Venice over Merchant of Death every time. He'll personally finance and then promote the DVD of his three independent films but he will tell his publicist he'd rather not have to do similar promotion on projects that aren't as dear to his heart. He'll tell his agent he wants to take Salome on the road, and then do the play Orphans at a 99-seat theater in West Hollywood when his agent is telling him to do movies that will allow him to continue to rent houses at twenty grand a month. Because it's not about money, it's never been about money, with Pacino. It's about how he feels inside his body and his head. It's about his art. And in an age of commerce, Al Pacino just may be the last artist standing.