You're Right! By the '60s, Brando's interviews--and his work--were growing more cynical. Acting, he said, was the expression "of a neurotic impulse," a "self-indulgence." Any pretensions to art he may have harbored were now just "a chilly hope." Far from being a culture's hero, he became its Abominable Snowman, flitting through the shadows of bad movies, becoming a blur on the paparazzi's lenses. Twice he paused in his flight to remind us of the greatness that might have been--with his curiously affecting menace in The Godfather, with the ruined grandeur of Last Tango in Paris. That was more than a quarter-century ago, but in a way, that was enough. For the passing years have taught us this: refusing to rally a revolution, Marlon Brando still managed to personify it. Although he chose to limit his screen appearances in size and frequency, and allowed his body to bloat to mammoth dimensions, reaching 300 pounds, Brando remained a charismatic film personality, capable of commanding huge fees even for cameo roles. For a while he commuted to locations from his principal home at Tetiaroa, an atoll near Tahiti. After a long absence, he returned to the screen in 1989, promptly gaining yet another Oscar nomination, this time as Best Supporting Actor, for A Dry White Season. His shadow now touches every acting class in America, virtually every movie we see, every TV show we tune in. We know too that the faith vested in his example by all the De Niros and Pacinos, and, yes, the Johnny Depps and Leonardo DiCaprios, was not misplaced. Marlon Brando may have resisted his role in history, may even have travestied it, but, in the end, he could not evade it.