As I moved down the sidewalk, the Quarter eerily silent, I saw in the distance the figure of a man walking towards me. I could not make out his features at first, but there was something familiar in his tall, lanky stature and unhurried gait. The closer he got, his facial features became clear and I realized I was looking into the soulful eyes of actor, Donald Sutherland. He was wearing a long trenchcoat and a fedora style hat, and as we got closer and closer he never broke eye contact. We passed one another, exchanging only a wordless, acknowledging nod, then each disappeared into the enveloping dim of the street, two ships passing.
I've never forgotten that brief exchange with Mr. Sutherland on that foggy evening. It is crystalized in my memory as it felt as if I had just encountered a mythical creature in the form of one of my most beloved actors. From Hawkeye Pierce to Mr. Bennett, his epic body of work has been a constant in our movie and television experience. When I learned of his passing yesterday, I visualized in my mind a view of his back walking away, into the still of that foggy evening, his steps relaxed, hat pulled low, hands in the pockets of his coat, perhaps even softly whistling to himself.
