The Commentator

You can tell he's an actor,
Deep down in his heart,
Even when muted:
The way he shutters
And shuttles his pupils;
From his gestures, imparting
Nuances, sidebars, jests,
With theatrical arm-sweeps and finger-flexions,
A twitch of the brow or sly-wry smile.
And that pixieish twinkle in his eyes?
So endearing!
The icing on his cake: he possesses
An ageless, eternally youthful face.
In the Silent Era, he'd have been a colossus,
A brilliant sun, paparazzi-prey,
The envy of pupating matinee idols.
(We must set aside, if only for moments,
Those rumors of ugly domestic rage.)
While he's on-screen, the viewer's transfixed;
He commands his watchers as few others can,
But confined as he is to the role of critic,
Never given free rein to apply his talents
To Vanya, Willy Loman, or King Lear,
He will never achieve that lofty status
That gilds celebrities' careers
And preserves them for posterity.