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In his later years, when his genius had pried him from anonymity, Guinness played all manner of historical celebrities, from Marcus Aurelius to Pope Innocent III, Hitler to Freud. By then, his eminence had become a cloak that he wore with cool majesty. It was like his "mischievous dolphin smile that spreads and flits away" (John le Carre's words). That smile was tight, wary and tinged with a seer's sadness; it invited affection but repelled intimacy. Emerging from a Guinness film, spectators wondered, "Who was that unmasked man?"
Guinness can no longer take comfort in camouflage. The death mask is no mask at all; it is an old face seen in a naked light. Yet in our memory, that face magically morphs into a hundred others--all of them Alec Guinness, whoever he was. His career was a bold statement comprising 60 years of whispers. In an era when grossness is king, subtlety needs to be honored. That was Sir Alec's priceless gift. He revealed himself through the protean cunning of a "faceless" film artist.
--By Richard Corliss