Certain actors dissolve into their parts, or at least try to, donning a veil of anonymity as they inhabit a role. Yet Robert Duvall, who passed away on Feb. 15 at 95, never quite did. He possessed too commanding a presence: Whether as the slick consigliere Tom Hagen in the first two Godfather films (1972 and 1974), the eccentric Wagner-and-surf-obsessed Lt. Kilgore in Apocalypse Now (1979), or the devout, redemption-seeking Sonny in The Apostle (1997), Duvall infused his characters with an electric vitality uniquely his own, an undeniable force inseparable from his unmistakable physical presence. His gaze could be hard as steel; it could also sparkle with delight. The figures he excelled at portraying weren’t always instantly appealing or entirely reliable, yet he drew us in and persuaded us to trust them. That was his genius: rather than transforming himself, he transformed something within us, expanding our understanding of human intricacy and paradox, making existence feel more expansive, not more confined.

Born in San Diego in 1931, Duvall spent the 1960s much like his contemporaries, landing minor television parts. While his first film role came as the reclusive Boo Radley in 1962’s To Kill a Mockingbird, television sustained him throughout the decade, with appearances on series such as Route 66, The Fugitive, Outer Limits, and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. The 1970s, however, belonged to him. He portrayed numerous unforgettable antagonists, from the arrogant, inept surgeon Major Frank Burns in Robert Altman’s M*A*S*H (1970) to the ruthless network executive Frank Hackett in Network (1976). These were villains audiences adored despising: Duvall endowed them with a raw magnetism that kept viewers riveted. And though Tom Hagen’s unsavory, unethical deeds in The Godfather saga were impossible to endorse, Duvall packaged them in such polished sophistication. Tom rendered horrific, inexcusable actions appear almost respectable—precisely what a fixer does—and Duvall rendered that reality with unsettling authenticity.

Duvall’s Lt. Kilgore in Apocalypse Now may have delivered one of the most overused quotations of 1970s cinema—the line about savoring napalm’s aroma at dawn—yet the character possesses a rugged intricacy that defies reduction to a single phrase. His very bearing suggests hidden depths: Kilgore is a tough-as-nails grumbler, but beneath that exterior lies a history and destiny we can merely speculate about. A Duvall performance never concluded when the credits rolled; one could envision these figures continuing to exist off-screen, leading lives we would never witness.

Yet if the 1970s marked Duvall’s emergence, his finest achievement may have come mid-career with The Apostle (1997), a film he also wrote and directed. He plays Sonny, a Texas minister whose world shatters violently upon learning of his wife’s (Farrah Fawcett) infidelity. He leaves her paramour comatose and flees, assuming a new identity—the Apostle E.F.—and embarking on a journey of personal salvation through Louisiana. Duvall’s Sonny is pure performer. He delivers scripture with improvisational flair. Even solitary in an empty space, venting his anguish heavenward in a furious prayer, his pleas—’Gimme a sign or something! Blow this pain outta me!’—pulse with evangelical fervor. One might suspect he’s a charlatan, yet repeatedly Sonny demonstrates his authenticity. Though flawed, grace emanates directly from his hands: we witness it as he ministers to a dying youth at a crash site, ensuring the boy’s salvation in his final moments. His talent lies not in hoarding grace but in distributing it freely, perhaps symbolizing the finest gift that great actors offer audiences.

The leading men who defined 1970s cinema—actors who shaped a new, sometimes rugged but often vulnerable brand of manhood—are gradually leaving us. Gene Hackman, Robert Redford, Donald Sutherland, Peter Fonda: once bold, alluring, and mercurial, they eventually transitioned into establishment figures, frequently settling into cranky elder statesman parts—the default positions for aging male stars. While rigid beauty standards may burden women more heavily as they age, men encounter distinct difficulties: nobody welcomes the sense of becoming irrelevant or overlooked as fresh talent dominates the landscape. Losing these artists permanently is difficult, not only because their deaths underscore how rapidly half a century can vanish, but also because for screen performers—whose artistry endures beyond their physical presence—mortality can represent a form of renewal. The senior-citizen characters fade from recollection, and we increasingly recall them as they were in their passionate youth. Duvall has now crossed into that realm, his vigor renewed, bequeathing a legacy of films where he remains eternally vibrant. For that, we give thanks.