Mark Ruffalo, Brando, and the Hair Problem

I’ve always had a soft spot for Mark Ruffalo. Not just because he’s one of the best actors around, but because we have the same hair.

That may seem like a small thing. It is. But stubborn curls create a spiritual bond. Some people connect through religion. I connect through hair that refuses to commit to any one direction.

The first time I saw Ruffalo, I knew he had something. There was a gravity to him that reminded me of Marlon Brando. Not the Brando who might derail a production and wander off toward the Rio Grande. The young, raw Brando. The one with danger, vulnerability, and a little rebellion in the room.

Ruffalo doesn’t seem to perform characters. He inhabits them. His people feel as if they wandered in from real life: nervous, wounded, tired, funny, or occasionally on the verge of apologizing for smashing your living room.

I once went to a barber and asked for “the Mark Ruffalo.” I showed him a picture and everything. I walked out looking like Bob Uecker.

My wife still brings it up whenever she wants to feel better about anything.

“Remember when you tried to look like Mark Ruffalo and ended up looking like the baseball announcer from Major League?”

Yes. I remember.

Before Ruffalo, I was a full-blown Marlon Brando fan. Still am. I thought Brando was the north star for anyone who wanted to act.

The problem was that, in my head, I always felt more like Burt Reynolds. I had the misplaced confidence, the jokes, and the general sense that I was driving the metaphorical Trans Am straight into a ditch while smiling at everybody.

In acting school, I worked hard and had a good time. I was surrounded by very serious actors who wanted to debate Shakespeare or explain the importance of Edward Norton monologues. I knew Shakespeare mattered. I knew those performances took skill. I just didn’t always feel at home in that world.

I was living a Burt Reynolds life in a Marlon Brando world. And believe me, I wanted to be Brando.

I gravitated toward actors like Ruffalo, Steve Zahn, and Jack Black because they felt like people. They reminded me that you could be brilliant without announcing it. You could be committed without becoming pretentious.

While my classmates were digging into emotional trauma, I was trying to find a bootleg script of There’s Something About Mary so I could recreate the Matt Dillon scene for class.

I wasn’t rebelling. I just wanted to have fun while working. That’s what pulled me toward comedy: or maybe comedy grabbed me by the back of the neck and pointed me in the right direction.

Maybe that’s why Ruffalo stays with me. He makes authenticity look cool.

Brando taught us that. Burt Reynolds taught us to enjoy it. And Mark Ruffalo somehow manages to do both.