there are times when tim roth is my freaking hero

Everybody knows him. If you're American, you probably didn't see him first in those early, gritty films about poverty and thuggery in England (Alan Clarke's Made In Britain, Mike Leigh's Meantime), but Quentin Tarantino saw to it that his laugh is etched in your mind from a moment that may have altered cinematic history in our time: in Resevoir Dogs, when the guy whose ear Michael Madsen's just taken during his little torture-dance asks Roth, "How do I look?" I may be misremembering my timeline, but it seems to me that a whole new Comedy of the Grotesque was invented in that scene, the repercussions of which have yet to play fully out. Roth has worked with Tom Stoppard on Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead and Vatel, Stephen Frears on the Terence Stamp comeback vehicle the Hit (available this month for the first time on DVD), Robert Altman on Vincent and Theo, and Francis Coppola on Youth Without Youth. In all these many years, I have yet to see him act badly, but there's one performance that stands like a giant over them all.

1995 was the year of the Scottish film. Before Braveheart, there was Rob Roy: a sentimental, epic blockbuster evincing traditional Republican family values, hard work, stoical persistence and physical courage, the importance of living by a personal code of honour, and taking up arms against The Man if you're feeling oppressed. I watched it several times in the theatre that summer, partly to take a long and vicarious holiday in Scotland, but mostly because Tim Roth gives one of the most polished, fantastic performances ever put on film.



His name is Archibald Cunningham. From the moment he walks into view, languid, limp-wristed and sleepy-eyed, less like a fop than somehow like a little girl, his mouth a rack of bad teeth periodically displayed in a smile that is simultaneously insulting and obsequious, he commands the screen, stealing the film from powerhouse presences like Liam Neeson and Jessica Lange as well as formidable Brits like John Hurt and Brian Cox. The character is very finely written: a poverty-struck bastard with courtly ambitions, only a total lack of conscience and an unearthly ability in a fencing match to recommend him. Roth turns in a perfect double performance: there's Archibald at rest, when he is out of sight of his superiors, and there's Archibald with courtly airs and careful jibes when in. As if that's not enough, there are various shades in between, when Archibald is in the presence of inferiors or those he has not yet placed in the social hierarchy (the cage in which he lives), and Roth captures them all with a breathtaking effortlessness. He communicates with the motion of a facial muscle or cast of the eye as much as if he were to deliver, Shakespeare-like, a soliloquy directly to the camera. There is no moment when we do not know what he is doing or thinking, although his words often belie the truth, and he never becomes predictable. I'm happy to go out on a limb here and call his final swordfight against Rob Roy McGregor (an excellent vehicle for Neeson), who is brandishing a huge two-handed Claymore against Cunningham's quick sabre, the best duel ever put to film. Not only are acres of nuances exquisitely captured by the camera, not only is the action given plenty of space and punctuated with just the right amount of close-up, but Roth keeps communicating his character to us, silently, while he fights.

He was nominated for a Best Supporting Oscar for it, losing out to Kevin Spacey in The Usual Suspects. Watching it again after all this time has reminded me of a thing that was chewing at the edges of my mind while I watched Heath Ledger as the Joker. Something felt wrong to me, just off-kilter, and I could never put my finger on it; Archibald Cunningham has snapped it into focus. There is no moment in Roth's entire performance which is not absolutely clear: no gesture, no grimace, no spoken word. Every choice is clearly made and clearly delivered. Next to it, Ledger's Joker looks out of focus and unfinished, as if he had all the right instincts about the role but needed more time to rehearse, to set his choices finally and completely, to deliver them cleanly.

Nowadays you can see Roth any given Wednesday night on Lie to Me, one of those 1001 All-Cops-And-Federal-Agents-Are-Smug-and-Self-Righteous shows we apparently love in this country (I hope to God that real cops aren't as obnoxious as the ones on TV. Can you imagine if your husband was killed and Vincent D'Onofrio walked in, turned his head sideways, started playing with your earrings while standing way too close, and asked if you secretly wanted your husband dead?). He plays a specialist in body-language who can tell instantly if you're lying. I've watched one ep. Frankly, it makes me nervous. I've seen too many fine actors lose all love of craft and joy in the process while picking up that astronomical weekly check from those bigwig studios. (And here, insert a wistful hello to my once-beloved Vincent D'Onofrio.) I wish him well with it. His kids will have their choice of expensive universities, and that's nice for him, but I don't give a crap about it. I'm selfish, and I'd rather he keep on acting well.