From eleven years of age onward, I’ve had a difficult time sitting in a car without tipping my head sideways at a G-force-resisting angle like Garner’s Pete Aron in Grand Prix. His portrayal of the vibrating forearms of a Formula-1 driver racing on the very adhesion limit of curved space remains among the enduring cinematic tropes of my long-arrested development.

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Once, as I braced for diagnostic doom in the tunnel of a scanner, the technician in charge scolded me through the intercom for shaking. “Not shaking,” I answered. “Cornering … Nürburgring, 1966.”

And I believe that all of us whose heads include an unmanly rear-facing extendo-dome will agree with critic Clive James that it was Garner’s posterior noggin we dreamt of: his went straight down in back.


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