Pacino can be wonderful when working small—see the first two Godfather films, the quiet parts of Serpico and Dog Day Afternoon, his under-seen and perhaps forgotten Bobby Deerfield, and the more Willy Loman-like interludes in Donnie Brasco, in which Pacino is more likely to flinch from pain than dish it out. But introversion and reflection didn’t make him a star; explosiveness did, and whether he arrives at it via “slow burn” buildup, as in the Godfather films, or launches into it full-throttle from frame one and never takes his foot off the gas (Heat, baby), it’s invariably as thrilling as the sight of Jack Nicholson tearing somebody a new one, or Sean Penn contorting his face into a wet-eyed ball of anguish, or Nic Cage being Nic Cage. You listen to the whisper while waiting for THE SCREAM, OH YEAH! THAT’S RIGHT! ATTICA! ATTICA! I’D TAKE A FLAMETHROWER TO THIS PLACE! THEY PULL ME BACK IN! CUZ SHE’S GOT A GREEEAAAAAT ASS!