Ernest Borgnine had the sort of face that suggested he was never young – or, at the very least, that he always looked older than he was. In truth, Borgnine didn’t get his start as a screen actor until his early-to-mid 30s, having spent his young adulthood serving in the navy after high school and re-enlisting after the attack on Pearl Harbor. With his stocky figure and boisterous gap-toothed grin, Borgnine had no conventional leading-man qualities, yet his unique magnetism made him an unlikely star, someone who could play tough guys or working stiffs with broad relatability. He was the people’s star.
Borgnine hadn’t been in movies very long when he took the title role in Marty as a pug-ugly butcher who’s 34, still lives with his widowed mother in The Bronx and has all but given up on the prospect of marriage. To say the part resonated with viewers would be a understatement: Marty won both the first-ever Palme d’Or and best picture Oscar, and Borgnine won best actor for a performance that spoke (and still speaks) to the yearning of lonely souls who have a lot of love to give, but need someone to discover it. There’s a sweaty earnestness to Borgnine here that’s completely winning, because he’s incapable of playing it cool or disguising his inexperience. He can only be himself.
