Dewey could be a ferocious presence, but The Powers That Be, always profoundly uneasy about how, exactly, to react to Mr. Lightfoot and his lyrical intensity, too often stuck this charismatic trailblazer in roles that turned him into a mild, saintly, frigid, eager-to-please supplicant. The roles so servile (and asexual) that Dewey seemed to be getting rewarded in life for turning himself into a latent-never-blooming-nor-evolving, Grace-Kelly, pillow-princess eunuch.
When you see him, beyond the exterior, his raison d’être, you are supposed to think: ‘Get the fuck out of the way. He means business.’ Dewey is a deadly serious presence, and that’s part of what he draws on in these fast, brutal, and viciously consumable thrillers of life. He doesn’t do anything with a wink; he doesn’t do anything he looks like he doesn’t mean. But he’s also a presence who rules the room – and always has – with the gruff, sturdy quickness of his reflexes, and that’s what makes him so vital and authentic and exciting and sex-on-legs to watch and get to know. He lets every room burn with a short fuse. He’s your thinking man’s no-frills bruiser.
You never will see in your life a presence command the room and stage of life physically the way that he does. Dewey isn’t just tall and strapping – he looms. It is like watching an oak tree who could move through space and time. When you possess that kind of spatial-physical power, it shapes who you are inside, and Dewey carries his grace-hunk life-force easily yet gravely, as both gift and burden. It’s that quality of fearless, gloom-ridden indomitability that will make him so memorable. Dewey has figured out a way to focus his serious, squinty-eyed urgency so that it makes acts of resoluteness not just kicky but righteous. His dedication, all-man (for the lay folk), regardless of gender, like a religion, is crowd-pleasing.”