It’s rare for men to have je ne sais quoi, and I am obsessive about the ones who I think do. The depraved, roguish charm of Serge Gainsbourg has fascinated me for as long as I can remember, and so has Rod Serling’s ability to careen between sinister and comforting. I already regret saying this in a public forum, but when I interviewed Larry Gagosian, I detected a lot of that nameless quality in him–probably from his ability to self-efface freely with a fox-in-the-henhouse twinkle in his eye. Most recently, I’ve become completely enraptured by Gene Wilder’s peculiar energy, which ping-pongs irrationally between mellow yellow to tempestuous. The “Puttin’ On The Ritz” scene in Young Frankenstein makes my heart swell–imagine that man, with those watery, cornflower blue eyes, describing you as “What was once an inarticulate mass of lifeless tissues, [who is now] a cultured, sophisticated, man about town”...?