As 1989 opened, the industry watched a rare phenomenon unfold. Typically, an adult-oriented, clinical drama like Sex, Lies, and Videotape would struggle to find a foothold outside of major coastal cities. However, the film defied the traditional "indie" trajectory. Encouraged by massive per-theater averages, MGM expanded the film's reach to 200 theaters for the second week of January.
The results were a testament to the sheer gravitational pull Alex Hayes now exerted over the moviegoing public. The film grossed $1.7 million over the weekend, followed by an additional $1 million during the subsequent four days. This brought its second-week total to a robust $2.7 million.
While the film's provocative quality certainly played a role, trades like Variety and The Hollywood Reporter pointed to a deeper factor: Alex Hayes. After an unprecedented streak of delivering consecutive hits, Alex had accrued a level of trust with the audience that was almost unheard of. People were going to see whatever Alex Hayes chose to do next.
While Sex, Lies, and Videotape was gaining momentum as a dark-horse contender, MGM found itself in an enviable position, largely thanks to its partnership with Hayes Productions. In addition to the Alex Hayes-led indie, the studio was also managing the limited release of My Left Foot.
Released in late December to qualify for the Academy Awards, My Left Foot was a Hayes Productions project that cast the relatively unknown Daniel Day-Lewis as Christy Brown, an Irishman born with cerebral palsy who could only control his left foot. The critical reception was nothing short of ecstatic. The industry lauded the transformative acting of Day-Lewis, with many critics already calling it one of the greatest performances ever captured on film. By backing both a provocative modern drama and a deeply moving biographical piece, MGM had scored a "double win" with Hayes Productions.
While the indie market and the awards circuit buzzed with the success of his latest releases, Alex Hayes shifted gears entirely, immersing himself in the gritty, high-energy world of Martin Scorsese's Goodfellas.
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January 12, 1989 — Queens, New York
The production for Goodfellas moved into its most vibrant phase as the cast and crew took over a meticulously dressed lounge set. To capture the look of the 1960s, production designers replaced every modern utility with a "saturated authenticity." The walls were lined with dark, polished wood and deep crimson vinyl booths, while tables were crowded with heavy glass ashtrays and red-shaded lamps that cast a warm, smoky glow across the room.
On set, Alex Hayes was almost unrecognizable. He wore custom-tailored sharkskin suits crafted from a wool-mohair blend with a distinctive metallic luster. This fabric was chosen to shimmer under the low light, giving his character a literal "glow" that separated him from the "civilians" in the background. Beneath the jackets, he wore crisp white shirts with iconic long, stiffened "spear-point" collars, anchored by a gold tie bar and a slim silk tie.
His wardrobe served as a visual timeline of his ascent; as the character's wealth grew, the suits became sharper and the fabrics more expensive. His hair was styled in a high-shine executive contour, held in place with traditional pomade to maintain a rock-solid sheen. To finish the look, he was adorned with period-accurate status symbols: a thin gold watch and a massive pinky ring, signaling his rank within the Lucchese hierarchy.
The casting of the trio created a fascinating dynamic. Joe Pesci, playing the volatile Tommy DeVito, was finally seeing his career reach its zenith. In a bold creative choice, the 46-year-old Pesci and the 45-year-old Robert De Niro played characters with a significant age gap; Tommy was meant to be nearly 15 years younger than Jimmy Conway. Alex, however, was the only one whose real-life age mirrored the character's journey. At 25, he was perfectly positioned to play Henry Hill from his youthful start in 1963 through to the frantic, drug-fueled conclusion in 1980.
Today, they were shooting one of the most important scenes in the film. The air was heavy with the smell of garlic and unfiltered cigarettes. Alex sat at the center of a crowded table, a lit cigarette between his fingers, his suit catching the red light of the lounge.
Martin Scorsese peered through the viewfinder, checked the lighting one last time, and looked at his actors. "Everyone ready? Joe? Alex?" After a round of nods, Scorsese called out, "And... Action!"
The shot began with the table in hysterics. As the laughter subsided, Alex leaned back. "Funny. You're really funny," he said, intending it as a compliment to Tommy's story.
Joe Pesci didn't smile back. He didn't yell; instead, he slowed his movements and looked at Alex with a cold, piercing intensity. "What do you mean, I'm funny?" he asked, his voice dropping to a quiet, terrifyingly measured tone.
Alex maintained a friendly grin, but his internal alarm was screaming. "It's funny, you know. It's a good story. You're a funny guy," he replied, allowing a flicker of uncertainty to cloud his eyes.
"You mean the way I talk? What?" Pesci pushed back, his eyes never leaving Alex's face.
"It's just, you know. You're just funny. The way you tell the story," Alex said, trying to keep the mood light.
"Funny how? What's funny about it?" Pesci asked, his posture stiffening.
When another actor tried to intervene, Pesci cut him off without looking away. "Anthony… He's a big boy. He knows what he said. Funny, how?"
At this point, Alex let Henry's genuine nerves bleed through. "Just, you know. You're funny," he said, his voice tightening.
Pesci leaned in closer, his voice like a razor blade. "Let me understand this. Maybe I'm a little fucked up. But, I'm funny, how? Funny like a clown? I amuse you? I make you laugh? I'm here to fucking amuse you? What do you mean, funny? How am I funny?"
Alex projected Henry's physical discomfort. "Just... You know, how you tell a story."
"No, I don't know. You said it. You said I'm funny," Pesci pressed with terrifying focus. "How the fuck am I funny? What the fuck is so funny about me? Tell me what is funny!"
A heavy silence hung over the table for five seconds. Alex held his ground, his eyes locked onto Pesci's. He didn't look away, waiting for the break in the storm. Finally, Alex as Henry says, "Get the fuck out of here, Tommy," laughing as he projected Henry's massive relief at the realization that Tommy was really just fucking with him.
Pesci burst into a triumphant laugh. "Motherfucker! I almost had him!"
The table exploded. Pesci shouted, "You stuttering prick! Frankie, was he shaking? I wonder about you sometimes, Henry. You may fold under questioning!" Alex leaned back and let out a high-pitched, breathless, wheezy cackle.
"Cut! Cut! Excellent, Alex. Joe, that was beautiful," Scorsese shouted, clapping his hands.
Joe Pesci turned to Alex, still grinning. "How did you come up with that laugh? It's unnerving, kid."
Alex took a drag of his cigarette and explained his preparation. "I wanted something that wasn't about joy. It's a sycophant's laugh. Henry desperately wants to show he's 'in' on the joke because he's terrified of being the target. He laughs that loudly to hide his own heartbeat."
"It's great, isn't it Marty?" Joe said, turning to the director.
"It's perfect," Scorsese agreed, adjusting his glasses. "It gives Henry this layer of desperate ambition. To be honest, Alex, I had my doubts about casting you. But you have cleared them completely."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "You're the one who came to me, Marty."
"Yeah, I know," Scorsese laughed. "But it was never about your acting ability. It was your looks."
"What's wrong with my looks?" Alex asked.
Joe Pesci chimed in, laughing. "Oh, tell Martin—what's wrong with Alex's looks?"
"Oh, come on. Look at yourself. You're beautiful," Martin said. He spoke with a simple matter-of-fact tone, as if it were a glaringly obvious truth that Alex was somehow the only one in the room failing to realize.
Alex's eyebrows shot up. "Beautiful? You mean handsome, right?"
"No," Pesci answered seriously. "I think Marty said it right. You are beautiful."
Alex's eyebrows shot up. "I don't see it. I just see a leading man. It's a standard Hollywood look, isn't it? There are hundreds of guys with the same looks as me."
"It's called self-bias, Alex. You don't see it because you see yourself in the mirror every morning," Scorsese said, trying to explain it. "Listen, I would have agreed with you two years ago on The Color of Money. Back then, sure—you were a handsome kid, but you were one of a hundred. But not now. Something shifted last year. You hit this... this aesthetic peak that's almost supernatural. And I'm not saying you aren't manly—don't misunderstand me. It's that rare, cinematic quality—sharp yet soft, masculine yet vulnerable. You have this refined, effortless bohemian edge that the lens just devours. You look like... like..." Scorsese trailed off, snapping his fingers as he struggled to find the comparison.
"Like Alain Delon," Pesci finished for him.
"Yes! Exactly!" Scorsese snapped his fingers as if he had just cracked a code. "Just like Alain Delon. You even kind of look like him—with that effortless cool and that timeless look."
Alain Delon was the definitive masculine beauty of European cinema, possessing a dangerous, predatory edge beneath his perfect features. Like Delon, Alex had a face that could be breathtakingly angelic in one light and chillingly cold in another. Both shared a specific "feline" grace—an athletic build paired with eyes that seemed to see right through people.
Alex turned his gaze toward Joe Pesci. "And do you think the same, Joe?"
Pesci tilted his head, squinting at Alex through the haze of cigarette smoke. "Maybe. But honestly? I think you look more like a young Paul Newman."
Alex looked at both of them, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Well... I can work with that."
All three broke into a genuine, easy laugh at that. But Alex knew, deep down, he sure as hell could work with that. For Alex, the "aesthetic" peak Marty described wasn't just a compliment; it was a business asset. In the high-stakes game of Hollywood, looks were more than just vanity; they were a form of currency.
If a significant part of the massive success his films had seen over the last year was due to his appearance, then so be it. He wasn't naive enough to fight it. He would lean into that "devastating" aesthetic and use it as leverage as long as it remained in his arsenal.