As the production of Goodfellas surged into its final act, the atmosphere around Alex shifted. The sharkskin suits and the effortless elegance were packed away, replaced by the architecture of a breakdown. Martin Scorsese needed the audience to physically feel Henry Hill's spiral into cocaine-fueled paranoia, and that required a complete deconstruction of his leading man charm.
That transformation began in the makeup chair.
Alex sat still as the head makeup artist applied a thin, translucent layer of grey wash over his skin, stripping away the golden, cinematic tan he had worn for the earlier scenes. The goal was to make him look sallow, as if his blood had stopped circulating properly.
"Tilt your head back," the artist instructed, picking up a spray bottle.
She misted a mixture of glycerin and water onto his forehead, upper lip, and neck. Unlike natural perspiration, this mixture sat heavy on the skin, catching the light in a way that looked greasy and cold—the "coke sweat" of a man whose body was overheating while his mind raced. Finally, she applied a mild irritant to the corners of his eyes, leaving them glassy and bloodshot, framed by purple-bruised shadows blended deep into the sockets.
Alex stared at his reflection. The face looking back wasn't that of a charming twenty-five-year-old movie star. It was a ruin—a nervous wreck vibrating on the razor's edge of a catastrophic downward spiral.
He didn't need to torture himself to get there. Unlike the heavy emotional preparation he had done for roles like Platoon, Alex viewed this part of the performance as purely technical. He had seen enough movies, enough junkies on the streets of New York, to understand the mechanics of addiction. It was about rhythm—rapid eye movements, jaw clenching, the constant, involuntary touching of the face. He didn't have to "become" the addict; he just had to imitate the symptoms.
He stood up, adjusting his oversized collar which had been deliberately starched to look wilted and uncomfortable, and walked out to find the director.
Martin Scorsese was standing by the craft services table, reviewing notes. He looked up as Alex approached and actually took a half-step back.
"Jesus," Martin said, a mix of concern and delight on his face. "You look terrible."
"That's the goal, isn't it?" Alex said, his voice calm, contrasting sharply with his frantic appearance. "The eyes feel right. They burn just enough to make me want to blink constantly."
Martin leaned in, inspecting the makeup. "It's the skin tone. It's... clammy. It makes you look weak. How does it feel? Heavy?"
"It feels like a costume, Marty," Alex replied, grabbing a bottle of water. "Which is good. It makes it easier to turn it off."
"You don't feel the weight of it?" Martin asked, watching him closely. "Henry is falling apart here. He's betraying everything he knows. Usually, actors get a little moody when we shoot this stuff."
Alex shook his head, taking a sip. "No. I don't relate to him, Marty. Henry is out of control. He's sloppy, he's paranoid, he's letting his emotions drive the car. That's the complete opposite of who I am. To me, this is just mechanics. I twitch, I wipe my nose, I look over my shoulder. It's just a series of physical actions."
Martin laughed, adjusting his glasses. "Well, whatever you're doing, keep doing it. You look like you haven't slept since 1975."
"I slept eight hours," Alex said with a smirk that looked jarring on his wasted face. "I'm ready when you are. Just tell me where the helicopter is supposed to be."
"It's everywhere, Alex. It's everywhere," Martin said, gesturing toward the set.
Alex nodded, the "addict" persona sliding over him like a second skin as he walked toward the camera. He didn't need to be tortured to play a man in hell; he just needed to know his marks. And the moment the cut was called, he would step right back out, clean and untouched.
"Well, whatever you're doing, keep doing it. It's working wonderfully," Martin laughed, adjusting his glasses. "You look like you haven't slept for days."
"I slept eight hours last night. Like a baby," Alex said with a smirk that looked jarring on his wasted face.
"So, are you ready for the day's shooting?" Martin asked.
"I'm ready when you are," Alex said.
As he turned toward the set, the "addict" persona slid over him like a second skin. He didn't need to be tortured to play a man in hell; he just needed to know his marks. And the moment the cut was called, he would step right back out, clean and untouched.
*********
By March 1989, the grueling eighty-day shoot of Goodfellas was finally drawing to a close. The winter chill of New York was beginning to break, matching the thawing tension on set. The frantic energy of the filming was behind them, and the production had settled into a tired but satisfied rhythm.
On the final day, Alex Hayes, Robert De Niro, and Joe Pesci were sitting in a quiet corner of the soundstage, slumped in canvas chairs. The adrenaline of the shoot had faded, leaving them in a state of comfortable exhaustion.
Martin Scorsese walked over, looking more relieved than anyone. He pulled up a chair and sat down, letting out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire production.
"Well," Martin said, rubbing his hands together. "We're almost there. Just a few inserts left, and we are wrapped." He looked at the three men. "I want to thank you. Really. This was a beast of a schedule, but what we got... I think it's going to be special."
"It was always a pleasure working with you, Marty," De Niro said, nodding.
"Yeah, absolutely," Joe Pesci added, lighting a cigarette. "Anytime you want to do it again, just call. I'm there."
"Same here, Marty," Alex said, stretching his legs. "It's been a ride. And I enjoyed every minute of it."
Martin smiled, then pointed a finger at Alex. "Oh, before I forget. Irwin Winkler wanted me to tell you—the shipping is arranged. Your two cars will be delivered to you in L.A. by next week."
Irwin Winkler is the lead producer of Goodfellas and a legendary figure in Hollywood. He had produced the Rocky franchise (winning Best Picture for the first one) and had previously worked with Scorsese and De Niro on Raging Bull and New York, New York.
Joe Pesci looked up, confused. "Cars? What cars?"
De Niro chuckled, glancing at Alex. "Yeah, I heard about this. Alex has a habit of taking souvenirs from the set as part of his contract. Well, mostly cars, anyway."
"So, you're a car nut?" Pesci asked, squinting at him.
"Hey, I prefer 'car enthusiast,'" Alex replied with mock indignation. He dropped the act with a shrug, a small smile playing on his lips. "What can I say? I love cars. And we had some beauties on this one."
"Which ones did you snag this time?" Pesci asked, leaning forward.
"The 1966 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray and the 1979 Cadillac Coupe DeVille," Alex replied.
Robert De Niro leaned back, crossing his arms. "How many do you have now? I'm curious."
Alex thought for a moment, doing a mental tally. "I think somewhere between forty and fifty."
The table went silent for a second.
"Fifty?" Martin asked, eyes widening. "Where do you even put them? You live in the city."
"I had the underground garage at my place expanded," Alex explained casually. "Everything is down there. Climate controlled, secure. It's tight, but they fit."
"Do you drive them at all?" Martin asked. "Or do they just sit there looking pretty?"
"Sure, I drive them," Alex said. "But mostly at night. The traffic is low, the roads are empty. It's the only time you can really open them up in Los Angeles."
"So," Pesci asked, taking a drag of his cigarette, "what's your favorite? You got so many, you gotta have a favorite."
Alex didn't hesitate. His expression shifted from casual to proud. "The 1968 Ford Mustang GT Fastback from Bullitt."
De Niro raised an eyebrow. "The one Steve McQueen drove? Like... the one?"
Alex nodded, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Yes, the actual Highland Green 1968 Fastback. From the movie."
"Get out of here," Martin said, impressed. "How the hell did you get that? I thought that car vanished years ago."
"It took a lot of searching," Alex admitted. "It was with a family in New Jersey. A guy named Robert Kiernan bought it back in 1974 for $3,500. He kept it quiet, used it as a daily driver for years."
"So how did you pry it away from him?" Pesci asked.
"It wasn't easy," Alex said. "I had to offer $500,000 cash. Plus, I had to give him a brand new Mustang of the same model year from my collection, fully restored, with my autograph on the dashboard. That finally got the deal done."
Pesci let out a long, low whistle. "Half a million? For a car the guy bought for three grand? The guy made a killing."
"That's a pretty costly toy, Alex," Martin noted.
Alex shook his head, looking down at his hands. "Not to me. That car is cinema history, Marty. To me, it's worth much more than that."
The group sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the absurdity and the passion of it all. As the assistant director called out for the final check, they stood up, ready to close the book on Goodfellas.