At age 61, Tommy Lee Jones is hitting his stride. In the past three years, he has excelled in three powerful films: The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, In the Valley of Elah, and No Country for Old Men. Directed by and co-starring Jones, Three Burials tells the story of Texas rancher Pete Perkins, who carries the corpse of his murdered friend Melquiades, an illegal alien, home to Mexico. No Country for Old Men, adapted from Cormac McCarthy’s novel, won four Oscars, including best picture, while Jones was a best actor nominee as Hank Deerfield in In the Valley of Elah, about a retired military policeman investigating the mysterious death of his son, a soldier home from Iraq.

Jones’ own story is the stuff of drama. Born on September 15, 1946, he grew up in Midland, a west Texas oil town. His father worked on rigs; his mother was a teacher, a cop, and a beautician. Jones earned a scholarship to a Dallas prep school, then continued to Harvard, where he acted, played football, and roomed with Al Gore. His first film role was a bit part in the quintessential Harvard movie, 1970’s Love Story.

He was not an overnight star. Over the course of the decade, Jones appeared on the soap opera One Life to Live and on television shows such as Charlie’s Angels and Family. Gradually the parts got bigger and better. In 1982, he won an Emmy for his portrayal of Gary Gilmore in The Executioner’s Song. That was a turning point; so was his scene-stealing role as gay businessman Clay Shaw in Oliver Stone’s 1991 film, JFK. In 1993, Jones won an Oscar for best supporting actor for his riveting performance as federal marshall Samuel Gerard in The Fugitive. After that came the popular Men in Black movies, Batman Forever, Volcano, and Space Cowboys, among others. Along the way, Jones acquired a reputation as sometimes aloof, occasionally surly, and usually disdainful of the rituals of movie marketing—including interviews. I met Jones at Manhattan’s Carlyle Hotel, where the actor, who divides his time between a San Antonio ranch and a West Palm Beach estate, stays when he’s in town. Over two glasses of chardonnay, Jones proved both intimidating and intriguing. Questions that bored him produced monosyllabic retorts, sometimes followed by stony silence. But he was also funny, erudite, gracious, and likeable. One got the feeling that, if one could ever get to know him, Tommy Lee Jones would be a very interesting man to know.

You recently gave an interview to London’s Telegraph in which you called Hank Deerfield, the retired military policeman you play in Elah, “disgusting.”
That writer characterized me as a dog.

He did?
Yeah. I didn’t have anything to say—I barked. Or I growled. Hangdog expression. I tried as hard as I could to be nice to that fella, and he pretended to be polite. He pretended to be a decent journalist and proved himself to be something else. So I don’t want you to think that I have any respect for that journalist at all.

OK … well, is it a challenge to play a character you find disgusting?
(Looks, sounds impatient)
Not at all.

Not at all?
No.
Long silence.

Because Hank didn’t come across that way …
Those are just my feelings about this character. He would seem to be a nice fellow, I would think, to just about everyone.

David Denby wrote in the New Yorker, “In the Valley of Elah is a rarity: an American film that convinces you that its protagonist is genuinely a great man.”
Well, ol’ Hank, he stayed after the investigation [into his son’s death] and uncovered what happened, and learned something from it, and therein may lie some measure of greatness.

I understand that initially you weren’t sure you wanted to play the part.
Yeah.

Why not?
A mood I was in or something. I don’t know.

After seeing the film, it seems hard to imagine anyone but you playing Hank.
Well, we worked really hard, and [writer-director] Paul Haggis worked very hard, and we were lucky enough to have Charlize Theron and [cinematographer] Roger Deakins on hand.

What was the name of the little boy?
What little boy?

The one who played Charlize Theron’s son [Devin Brochu]—you have an emotional scene with him.
I don’t know what that kid’s name was. He was a good kid; we became friends. But not to the extent that I learned his name.

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