He was unprepossessing; short, dumpy, balding, inarticulate. He had been paid two million a year, now he is unemployed.
He was a hand actor. Every closeup trick on the books you've seen on the screen, from shuffling cards to juggling to rolling a coin through his fingers to twirling a drumstick, his hands. He kept them perfectly manicured always and bathed them in mud flown in from Borneo and had a special plastic surgeon to prevent aging in his hands only. The rest of him had gone the way time is, but not his hands.
Until the arthritis. Now he cannot even hold a deck of cards. He seems perfectly distraught about it, and the host seems empathetic, and there is that moany mass commentary from the studio audience to indicate commisseration.
[I wake up from this one with an ache in my own right hand, the one I've been having some trouble with since Scoob pulled the ligament out with a portion of the bone when I tried to restrain his one hundred twenty pounds of irrepressible muscle some two months back.]