There is something about Tommy Lee Jones and Southern California that does not fit. The persistently pleasant weather, the happy-go-lucky esprit de corps, all the damn sunshine. These things are wasted on Jones, who at 64 is a monument of somber gravitas. His moods are permanently etched into the lines of his famously craggy face—a Mount Rushmore profile offset by deep, slightly mournful eyes that, in a certain light, look like tiny oil wells.
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