Dennis Quaid

Quaid's one appearance is loose and unhurried, a bulldog named Peaches snoring on the carpet while he turns out more presidential trivia than any podcast should hold. He is convincing on the Reagan biopic without becoming a partisan bore, sold less by the politics than by the texture of the man's ranch, two single beds zip-tied into a king, a bookcase of every book he had read since age nine. The stretch that sticks is his forty-year grievance on behalf of Gus Grissom, the astronaut The Right Stuff painted as panicking, whom Quaid defends with a simple question: if he had screwed the pooch, why did NASA hand him the first Gemini and Apollo missions. He is just as matter-of-fact about the cocaine that fueled his twelve-hour piano practice for Great Balls of Fire, and the rehab that arrived six months later.