He was never meant to last this long, not by the math whispered in hospital corridors when he was still young enough to outrun bad news. Decades after the diagnosis that should have closed the curtain, Michael J. Fox moves through the world slower, smaller, visibly carved by Parkinson’s and the wreckage it drags behind. Bones have snapped, a spinal tumor was cut away, and each step now feels like a promise paid in pain. When he admits, “It’s getting tougher,” it lands not as surrender, but as a clear-eyed ledger of what it costs just to keep showing up.

What seems most breakable isn’t his body, but his insistence on being seen exactly as he is. In “Still,” he lets the lens study the tremors, the missteps, the fatigue, then punctures the heaviness with a crooked grin. He doesn’t offer cures or glossy inspiration. Instead, he returns, again and again, to a simple, stubborn choice: to meet relentless decline with truth, with wit, and with the kind of hope that doesn’t promise rescue, only the courage to stay in the frame.