While cinema isn't a beauty contest, if it were, Alain Delon would undoubtedly have reigned supreme as the most handsome actor of the 1960s.

That’s a subjective call, of course, and as such, Delon is the kind of figure about whom writers tend to fall back on the word “arguably” — as in, “arguably the most handsome” — which is kind of a cop-out, as it leaves the argument to somebody else. When it comes to Delon, plenty have made the case. I loved Anthony Lane’s longform analysis of Delon’s allure in The New Yorker earlier this year. And none other than Jane Fonda, who co-starred with Delon in 1964’s “Joy House,” described him as “the most beautiful human being.”

The French star, who passed away on Sunday, starred in over 100 movies during a career spanning 50 years. However, for that singular transformative decade in film history — beginning with the Patricia Highsmith adaptation “Purple Noon” (“Plein Soleil”) in 1960 and extending through to his iconic role in Jacques Deray's “La Piscine” — Delon came to embody an unattainable ideal, with his piercing wolf-blue eyes, Elvis Presley cheekbones, and fit, ready-to-wrestle physique.

But physical appearance was merely a part of the equation. Given his own working-class origins, Delon possessed an innate streetwise toughness. However, in his earliest roles, he appeared slightly puppy-like (the titular Italian bruiser in Luchino Visconti's “Rocco and His Brothers,” the amorous stockbroker in Michelangelo Antonioni's “L’eclisse”).

It didn't take long for him to settle into the suave, disaffected aura that became Delon's signature. From his minimalist acting style to the way he smoked a cigarette, casually dangling from his lips, the star conveyed that he was indifferent to the opinions of others. And there's nothing more impressive than an individual who doesn't strive to impress.

Delon never aspired to be an actor. According to a recent interview with Brigitte Auber, who was then a French starlet fresh off filming “To Catch a Thief” for Alfred Hitchcock, she found him one night, walking intoxicated on a Parisian bridge, and took him back to her place. (It was the first of many romantic entanglements between Delon and sought-after screen beauties, including Brigitte Bardot, Romy Schneider, Ann-Margret and Mireille Darc.) In 1957, he accompanied Auber to the Cannes Film Festival, where she introduced him to the right people.

The young man was 21 and irresistibly handsome. It wasn't long before he was working in movies. Appearing opposite Schneider in 1968's “Christine,” Delon looks like a real-life Disney prince with his high-collared Austrian military uniform, chiseled features and neatly styled hair. It's no surprise that the closeted Italian director Luchino Visconti was smitten, casting Delon in both “Rocco and His Brothers” and “The Leopard,” in which he embodies the generation that will inevitably succeed Burt Lancaster's ghostly Sicilian aristocrat.

Delon brought a volatile, unpredictable energy to his early performances, radiating a dangerous/seductive charisma that he later learned to subdue. The reason for Delon's decision to tone down that restless screen presence in later roles isn't entirely clear, but it's easy to spot the difference between the electrifying charm he brought to 1964's “The Black Tulip” (a loose Dumas adaptation in which he plays the swashbuckling twins) and the more subtle, understated appeal of his Zorro portrayals a decade later.

One theory posits: Every time Delon smiled, his teeth, seemingly his only imperfection, were on full display. Today, stars are cast primarily for their attractiveness, but in the 1960s, it could be a liability. Delon found himself attempting to diminish his 'pretty boy' charm.

Around this time, Henry Wilson, the Hollywood talent agent who had discovered Rock Hudson, Tab Hunter, and Guy Madison, presented Delon with an opportunity to work for American producer David O. Selznick. Delon had already been participating in non-French films at that time (it was quite typical for European directors to cast actors from various nationalities, then dub them as necessary, as Visconti did with “The Leopard”).

To Delon's credit, while he explored a few English-language productions, he preferred to remain a prominent figure in the smaller world of European cinema, rather than getting lost in the vast ocean that was Hollywood. It was a smart decision, considering Hollywood's treatment of actors with foreign accents, often casting them in a limited range of roles. Consider the careers of “Gigi” star Louis Jourdan (“the last French lover”) and Omar Sharif (who co-starred with Delon in 1964’s “Yellow Rolls-Royce”).

Shortly after, Delon met Jean-Pierre Melville, the filmmaker he considered his most significant artistic collaborator. Melville was a true maverick of French cinema — a war hero who had built his own studio and found a way to work outside the closed-off French film industry. Melville's fiercely independent productions predated (and inspired) the French New Wave, and Delon was eager to work with the director, who had had a falling out with his rival, Jean-Pierre Belmondo.

I've written extensively about “Le Samouraï” (1967), a sleek, dialogue-sparse portrayal of a self-sacrificing criminal antihero. Melville's masterpiece is not only the source of Delon's most impactful performance, but arguably the coolest film of all time (don't worry, I make that argument here ).

Delon portrays Jef Costello, a hired assassin in a crisp trench coat and gray fedora, who moves stealthily through the streets of Paris. We witness him meticulously crafting his alibi for minutes on end, before ultimately assassinating the boss of a swanky nightclub, only to have his methods exposed when a jazz pianist spots him at the scene. Making someone like Delon appear inconspicuous is no small feat, yet the actor managed to shed the magnetism he brought to “Purple Noon” (an alluring early version of “The Talented Mr. Ripley”) and present a blank slate, allowing audiences to project motives and emotions onto him.

The film is a gripping thriller, but its pace contrasts sharply with the high-octane energy of contemporary Hollywood hits such as “The Thomas Crown Affair,” “Point Blank” or the New Wave-inspired “Bonnie and Clyde.” While Steve McQueen, Lee Marvin and Warren Beatty exuded charisma in those films, Delon stripped away that element from “Le Samouraï” (and many subsequent roles).

Delon's almost expressionless face was an enigmatic Noh mask in that film. For French speakers, his even-keeled line delivery — gruff and flat — further concealed his intentions, while making the characters appear tough and intimidating. It's a strategy that American stars Clint Eastwood and McQueen (who famously cut vast amounts of dialogue from their scripts) came to embrace as well, although neither possessed the model-like features to offset it. Delon internalized the lesson of “Le Samouraï” going forward, particularly in two more films he made with Melville, “Le Cercle Rouge” and “Un Flic,” adopting the director as a kind of honorary mentor (ironically, “Le Samouraï” was released in the U.S. as “The Godson,” aiming to capitalize on the success of Francis Ford Coppola's film).

To fully grasp Delon's distinct approach compared to other stars, one need only compare his composed performance in the 1970 gangster-movie romp “Borsalino” (not a great film, but an entertaining one) with that of his co-star, Belmondo, a jumpy former boxer who seems ready for a fight at every turn. By this time, Delon was already a household name, as was Belmondo, and pairing them was a no-brainer — though a turbulent point in their competitive careers, as Delon (who produced the project) took top billing.

Both actors went on to take on paycheck projects, amassing wealth from action films that feel somewhat embarrassing to revisit today. “Red Sun” and “Scorpio” are worth watching, but the rest served to fund a glamorous lifestyle that included a personal helicopter (in Agnès Varda's unsuccessful “One Hundred and One Nights,” the star can be seen arriving in his private chopper).

Fame never wavered for Delon, who was cherished in France until the very end. But beauty is fleeting. As Lane wrote in The New Yorker, “Alain Delon, in his prime, was the most handsome man in the history of cinema.” I'd place the end of his peak — or the beginning of his decline — at 1969, when he starred with Schneider in “La Piscine.” It's a sultry, steamy erotic thriller set on the French Riviera, where Delon's character eliminates a rival (Maurince Ronet, reuniting from “Purple Noon”) after corrupting his daughter (Jane Birkin).

I've often said, if I could somehow step into any film in history, it would be “La Piscine.” This modern mood piece excels in atmosphere rather than suspense, unfolding through languid afternoons by the pool, where Delon and Schneider's real-life chemistry ignites the screen. The film unravels somewhat towards the end, lingering too long after the murder. But at its heart is Delon, tanned and showing his age (he portrays an unsuccessful writer past his prime, and one can feel the clock ticking for the actor too). Despite being surrounded by two of European cinema's most striking actresses, it's Delon who captures the attention.

On reflection, perhaps cinema is a beauty contest. One of the medium's many charms is how it immortalizes the world's most captivating people, allowing us to revisit their prime. Delon may be gone, but through “Purple Noon,” “Le Samouraï” and “La Piscine,” he will forever radiate his smoldering charisma.