A couple tidbits from his interview in this week's New Yorker:
"On a television show, precise acting isn’t the order of the day," he said to me. "It’s a sitcom. The idea is to hit certain beats, and we do it cleverly. But, you do a television show, you become a pastry chef. I’m a pastry chef now; I’m not the big chef at the big restaurant. I’m not Daniel"—a brief pause, then he jutted out his lips in a way that was familiar from his movies, and almost shouted the next word—"Boulud. You know?"
"I always think, What if you just took your hand off the wheel, and slowly, over time, it all went away, and your life became about, you know, Is the mail here yet? I always think about that." But this dream of disengagement quickly gave way: in the space of a few minutes, sitting in weak sun on a New Jersey driveway, smoking a cigarette, Baldwin imagined himself as the restaurant critic of the Times; the proprietor of an inn near Syracuse; and the presenter of a classical-music show on public radio. "I could do that," he said, and he wasn’t exactly joking.