Although titled 'T.S. Eliot', the video's reader is Michael Gough, a British actor whose imdb CV fails to show an appearance on one or some episodes of The Loretta Young Show in the 1950s where I remember Loretta featuring him as an honored player.
He's had a very durable career, and I do remember him in some of the horror films shown on his list and also in the more somber or sinister roles he's otherwise done.
Here he voices Eliot's 'Prufrock', a modern fool for love, a model of dull despair, of loneliness, a manipulee in the sophisticated hands of sexual puppetry, ripe for risible gossip, a man deadened to the prospect of anything but ironic response to his outreach.
When a trained British actor -- Gough, in this instance -- recites that which is -- though memorable on the page, in the mind's ear -- depressing, it is the high delivery that carries the poetry to us. Consonants crackle and pop and kick. Vowels open abysses and squeeze to a shriek. All that within a classical containment.
Americans. I'm one. We do not have this music. Our English can be welcoming or plain-spoken or hushed or rowdy or sincere; it can have brute poetry -- at its best, for example, in David Mamet. Southerners come close to the lyricism: Tennessee Williams, Capote, and (his greatness!) William Faulkner.
Americans. I'm one. We do not have this music. It's in our basic culture to despise aristocracy. Try as British working class heroes might, in their closer resentment, want to make His Lordship or Her Ladyship kiss their own Arses, these mates are still rooted more directly to Shakespeare, his modeling of great mankind, than they may be comfortable to admit.
His breath. Shakespeare's breath.