Sam Neill died Monday in Sydney, at 78. His family announced it with the Māori word most outlets kept — "whānau", extended family — and a line only families write: the loss was "sudden and unexpected but blessed by the fact that Sam remained cancer free." * Then every headline desk on earth had to solve the same brutal little puzzle: fifty years, dozens of films, a knighthood — one line of type. The BBC's breaking banner: "Sam Neill, Jurassic Park actor, dies aged 78." NBC: "actor known for 'Jurassic Park.'" CNN: "star of 'Jurassic Park' films." Three newsrooms, three continents, one dinosaur. * NPR found room for a second film — "known for 'Jurassic Park' and 'The Piano'" — which reads almost extravagant in this company, like a eulogy that mentions your doctorate as well as your karaoke song. * The Washington Post went the other way entirely: "Actor Sam Neill dies at 78." No franchise, no dinosaur. Just a man and his profession. Maybe it's restraint, maybe it's a Sunday-shift headline writer — we're choosing to call it class. * Meanwhile, New Zealand's prime minister measured the same life differently: "For more than fifty years he took New Zealand stories to the world." The Piano. Peaky Blinders. A film industry that barely existed when he started out. Most of the English-speaking press compressed all of it into the paleontologist in the fedora, running. * And honestly — we get it. An obituary headline isn't a biography, it's a search query, and "Jurassic Park actor" is simply honest about what your thumbs were going to type anyway. The BBC didn't get him wrong. It measured a life in the only unit a headline has: the one thing strangers already know. The rest of the man is in the paragraphs underneath — which, today of all days, is a good reason to read past the headline.