Gene Hackman, 1930-2025

          Obituaries are not generally a part of this blog, but a rare exception is necessary to mark the passing of Gene Hackman, not only my favorite actor of the ’70s but my favorite actor, full stop. Nothing I could say here is likely to change your appreciation of his gifts—if you’re a reader of this blog, you know what he accomplished in The French Connection (1971), The Conversation (1974), Superman (1978), and so many other films before, during and after the ’70s. He was a master of his craft. He was also, unquestionably, a master who commodified his gifts, often to his detriment. Given the unusual circumstances of his career, namely his lack of conventional leading-man looks and the fact that he didn’t achieve stardom until he was in his 40s, it’s hard to blame the guy for cashing in with The Poseidon Adventure (1972) after winning his first Oscar (for The French Connection). However, it’s also easy to lament that Hackman spent so much of his time acting in junk. The man did a volume business, only periodically focusing on projects truly worthy of his talents.

          As a lifelong fan, it bums me out that his last movie was the disposable comedy Welcome to Mooseport (2004), but I can reasonably assume that Hackman figured if those were the type of projects on offer circa the mid-2000s, retirement was preferable. While those of us who study film history enjoy thinking in terms of bodies of work and legacies, Hollywood professionals often prioritize real-life considerations over how their choices impact filmographies. At a certain point, it’s time to leave the stage. (By the way, no comment is offered on what appear to be the peculiar circumstances of Hackman’s death because lot of questions have yet to be answered.)

          The vexations of his filmography notwithstanding, Hackman rendered a string of indelible performances during a screen career that spanned so many decades different generations likely perceive him in different ways. In the ’60s, he climbed the ranks of supporting actors through work in features and TV, notching a particularly memorable appearance in Bonnie and Clyde (1967). In the ’70s, he was outrageously productive, toplining the aforementioned titles while also sculpting delicate characterizations in I Never Sang for My Father (1970), Cisco Pike (1972), Scarecrow (1973), and Night Moves (1975)—he even found time for a delightful comic turn in Young Frankenstein (1974). Moviegoers in this period knew Hackman as a charismatic, forceful actor capable of transmitting on myriad frequencies. He could bluster (even overact) when that suited the assignment, and he could express fine gradations of human emotion.

          His work in the ’80s was not as consistently distinguished, but every so often he connected with a role that suited him well. I recall with great appreciation his anguished ex-soldier in Uncommon Valor (1983), his earnest basketball coach in Hoosiers (1986), and his sly investigator in Mississippi Burning (1988). Then, of course, came that great victory lap in the ’90s, beginning with Unforgiven (1991) and a second Oscar for that picture. Whether he was squaring off with Denzel Washington in Crimson Tide (1995), scoring laughs in The Birdcage (1996), or paying homage to The Conversation with a similar role in Enemy of the State (1998), Hackman time and again proved there were few limits to his abilities. He essayed his last great film role in Wes Anderson’s The Royal Tennenbaums (2001), thus bridging his work from the the glory days of the New Hollywood to the emergence of Gen-X groundbreakers. His retirement denied viewers the chance to see how he might have explored older age through his performances (and his interactions with fresh-thinking younger directors). Flip side, our screen image of Hackman remains forever charged with virility.
          I didn’t know the man, and I’ve heard enough stories to intuit that he could be a thorny character. On more than one occasion, I’ve encountered remarks to the effect that he was ambivalent about acting, largely because he grew up at a time when performing wasn’t considered a manly endeavor. In my imagination, this tension regarding Hackman’s chosen profession is part of what imbues his screen work with such tangible energy—it’s not hard to believe that, on some level, discomfort about being Gene Hackman translated to comfort being other people while cameras rolled. Whatever the reasons behind his greatness, I’ve yet to encounter a Hackman performance I find completely uninteresting.

          There are times when he seemed bored—particularly during the iffy stretch between Mississippi Burning and Unforgiven—and there are times when enervated scripting and lifeless directing undercuts whatever Hackman’s trying to achieve. A bad movie is a bad movie, and Hackman made plenty of them. But, in my estimation, the mark of a fine actor is not how well that performer rises to the challenge of great material, but how well that performer elevates mundane material. Of course Hackman is magnificent in The Conversation—one cannot imagine another player serving that extraordinary film any better. But just watch him in something like Zandy’s Bride (1974) or Bite the Bullet (1975), two offbeat but unquestionably flawed Westerns he made during his early days as an A-lister. In these pictures, Hackman attacks adrenalized scenes with ferocious intensity, and he articulates quieter moments with genuine vulnerability.
          No other actor has commanded my attention, and rewarded my viewing, at the level or scale Hackman has. I felt wistful when he retired from acting, and today I feel wistful again knowing there will never be a final capper to his glorious run. It is ungallant of me to imply that his huge trove of excellent work isn’t sufficient, but every exceptional performer leaves fans wanting more.