The Authenticity of Gene Hackman

The Contending’s David Phillips weighs in on the brilliant, Oscar-winning career of legendary actor Gene Hackman.

Like many people, I woke up today learning of the death of Gene Hackman. My initial response was not one of surprise; after all, Gene Hackman was well into his nineties. But then, when looking past the headline, to learn that his 63-year-old wife and one of their three family dogs perished as well, was, of course, a raiser of the eyebrow. That being said, I will leave the investigation that has begun around the “suspicious” nature of the passing of those three individuals, and the conjecture that has already started and is sure to follow, to the proper authorities and other outlets. At this moment, what I would like to speak about is Mister Hackman’s improbable and historic acting career. 

In all the ways one would think that count, Gene Hackman was not supposed to be a star. A great “character actor,” sure. But a star? In what universe other than this one? Hackman was no hard body; he was balding and pasty in complexion. My father-in-law once said, “He looks like an Irish New York City cop from the ‘60s.” I may not have understood his meaning precisely, but I can connect the dots. What made Hackman special had little to do with his appearance (although that turned into an asset of a sort anyway). It had to do with the thing that should matter most: Talent.

In this regard, coupled with a great dedication to craft, Gene Hackman made himself, by force of will, one of the great actors in the history of film, and no matter how long that history stretches, until the oceans overtake the land, that will not change. From 1961 to 2004, Hackman worked relentlessly in films that were classics, just a “good night out,” to the occasional “stinker,” but all of them had one thing in common: They were made better by his presence. 

Oddly enough, one of the first films I thought of when learning of Hackman’s demise was the absolutely terrible buddy cop-movie Loose Cannons, in which Hackman co-starred with Dan Atkroyd. It’s a move most have either forgotten or wish they could, but among the consistent dreadfulness, there was a moment that Hackman gave the film that it didn’t deserve. As he and the mismatched Aykroyd were elbow to elbow, Aykroyd’s character asked Hackman if he was annoying him. Hackman responded, “Just a teensy bit, really.” The delivery of the line and the expression on Hackman’s face forced a guffaw from me that the movie itself had in no way earned. Even in a film most foul, he could give you something worth remembering.

Of course, most of Hackman’s filmography is not made up of the foul. For a man with one hundred and one credits to his name, a startling portion of his resume consists of high-quality productions, many of which are the cornerstones of modern cinema. There was no genre within which Hackman could not excel. From straight dramas like I Never Sang For My Father and Scarecrow, to pulsating thrillers like The French Connection and Crimson Tide, Westerns like Unforgiven, detective stories like Night Moves and Twilight, to comedies as absurd as Young Frankenstein to the more conventional The Birdcage, and cape-wearing superhero movies like Superman I & II, Hackman excelled at everything. 

It’s easy to forget that Hackman’s big break occurred in Bonnie and Clyde, which is often (and not incorrectly) thought of as the coming-out party for Warren Betty and Faye Dunaway. As Buck Barrow, the older brother of Beatty’s Clyde, Hackman steals nearly every scene he’s in. While I wouldn’t necessarily agree that Hackman outperforms Dunanway’s electric performance as Bonnie, I wouldn’t put up much of an argument in favor of his case. Hackman was that good. For an actor like Hackman, who was already thirty-seven and looked even older, Bonnie and Clyde might have been the highlight of his career, instead of just a highlight. There is no way to choose Hackman’s greatest performance or movie beyond one’s taste. The excellence piles up at such a rate that the mind simply can’t juggle it all effectively. 

Bonnie and Clyde, The French Connection, Scarecrow, The Conversation, Young Frankenstein, Night Moves, Superman I & II, Reds, Hoosiers, Unforgiven, Get Shorty, Heist, and The Royal Tenenbaums are fourteen films with his name attached that almost no one will argue against them being as being established classics. The next level down includes Downhill Racer, I Never Sang For My Father, No Way Out, Postcards From the Edge, Crimson Tide, The Birdcage, and Twilight, which are close to the aforementioned fourteen, and strong arguments can be made for their inclusion in the top tier. 

Even the next step down of flawed, but interesting films (or better than that) is notable: Cisco Pike, Prime Cut, The Poseidon Adventure, Under Fire, Twice in a Lifetime, Power, Another Woman, The Package, Class Action, The Firm, Wyatt Earp, The Quick and the Dead, Absolute Power, Enemy of the State, and Runaway Jury, all have their merits, and in most cases, Hackman was chief among them.

Who else could lend gravitas to an Irwin Allen disaster movie (The Poseidon Adventure) and an otherwise stiff John Grisham legal potboiler (The Firm) like Hackman? Who could make you forget that a film as misguided as Mississippi Burning was, well, so misguided because of the authenticity of Hackman’s presence? And that’s the thing about Hackman: In roles big or small, and films great to poor, he carried an air of authenticity that few actors could replicate. To think of the scene in which his crooked attorney sees the dark fate that awaits him in The Firm with a level of resignation and shame that says “I deserve this,” without actually saying those words, is a gift that I can’t imagine being on the page of the screenplay.

Then in truly great films like Unforgiven, for his malevolent sheriff, who is both a poor carpenter and somewhere above semi-literate, to be seen and heard reading a story called “The Duke of Death” (which he mispronounces as “Duck”) to be corrected by the story’s author, and then to reply, “Duck, I sez,” is to watch a master class in humor and foreboding converging over the course of nothing more than three syllables. 

As an actor, Gene Hackman could convince you of anything. Earlier today, I read a piece from another site that pointed out that Hackman played the President of the United States twice (Absolute Power and Welcome to Mooseport). They got it wrong. Hackman played the President three times–No Way Out being the third. I chuckled when I saw this minor mistake in the article. It’s fair to say that over his acting life, Hackman played roles that could be considered similar, but he did so in such a way that each cop, criminal, head of state, and so on, ad infinitum differentiated themselves from one another. Yet somehow, he was always quintessentially Gene Hackman. A quiet icon of historic cinematic proportions. An actor who could convey warmth and humor and add an ever-present edge that gave off a feeling of danger, regardless of the quality of the picture he was in. 

He was as real an actor as anyone who ever lived. Who knows what sad news may follow today’s horrible announcement? At this moment, I remember him as one of the greatest actors to step in front of a camera—because that’s true and will remain so forever.

Gene Hackman died on February 26, 2025. He was 95 years old.