Steve McQueen Reveals the 7 Actors He Hates Most!

Steve McQueen Reveals the 7 Actors He Hates Most! 

Steve McQueen reveals the seven actors he hates most. 3:00 a.m. in Palm Springs, 1978, Palm Springs, California, 3:00 in the morning. Steve McQueen, 48 years old. I’m sitting in a mansion I can barely afford anymore. There’s a half empty bottle of tequila on the coffee table. The lights are off and Ali just walked out that door.

 Didn’t slam it, [music] didn’t scream, just left. The way you leave a restaurant after a bad meal. Polite. [music] Final. Before she walked out, she turned around one last time. And she said something I’ll never forget. Steve, you don’t hate them. You hate yourself. And you’ve been punishing everyone who got close enough to see it.

I wanted to tell her she was wrong, but I couldn’t because she wasn’t. There were seven men I spent my life hating. Seven actors who I told myself were my enemies, my rivals, the guys who tried to take what was mine. But here’s what I figured out. Too late. They weren’t my enemies. They were mirrors.

 [music] And every time I looked at them, I saw the parts of myself I couldn’t stand. Number seven taught me I would humiliate myself in front of a hundred people just to feel two inches taller. Number six taught me that jealousy is just fear wearing a leather jacket. Number five taught me I punish women for being human instead of fantasies.

Number four taught me I make my own life impossible and then blame everyone else for it. Number three taught me the world would never respect a street kid like me, no matter how many movies I made. Number two taught me I spent 50 years competing with the man I wished I was. And number one, number one taught me that the only person I truly hated was the six-month-old boy my father walked away from.

Now, if you’re a man somewhere between 50 and 70, [music] and you’ve spent your life proving you’re the toughest guy in the room, competing with colleagues you secretly envy, controlling the people you love because you’re terrified they’ll leave, then this isn’t entertainment. This is a warning because I won every battle.

 My name was bigger on every poster. My salary was higher than everyone else’s. I was the king of cool and I died at 50 alone, bitter, wondering why everyone I ever loved eventually walked away. So, let me tell you about my seven, the men who showed me I was fighting ghosts. And maybe if you’re smarter than I was, you’ll figure it out before it’s too late.

 Let’s start with number seven. The man who taught me I would play in the dirt like a 5-year-old. [music] just to feel tall. Number seven, Yul Briner, the mound of dirt. 1960, Mexico. We’re filming The Magnificent 7. Ule Briner is the star, the real star, the one everyone came to see. I’m just the kid from television trying to prove I belong in the movies.

And Ule, he’s 5’11, which means he’s 2 in taller than me. 2 in. You’d think that wouldn’t matter. You’d be [music] wrong. Every morning, I’d show up early to the set and I’d find the spots where Ule and I would stand next to each other in the scene, and I’d build a little mound of dirt, just a few inches, enough so that when the camera rolled, I’d be eye level with him.

 I did this for weeks, like a child stacking blocks to reach the cookie jar, until one day, right before we’re about to shoot, Ule walks over to his mark, looks down, and kicks the dirt pile flat. Then he looks at me, doesn’t say a word, just looks at me. And I see it in his eyes. This is pathetic. He didn’t need to say it. I already knew.

 But I couldn’t stop because standing 2 in shorter than Ule Briner wasn’t just about height. It was about what my father taught me when I was 6 months old. That I wasn’t big enough, strong enough, good enough to make him stay. So I spent the rest of that movie stealing scenes. Not because I was a better actor, but because I couldn’t stand to let Ule have the spotlight.

Every time he delivered a serious line, I’d fidget in the background, check my gun, adjust my hat. Anything to make the audience look at me instead of him. The critics noticed. They said, “Steve McQueen has an electric screen presence.” They called it charisma. It wasn’t charisma. It was desperation. [music] You will talk me something I wouldn’t understand for 20 years.

 No amount of dirt under your boots will make you taller. And trying to steal attention from someone else doesn’t make you more visible. It just makes you smaller. But the man I’m about to tell you about, he taught me something even darker. That jealousy doesn’t protect what you love. It suffocates it. Number six, Frank Sinatra.

 The bathroom confrontation. 1959, Las Vegas. I’m filming. Never so few with Frank Sinatra. Frank [music] is untouchable. Chairman of the board, king of the rat pack. He can do whatever he wants, say whatever he wants, take whatever he wants. And one night at a casino, Frank flirts with my wife Neil. He doesn’t touch her.

 He doesn’t cross any line. He just talks to her, makes her laugh. The way a man like Frank Sinatra makes every woman feel like she’s the only person in the room. I watch from across the casino and something inside me catches fire. I follow Frank into the bathroom. I wait until we’re alone and I stand next to him at the urinal.

 I say, “Frank, [music] she’s mine. You remember that?” He finishes, zips up, washes his hands, looks at me in the mirror, and he says very calmly, “Steve, a woman isn’t a car. You don’t own her. I wanted to hit him right there in that bathroom, [bell] but I didn’t. Not because I was smart, but because I knew Frank traveled with people who’d make me disappear.

 So I stood there, fists clenched, shaking, watching Frank dry his hands and walk out like nothing happened. Later that night, one of the stunt guys found me. He’d seen the whole thing. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Steve, you okay?” I said, “I’m fine.” He said, “No, you’re not. You’re terrified.” I spun around.

 Terrified of what? He looked me dead in the eye that she’ll figure out you’re not who you pretend to be. I didn’t talk to him for 10 years after that because he [music] was right. I didn’t hate Frank Sinatra. I hated that Frank didn’t have to pretend. He knew who he was. He didn’t need to threaten anyone, control anyone, prove anything to anyone. He just was.

And me, I was a kid from a reform school wearing a movie star costume, terrified that if anyone looked too close, they’d see the truth. That I was still that six-month-old baby screaming in an empty crib, wondering why I wasn’t enough to make daddy stay. Frank taught me that jealousy isn’t about protecting love.

It’s about protecting the lie you tell yourself. The lie that if you just control everything, everyone will stay. [music] That if you’re just tough enough, threatening enough, mean enough, no one will ever leave. Spoiler alert, they all left anyway. But the woman I’m about to tell you about, she taught me I don’t just fear women leaving, I punish them for not being the fantasy I created in my head.

Number five, FA Dunaway. The Woman Who Wasn’t Perfect Enough. 1968, Boston. We’re filming The Thomas Crown Affair. The studio wants FA Dunaway as my love interest. She’s beautiful. She’s talented. She’s intelligent. She’s everything a leading lady should be. I call the director. She’s not sexy enough. Not that she’s ugly.

 She’s stunning. But [music] she’s real. She has opinions. She argues about her character’s motivation. She wants to rehearse. She treats acting like it’s art. I wanted a fantasy. They gave me a person. On set, FA tries to talk to me about our character’s relationship, about what drives them, about subtext. I say, “Just hit your marks and say your lines.

” She looks at me like I’m a child playing dress up. And maybe I was. There’s a scene where we kiss. It’s supposed to be passionate, romantic, the longest kiss in cinema history at that point. 55 seconds. We shoot it. It’s technically perfect. But there’s no chemistry because I’m not kissing FA Dunaway. I’m kissing the woman I wish she was.

 The one who looks at me like I’m a god instead of a man. After filming raps, a journalist asks me about working with Fay. I say she’s difficult, that she overthinks everything. Years later, I see her in an interview. The journalist asks about me. [music] She pauses. Then she says, “Steve was talented, but he wanted a mirror, not a partner.” She was right.

 Every good woman I ever met, I found a reason to reject. too [music] smart, too independent, too confident, too human because I didn’t want a woman. I wanted a reflection of the fantasy I built to convince myself I was worthy of love. And now I’m 65. No, wait. I’m not 65. I’m 48 and dying. [music] But if I was 65, I’d be alone wondering where all the good women went.

 They didn’t go anywhere. I rejected them for being real. Fay taught me that when you demand perfection from someone else, it’s because you can’t accept your own imperfection. And when you punish people for being human, it’s because you haven’t forgiven yourself for being human, too. But the man I’m about to tell you about, he taught me something worse.

 that you can make your own life impossible and then spend every day resenting everyone else for it. Number four, James Garner, the neighbor who had it easy. 1965, Brentwood, California. James Garner lives three houses down from me. We’re in the same business, same era, same type. Rugged, [music] masculine, good with cars, good with action, good with that knowing smirk that makes audiences trust you.

 Except James has something I don’t. Peace. One Saturday morning, I’m in my driveway polishing my Ferrari. I do this every weekend. Not because the car needs polishing, but because I need people driving by to see. Steve McQueen has a Ferrari. James walks out his front door. Coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other.

 His wife, Julie, kisses him goodbye. Their kids run up. Dad, can we go to the beach? He doesn’t check his watch. Doesn’t say he’s busy. Doesn’t make them feel like they’re interrupting something more important. He just says, “Sure. Just like that. Sure. They pile into the family station wagon, not a Ferrari, [music] not a Porsche, just a regular family car, and drive away.

 And I stand there, shammy in hand, watching them go. And I realize [music] I can’t remember the last time my kids asked me to [music] do anything because they already knew the answer would be no. that daddy’s busy, that daddy’s working, that daddy’s important. [music] I hated James Garner for that, for making it look easy, for having a stable marriage, happy kids, a life that didn’t feel like a battlefield.

I convinced myself he had it easier than me, that his career wasn’t as demanding, that he didn’t have to fight as hard, that success just fell into his lap. But that was a lie. James worked just as hard. He just didn’t turn his life into a war zone. He didn’t burn every bridge, alienate every friend, push away everyone who loved him just to prove he could survive alone.

I made my own life impossible. And then I resented everyone who made theirs possible. James taught me that when you look at someone and think they have it so easy, you’re really saying, “I made it so hard for myself that their normal looks like magic.” But before I tell you about number three, the man who made me realize the world would never respect me the way I desperately needed, I need to tell you why I did all of this.

 Why I built dirt mounds and threatened people in bathrooms and pushed away good women and hated happy neighbors. I need to tell you about the boy nobody wanted the confession. The boy they left behind. 1930 Beach Grove, Indiana. I’m 6 months old. My father walks out the door. Never comes back. No explanation, no goodbye. just gone.

You want to know what that does to a baby? Nothing. Babies don’t understand betrayal. They just understand absence. [bell] They cry. They wait. They learn that the world is a place where people disappear. My mother, she’s an alcoholic, a mean one. She bounces between men like a pinball, and I’m the ball she drops whenever she gets bored.

 She sends me to live with my grandparents on a farm in Missouri. Then she takes me back. Then she dumps me again. By the time I’m five, I don’t know what home means. I just know that people [music] leave, that love is temporary, that if you need someone, they’ll disappoint [music] you. When I’m eight, she marries a man named Hal. He beats me.

 Not discipline, not punishment, just beats me. because I’m there. Because I’m a reminder that she had a life before him. One night, I’m lying on the floor and Hal’s kicking me and my mother is in the next room pretending she doesn’t hear it. And I make a decision. I’m 8 years old and I decide I will never let anyone make me feel small again.

 I will become so tough, so strong, so untouchable that no one can hurt me. By 14, I’m in a reform school for stealing hubcaps. By 17, I’m in the Marines getting into fist fights with anyone who looks at me wrong. By 25, I’m in acting class learning how to pretend to be confident. By 35, I’m a movie star, and I’ve convinced the whole world I’m the king of cool.

 But inside, I’m still that six-month-old baby lying in a crib, screaming, waiting for daddy to come back, wondering what I did wrong. You want to know why I built dirt mounds to stand taller than Ule Briner? Because my father leaving taught me that if you’re not big enough, people walk away. Why did I threaten Frank Sinatra in a bathroom? Because my mother abandoning me taught me that if you’re not tough enough, people take what’s yours.

 Why did I reject Fay Dunaway for being real? Because I learned that if you let people see who you really are, they’ll realize you’re not worth loving. Why did I hate James Garner for being happy? Because happiness felt like a betrayal. Like he was cheating at a game I’d been told we all had to lose. I wasn’t fighting Ule, Frank, [snorts] Fay, or James. I was fighting my father.

Every single day, in every relationship, in every rivalry, in every moment someone achieved something I wanted, I saw him walking out that door. And I spent 50 years trying to prove to a man who’s been dead since 1958 that I was worth staying for. The psychologists have a fancy word for it. abandonment, trauma, attachment disorder, childhood wounds.

I have a simpler word for it, poison. It poisoned everything I touched, every friendship, every [music] marriage, every moment of success. Because I couldn’t let myself have anything good because the boy inside me believed that if something good comes into your life, it’s only a matter of time before it leaves.

 So, I pushed it away first before it could leave me, before it could prove that my father was right, that I wasn’t enough. Now, let me tell you about number three, the man who taught me that the world would never see me the way I desperately needed to be seen. Number three, Dustin Hoffman, the method actor I could never be. 1973, Jamaica.

We’re filming Papyong. I’m the star. I’m Steve McQueen. My name is above the title. I’m getting paid $3 million. And every single review says the same thing. Dustin Hoffman steals the show. Not because Dustin is taller or tougher or cooler, but because he’s something I’ll never be respected by the critics. Dustin is method. He’s trained.

 He studied at the actor’s studio with Lee Strawber. He talks about emotional memory and sense memory and all this intellectual stuff that makes the critics swoon. And me, I’m just the guy who rides motorcycles. On set, Dustin prepares for scenes by sitting alone, getting into character. I prepare by checking if my sunglasses look good.

 One day, a journalist visits the set. She asks Dustin about his process. He talks for 20 minutes about the psychology of his character, about desperation and hope and the human condition. She asks me the same question. I say, “I just try to look cool.” She laughs. She thinks I’m joking. I’m not. After filming raps, the reviews come out.

 The New Yorker calls Hoffman’s performance a masterclass in emotional restraint. They call mine serviceable. [music] Serviceable. Like a lawn mower, like a kitchen appliance. I fired the screenwriter, [music] rewrote my character to have more depth, more serious moments, more respect. It didn’t matter because the world had already decided.

 Steve McQueen is the motorcycle guy, the action guy, the guy who looks good in sunglasses, and Dustin Hoffman is an actor. I hated him for that. Not because he did anything to me, but because he represented everything I couldn’t be. The intellectual, the artist, [music] the one the critics take seriously. Dustin taught me that sometimes you hate people because they have something you can never earn.

 No matter how much money you make, no matter how famous you become, some doors stay closed. [music] And resenting the people who walk through them doesn’t open them for you. It just makes you bitter. But the man I’m about to tell you about, he didn’t just have something I couldn’t earn. He was everything I could have been if I wasn’t so angry all the time.

Number two, Paul Newman, the mirror I couldn’t break. Paul Newman was my doppelganger, my shadow, my ghost. We were the same age, same type, same blue eyes, same rebellious charm. Hollywood spent the 60s and 70s asking the same question, Steve or Paul? And I spent those decades making sure the answer was Steve.

1974, San Francisco. We’re filming The Towering Inferno together. First time we’ve ever worked on the same movie. Before I even read the script, I have my agent do one thing. Count Paul’s lines. Count my lines. Compare them. Paul has 12 more lines than me. 12. I call the producer. Fix it or I walk. They fix it.

They give me 12 more lines. Now we’re even. But that’s not enough because they’re still the poster. Whose name goes first? They offer us equal billing, both names centered, same size. I say, “No, I want diagonal billing. My name on the left, so it’s read first but lower. His name on the right, read second [music] but higher. Neither of us is first.

Neither of us wins. It’s a tie disguised as a compromise. Paul’s people agree immediately because Paul doesn’t care. And that makes me hate him even more. 1974 premiier night. Paul walks the red carpet with his wife Joanne. They’ve been married 25 years at that point. They’re holding hands, laughing.

 [music] They look content. I walk the red carpet alone. My second wife left me. My kids barely speak to me. And I’m standing there in a tuxedo, smiling for cameras, pretending I won something. Later a reporter asks Paul, “How was it working with Steve McQueen?” Paul says, “Steve is very talented. I respect him greatly.

” Same reporter asks me, “How was it working with Paul Newman?” I say, “Ask my lawyer about the billing.” The reporter laughs nervously. Paul doesn’t laugh. He just looks at me and I see it in his eyes. Pity, not anger, not rivalry. Pity. That was the moment I realized Paul Newman wasn’t my rival. He was my mirror.

 He showed me who I could have been if I wasn’t so busy fighting ghosts. Paul had everything I had. Looks, talent, fame, money. But he also had everything I didn’t. Peace, a stable family, respect, friends who actually liked him. And the worst part, he earned it the same way I could have. By choosing to be kind instead of tough. By choosing to be present instead of competitive.

 By choosing to let people in instead of keeping them at gunpoint distance. I didn’t hate Paul Newman because he was my enemy. I hated him because he was proof that I made the wrong choices. Paul taught me that when you look at someone and think he has it all, you’re really looking at the life you could have had.

 If you weren’t so determined to win a war, nobody else was fighting. But the woman I’m about to tell you about, she didn’t just show me who I could have been. She showed me who I actually was, and it destroyed everything. Number one, Ali McGra, the woman who showed me the monster, 1972, Texas. [music] We’re filming The Getaway.

 Ali McGra is the biggest female movie star in the world. Love story made her a phenomenon. She’s beautiful, talented, [music] famous, and I fall in love. Real love for the first time in my life. The kind of love that makes you think, “Maybe I [music] can be different. Maybe I can be better. Maybe I can stop fighting long enough to let someone in.

” So, naturally, I destroyed it. [music] 1973, we get married. On our honeymoon, I tell her, “You’re done with acting.” [music] She laughs. She thinks I’m joking. I’m not joking. I say, “No wife of mine is going to be more famous than me.” She stops laughing. Over the next 5 years, I systematically dismantle her life.

She gets offered a movie, a good one, with a great director. I throw a lamp at the wall. I tell her if she takes it, I’ll leave her. She doesn’t [music] take it. 1975. Her friends call. I screen the calls. Who is that? What do they want? What did you talk about? She stops answering the phone. 1976. We’re at a party.

 A producer talks to her. Just talks about movies, about acting. Nothing inappropriate. I grab her arm. I drag her outside. I tell her, “You embarrassed me in there flirting with that guy.” She says, “Steve, I was just talking.” I say, “Don’t lie to me.” She looks at me with something I’ve never seen before in her eyes. Fear. 1977, 2:00 in the morning. I wake her up.

 I accuse her of having an affair. With who? Doesn’t matter. Someone. Anyone. Because the boy inside me knows that everyone leaves eventually. So, I need [music] to find proof. I need to catch her before she catches me being unworthy. She’s not having an affair. She’s barely leaving the house anymore. I’ve made sure of that.

 She sits up in bed, looks at me, and says, “Steve, I’m not leaving you because I don’t love you. I’m leaving you because you don’t love you. And I can’t compete with your self-hatred anymore.” I don’t understand what she means. I think love is possession. I think love is control. [music] I think if you really love someone, you make sure they can never leave.

 That’s not love. That’s a hostage situation. 1978. She packs a bag. I watch her from the kitchen. Part of me wants to apologize, to beg her to stay, to tell her I’ll change, but I don’t because the boy inside me says if she leaves, it proves you were right all along. that you’re not worth staying for, that your father was right to walk away.

She stops at the door, turns around, and says, “Steve, you didn’t hate those seven men. You hated [music] yourself, and you spent 50 years punishing everyone who got close enough to see it.” Then she leaves and I sit at that table in that dark [music] kitchen in that mansion I can’t afford and I finally understand what she meant.

 I didn’t destroy Ali because I loved her too much. I destroyed her because I hated myself too much and I couldn’t stand that she loved the man I hated. So I had to prove to her that I was right, that I wasn’t [music] worthy, that loving me was a mistake. And you know what? I succeeded. I proved it. Ali taught me the crulest lesson of all.

 That you can destroy the best thing in your life just to confirm the worst thing you believe about yourself. That self-hatred isn’t passive. It’s aggressive. It doesn’t just hurt you. It weaponizes you. It turns you into the monster you always feared you were. And by the time you realize it, everyone’s gone. And you’re sitting alone in a dark kitchen, 50 years old, 2 years away from dying, finally understanding the truth.

 The enemy was never out there. It was always in here. The [music] closing. The war that nobody won. 1980, Sioarez, Mexico. I’m 50 years old. I’m dying of cancer. The doctors in Los Angeles told me I have 6 months. So, I came here for a miracle cure that doesn’t exist. Injections made from coffee and apricot pits and desperation.

My third wife, Barbara, is holding my hand. She’s 26. She married me 6 months ago. She didn’t marry Steve McQueen, the movie star. She married Steve McQueen, the dying man. the one who finally ran out of people to fight. I say to her, I wasted my whole life fighting ghosts. She says, [music] “What ghosts?” “My father, the man who left when I was 6 months old.

 I saw him in every man who was taller, every man who was more loved, every man who made it look easy. And I fought them all. Ule, Frank, Paul, all of them. And you know what? I won. My name was bigger. My salary was higher. I was the king of cool. I pause because the next part is hard to say. But I’m 50. I’m dying. My kids barely know me. [music] My wives all left.

 And the only thing I proved is that you can win every battle and still lose the war. Barbara squeezes my hand. She doesn’t say anything. What can she say? I’m right. November 7th, 1980. I die. Now, here’s the part Steve McQueen never got to say because dead men don’t get second acts. If you’re watching this, you’re probably somewhere between 50 and 70.

 You’ve probably spent your life competing, controlling, proving you’re the toughest guy in the room. And you probably have your own list. The seven people you can’t forgive. The colleague who got promoted. The neighbor with the better marriage. The ex-friend you haven’t spoken to in 20 years. The woman who left. The man who had it easier.

 The rival who made you look small. Here’s what I learned too late. They were never your enemy. You were fighting the boy inside you. The one who learned that if he’s not the toughest, the tallest, the best, the most, then he’s nothing. Then he’s invisible. Then he’s that baby in the crib crying for a father who’s never coming back. And that boy doesn’t die.

He doesn’t grow up. He just gets older and angrier and more dangerous. Unless you do what Steve McQueen couldn’t. Stop fighting. Not because you’re weak, but because you finally understand the war is over. You survived. You’re still here. Now you get to choose. Spend your remaining years like Mickey Rooney, bitter, angry, yelling at production assistants because the world moved on without you.

 or spend them like Dick Van Djk, 98 years old, still dancing, still kind, [music] still proving that nice guys don’t finish last, they finish standing. You got maybe 7 years left, [music] maybe 7 months, maybe 7 days, I don’t know. But I know this, that list in your head, those seven people you can’t forgive, write it down. Look at it.

 and ask yourself, what did each one have that I wanted? Height, confidence, peace, love, ease, respect, the ability to be happy without making it a competition. Then ask yourself, was I fighting them or was I fighting the boy inside me who believed he’d never be enough? You don’t have to send them letters. You don’t have to make amends.

 You just have to tell the truth to yourself. That’s how you win the war Steve McQueen lost. Not by beating everyone else, but by finally forgiving the boy nobody wanted before it’s too