Anthony Quinn Truly Hated Him More Than Anyone… – HT
Anthony Quinn truly hated him more than anyone. They say hatred dies with the man who carries it. Anthony Quinn proved them wrong. June 1st, 2001, Massachusetts General Hospital, Boston, room 847. An 86-year-old man is dying. Throat cancer, respiratory failure. Hours, maybe days left.
He calls for a tape recorder. His son, Francesco, rushes in thinking it’s final words for the family. It isn’t. “Turn it on.” Quinn rasps, his voice like gravel scraped across concrete. “I need to name names.” “Dad, you should rest.” “I’ve been resting for 86 god years. Resting my tongue, biting it back, smiling for cameras, playing nice for Hollywood. Turn it on.
” “My name is Anthony Quinn, two-time Academy Award winner, 150 films, 13 children, and six hatreds. Six men who taught me what it costs to be everyone but yourself. The first one, he stole my bride on my wedding night. The second, he gave me his daughter but never his respect. The third, he beat me at everything, even ping The fourth, he got to be American while I played the world.
The fifth, he my three-year-old son and sent flowers. And the sixth, the sixth wasn’t a man at all. It was something worse. Something I carried every single day. Something I couldn’t escape even when I became Zorba or an Arab warlord or a Greek peasant. The sixth one lived in every mirror I looked into.
And his name was me. But let me start with the wedding night. October 2nd, 1937. The night I learned that some men steal roles. Some steal money. And Cary Grant? He stole the one night I’d waited my whole life for. Part one, the thief in a tuxedo. October 2nd, 1937. All Saints Episcopal Church, Hollywood.
The day I married a woman who wasn’t mine. Cathedral ceilings, stained glass. Cecil B. DeMille orchestrating everything like he was directing the Sermon on the Mount. I was 22 years old, Catholic, Mexican, marrying into Hollywood royalty. Katherine DeMille stood at the altar in white, beautiful, untouchable, pure. That’s what her father told me.
“My daughter is pure, Anthony. She’s been raised properly.” I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? I was a kid from East LA who’d boxed for money and studied architecture under Frank Lloyd Wright. Katherine DeMille was grace itself. The wedding night. The Biltmore Hotel, suite 447. I reached for her. She turned away.
“Tony, there’s something you should know.” 22 years old, I’d waited for marriage like my mother taught me, saved myself. I thought she had, too. “What is it?” She wouldn’t look at me, hands trembling. “I’m not I wasn’t Tony, I’m not a The room tilted. The champagne from the reception turned sour in my stomach.
“Who?” Silence. “Katherine, who?” “It doesn’t matter.” “Who?” She finally looked at me, tears streaming. “Cary Grant.” Cary Grant. The most elegant man in Hollywood, perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect everything, had gotten there first. On my wedding night, my wedding night, all I could think about was Cary Grant’s hands on my wife.
I didn’t sleep, just sat in a chair by the window watching the sun come up over Los Angeles, watching my marriage die before it started. Three weeks later, I found him at the Brown Derby, booth in the back, alone, reading Variety. I didn’t wait for an invitation, sat down across from him. He looked up.
That smile, that perfect smile that had charmed America. “Tony, congratulations on the wedding. Katherine is a wonderful, you wife.” The smile froze. Around us, the restaurant continued its Hollywood symphony, clinking glasses, deal-making, laughter. But at our booth, silence. “I I don’t know what you’re Before me, you had her first.
” He carefully folded his newspaper, manicured hands, not a callus in sight. “Anthony, Katherine was a grown woman when she was pure when I met her. That’s what DeMille told me. That’s what she told me.” “And you believed Hollywood?” A slight smile, amused. I grabbed his wrist across the table, hard.
His eyes flickered, surprise, maybe fear. Good. “She cried on our wedding night, Grant. Cried because she felt guilty about you. And you know what I did? I told her it was okay. That I forgave her. Forgave her for something you did.” He pulled his wrist free, straightened his cufflinks with that infuriating calm. “Anthony, I’m sorry if Katherine misled you about her past, but what happened between us was before you.
It has nothing to do with our present.” “It has everything to do with me. Every time I touch her, I see your face. Every time she turns away in bed, I wonder if she’s comparing. You stole something from me, Grant. Not Katherine, not sex, not love. You stole my ability to have a fresh start.” He stood, dropped a $20 bill on the table for a lunch she hadn’t eaten, looked down at me with something like pity.
“Then that’s your problem, Anthony, not mine. Katherine made her choices before she met you. If you can’t accept that, perhaps you married the wrong woman.” He walked out. Cary Grant, perfect posture, perfect exit. I sat there for 2 hours, ordered bourbon after bourbon, and realized something that would poison the next 28 years of my life.
He was right. It was my problem. But I hated him anyway. I stayed married to Katherine until 1965, 28 years, had five children with her, built a life. And every single night, every night, when I reached for her in the dark, I thought of him. Some men steal your money. Some steal your roles. Cary Grant stole the one night I’d waited my whole life for.
My wedding night. My innocence. My ability to love my own wife without seeing another man’s ghost. Cary Grant died in 1986, beloved, iconic, perfect until the end. I didn’t go to the funeral. But I opened a bottle of tequila that night, drank it alone, toasted the man who’d ruined my marriage before it started.
And you know what the worst part is? He never even knew. To him, Katherine was just another girl, another conquest, nothing special. To me, she was everything. And he’d had her first. That’s not hate. That’s poison. And I drank it for 28 years. But Grant? Grant was just Hollywood, expected, typical.
The next man didn’t just take something from me. He made me reject what I saw in the mirror every morning. Part two, the god who looks down. 1936, Monument Valley, Utah. The Plainsman set. I was 21, fresh, desperate. 100 bucks in my pocket and a dream bigger than my talent. Cecil B.
DeMille stood on a crane like Moses himself surveying his creation. “You, the Mexican boy playing Indian. What’s your name?” “Antonio Quinn, sir, but I go by Anthony.” “I don’t care what you go by. I care if you can act.” DeMille directed like God on the seventh day, disappointed but committed. For 3 days he tore into me.
Every take was wrong. Every choice was pedestrian. Every moment was ethnic instead of authentic. On the fourth day, he set up a shot I knew wouldn’t work. The camera angle was wrong. The light was harsh. I’d seen enough films to know. The crew was setting up. DeMille was adjusting something.
And I made a decision that Someone coughed. DeMille turned slowly. “What did you say? The angle’s wrong, sir. The sun’s behind the actor. You’ll lose the face. You should move the camera. You’re telling me where to put my camera? I should have backed down. I was 21. He was Cecil B. DeMille. But I didn’t. Yes, sir. If you want this scene to work, that’s where the camera needs to be.
He stared at me. The crew held their breath. I thought I was about to be fired. Then The boy’s right. Move the camera. He looked at me differently after that. Not with respect, never respect. With attention. Like a lion noticing a mouse that didn’t run. What did you say your name was? Anthony Quinn, sir.
Well, Anthony Quinn, you just earned yourself a speaking role. Don’t make me regret it. I thought I’d earned his respect. I was wrong. I’d earned his attention. But never never his respect. One year later, I married his daughter. The wedding, All Saints Episcopal. DeMille orchestrated every detail.
The flowers, the music, the guest list, like a production. In the receiving line, as we shook hands with Hollywood royalty, he leaned close. My daughter is pure, Anthony. She’s been raised properly. I trust you’ll treat her accordingly. I nodded, smiled, said, “Of course, sir.” That night, I learned the truth about Katherine.
And I understood DeMille’s version of pure and reality would never align. But I said nothing. For 28 years, I said nothing. Because you don’t tell Cecil B. DeMille he’s wrong. Not about his daughter. Not about anything. 1943. His office at Paramount. Mahogany desk, Oscar on the shelf, portrait of himself on the wall. I’m not renewing my contract, Cecil.
He looked up from his script, genuinely shocked. You’re throwing away your career. I’m throwing away being your ethnic heavy. Your convenient Mexican bandit in every Western. That’s what the market The market wants what you tell it to want. And you’ve told them I’m good for Indians, bandits, and thugs.
He stood, 6 ft tall, towering. I gave you a career. You gave me a category, and I’m done with it. This is about Katherine, isn’t it? What? You resent me. You think I’ve never accepted you because Because you haven’t. You told me she was pure. You lied. His face went red.
How dare you? How dare I? You told me she was a Your pure daughter. And on my wedding night, I found out Cary Grant got there first. You knew. You had to know. Everyone in Hollywood knew. Silence, long and terrible. Katherine’s past was her own business. Then don’t call her pure.
Don’t stand in that church and hand me your untouched daughter when half of Hollywood had already He slapped the desk. Get out. Gladly. You’ll regret this decision, Quinn. I regret the wedding night more. I left Paramount, left DeMille, went to New York, did theater. Elia Kazan, A Streetcar Named Desire.
And slowly, painfully, built a career away from my father-in-law. 1958. He was dying. Heart disease. The great director, finally mortal. Katherine asked me to visit. For her, not for him. I went. He was in bed, small, old. The crane was gone. Just a sick man. Anthony. Cecil. Long silence. I never understood you.
He finally said. I know. I tried to make you into something. You tried to keep me from being what I was. And what was that? A man who could play anything, be anything. But you only ever saw brown skin and an accent. Another pause. Labored breathing. Katherine says you’re divorcing her. Yes. Because of Because I could never forget what you told me she was.
And what I found out she wasn’t. He closed his eyes. I wanted to protect her. You wanted to protect your image. The pure daughter. The perfect family. Maybe. He died 3 months later. January 1959. I didn’t cry at the funeral. Just stood there. Watched them lower Cecil B.
DeMille into the ground. And felt nothing. People asked if I hated Cecil B. DeMille. The truth? I don’t know. I hated what he represented. The Hollywood that made me choose between being Mexican and being successful. I hated that I married his daughter to belong and spent 28 years not belonging anyway.
But most of all, I hated that he was probably right about one thing. I wasn’t good enough for Katherine. Not because I was Mexican, but because I’d become exactly what he always thought I was. A man who could never be himself. DeMille was God, distant, expected. But the next man? We were supposed to be brothers, equals, artists.
Part three. The method to the madness. 1947. Chicago. Elia Kazan offered me Stanley Kowalski. Marlon’s doing Broadway, he said. You’ll tour. Second fiddle from day one. I did that tour for 2 years, eight shows a week. Holiday inns, local theaters. Every night, I was Stanley Kowalski. Raw, violent, real.
Brando got Broadway, the Kazan film, the legend. I got Tulsa. Everywhere. How does your Stanley compare to Brando’s? I’d never seen his. I’m playing Stanley, I’d say. He’s playing Marlon Brando playing Stanley. I believed that. Still do. But it didn’t matter what I believed. Hollywood believed in Brando.
- Kazan cast us both. Viva Zapata. Brando was Emiliano, the hero, the revolutionary. I was Eufemio, the brother, the betrayer. Even in a Mexican story, the white guy was the Mexican hero. Kazan knew we were rivals, fed on it. On set in Mexico, we barely spoke. Professional, cold, tense. Until one night, drinking, crew and cast, tequila flowing, someone, I forget who, made a joke.
Who’s got the bigger Brando or Quinn? Stupid, drunk, macho Brando stood up. Let’s find out. We went outside, behind the trailers. Dirt and cacti and Mexican stars. Lined up, both of us, drunk as hell, unzipped, and pissed. Trying to see who could piss the furthest. The crew was dying, laughing, cheering, placing bets.
I won. By 2 ft. 2 ft of urine in the Mexican dirt. That’s what my rivalry with Marlon Brando came down to. A contest. The next morning, Kazan pulled me aside. Tony, that was Jesus Christ. Yeah. You know Marlon’s going to remember that, right? Good. No, not good. Because he’s Marlon Brando, and you’re you’re Anthony Quinn.
One of you gets to be difficult and brilliant. The other just has to be grateful. I knew which one I was. Oscar night, 1953. I won Best Supporting Actor. Brando was nominated for Best Actor. He lost to Gary Cooper in High Noon. I should have felt victorious. Instead, I felt like I’d won a consolation prize. Supporting.
Always supporting. The Mexican brother. Never the revolutionary. Brando went on to Streetcar, On the Waterfront, The Godfather. I went on to play Greeks, Italians, Arabs, Eskimos. Everybody but myself. 1980-something. Some benefit. Old men in tuxedos. Tony. Marlon. He was fat. I was weathered.
Both of us ghosts of what we were. Viva Zapata was good work. You won the film. I won the Oscar. He smiled. That Mumble smile. Yeah. But I got to be the hero. And I got to be real. He thought about that. Maybe. We never spoke again. Did I hate Marlon Brando? Yes and no. I hated that he got to be himself.
Mumbling. Difficult. Fat. Genius. And I had to be everybody else. I hated that when people said greatest actor, they meant him. Even though I worked harder, longer, more roles. But most of all, I hated that even when I beat him, even when I won the Oscar and he didn’t, it didn’t matter. Because in Hollywood, there are stars.
And then there are ethnic character actors. Brando could afford to be difficult. I had to be grateful. But Brando was a rival. Personal. The next man? He never wronged me, never spoke against me. And I hated him more than anyone. Part four. The face of everything he’d never be. Let me be clear.
John Wayne never insulted me. Never took a role from me. Never said a word against me. That’s not why I hated him. I hated him because he got to be American. And I got to play everyone else. Hollywood parties, 1950s. I went to hundreds. Wayne would walk in, tall, white, that swagger. Everyone gravitated to him.
Duke, tell us about Monument Valley. I’d been to Monument Valley, shot three films there. Nobody asked me. Because when I was there, I was playing a savage. When Wayne was there, he was playing America. 1968, charity gala. Both of us in tuxedos. I was at the bar, alone, as usual. Wayne walked up, ordered bourbon.
For a moment, we stood there, side by side. Two actors, two men, two Americas. I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe the drinks, maybe 30 years of bitterness. Duke. Quinn. Polite nod. Can I ask you something? Sure. What’s it like? What’s what like? Being American? In every role, in every film, just getting to be yourself and have that be enough.
He looked at me. Really looked. Long pause. Quinn, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And that’s when I knew. He really didn’t know. He’d been American so long, so completely, he didn’t even see it as a privilege. It was just air. Just there. Never mind, I said. He clapped my shoulder. You’re doing great work, Tony. Really.
And walked away. To him, it was a compliment. To me, it was proof. He lived in a different world where American wasn’t something you earned. It’s something you just were. And I would never be. 1971. I was offered a role. The Cowboys, John Wayne film. I read the script.
Mexican ranch hand. Good part, actually. Called my agent. Tell him yes, on one condition. What’s that? Ask if I can play him as an American. Tony, just ask. Mexican American, US citizen, no accent, just American. Two days later, Tony, they said the character is written as Mexican. I know. But can he be Mexican American? Silence.
They’re moving forward with another actor. I didn’t get the part. Because I wanted to be American in a John Wayne film. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I never met Wayne again after that gala. But in 1979, when he died, I did something strange. I watched his funeral on TV. Saw the flag-draped coffin, the military honors, American icon on every screen.
And I cried. Not for him. For me. Because I realized I didn’t hate John Wayne the man. I hated John Wayne the permission. He had permission to just be. White, American, himself. And I spent 66 years asking for that same permission from directors, from audiences, from America, and never getting it.
Wayne didn’t owe me anything. But America did. And that’s what I couldn’t forgive. Not the man, the country that made men like him possible. And men like me conditional. Wayne was a symbol. Untouchable. The next man? He was flesh and blood. And he took something no man should ever take.
Part five. The comedian who killed my son. March 15th, 1941. The day hatred became something I could taste. My son, Christopher, two years old, dark hair, Katherine’s eyes, my mother’s smile. He was mine in a way nothing else in Hollywood ever was. Not a role, not a character, just mine. Saturday afternoon, W.C.
Fields’ house, Los Feliz. Big place, swimming pool out back. We’d been invited for lunch. Fields was drunk. Always was. Part of his charm, people said. I thought it was pathetic. Christopher was playing, running around the yard, laughing. I was inside, talking shop with some producer. Katherine was I don’t remember where Katherine was.
That’s what haunts me. For 5 minutes, maybe 10, nobody was watching Christopher. And he wandered to the pool. A scream. Fields’ housekeeper. I ran. The pool. Christopher. Face down. I jumped in, pulled him out. His lips were blue. I screamed for help, did compressions, breathed into his lungs.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The ambulance came. 30 minutes they tried. I’m sorry, Mr. Quinn. Two years old. In W.C. Fields’ swimming pool. The funeral was four days later. Fields sent flowers. A note. Terribly sorry for your loss. Tragic accident. My thoughts are with you. W.C. Fields. Thoughts. He sent thoughts.
Not a phone call, not a visit, not even sober remorse. Flowers and thoughts. Two weeks later, a premiere. Fields was there. Drunk. He approached me, reeking of gin. Quinn, terrible business, terrible. Your pool, my son. Now, now, it was an accident. These things happen. I grabbed his collar. My son is because you have a pool you’re too drunk to fence.
Quinn, unhand me. You him. Security pulled me off. Fields straightened his jacket. Grief makes men irrational. And walked away. Six months later, Hollywood party. Fields was there, loud, making people laugh. Someone asked about pool safety. He waved it off. Kids drown, tragic.
But you can’t fence in paradise, can’t you? People laughed. I walked over. Remember my son, Fields? The room went quiet. Quinn, I His name was Christopher. Two years old. Drowned in your paradise. It was an acc- You still don’t have a fence. He blinked. Drunk, confused. I I didn’t think No, you didn’t. Because you’re rich enough not to have to.
I walked out. Katherine followed. Tony, you embarrassed yourself. Good. He should be embarrassed into his grave. But he never was. W.C. Fields died 1946. The obituaries. Comic genius. Legend. Beloved misanthrope. No mention of the two-year-old who drowned in his pool. No mention he never put up a fence, even after.
Just comic genius. Christopher would have been eight. But Hollywood doesn’t remember children. It remembers drunk comedians. Do I blame Fields? Yes. But I also blame myself. I was inside. Networking, working, always working. Trying to be someone in Hollywood. While my son wandered to a pool.
Fields was drunk, careless, rich enough not to care. But I was the father who wasn’t watching. So I hate Fields. But, I hate myself more. After Christopher, I had 12 more children. 12. People joked, “Zorba the stud.” But, they didn’t understand. I was trying to replace him. Every child, every affair, every marriage, trying to fill the hole Christopher left.
It never worked. You can’t replace a child. You can only make more ghosts. Five men, five different hatreds. But, you’ve been waiting. Who did Anthony Quinn hate more than anyone? Part six. The man who stayed himself, Ricardo Montalban. You were waiting for some Hollywood giant, weren’t you? Another legend, another titan.
But, no. The man I hated most was a Mexican actor most of you barely remember. And, I hated him because he did what I never could. He stayed himself. 1950s, we were both there, both Mexican, both handsome, both typecast. But, here’s the difference. Ricardo wore it like a crown. I wore it like a chain.
I first met him at some industry event. 1951, maybe ’52. Both of us in suits, both of us the exotic options at a very white party. He walked up to me, warm smile, strong handshake. “Anthony Quinn, Viva Zapata was magnificent.” “Thank you.” “You know what I loved most? You made Eufemio Mexican.
Not Hollywood’s version, actually Mexican.” I didn’t know what to say because he was right. And, I’d hated every second of it. “Thanks.” I mumbled. “We need more of that.” he continued. “More of us being ourselves on screen, with dignity.” Dignity. That word hung in the air like an accusation.
Over the years, I watched him. Ricardo Montalban, Fantasy Island, Star Trek, always Mexican, always accented, always proud. He never tried to hide it, never tried to sand off the edges, never played American. He played Mexican. And, he made it work. I hated him for it. 1970s, some charity benefit, both of us at the bar.
“Ricardo.” “Anthony, how are you, my friend?” “I’m fine. Listen, can I ask you something?” “Of course.” “Don’t you ever Don’t you ever wish you could play American?” He looked at me, genuinely confused. “Why would I want to play American?” “Because Because then you’d get the good roles, the leads, the Anthony, I am the lead.
Fantasy Island, I’m the star.” “You’re playing a Mexican.” “I’m playing myself, with an accent, with dignity, with pride.” There was again, that word. “But, you’re always You’re always the ethnic guy, the Latin lover, the Yes, and And, doesn’t that bother you?” He put his drink down, looked at me with something like pity.
“Anthony, you’ve won two Oscars. You’ve played Greeks, Arabs, Italians, Eskimos. You’ve been everyone. But, have you ever been proud of who you are?” I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. “That’s what I thought.” He walked away. And, I stood there, holding my bourbon, realizing he was right.
See, here’s what ate at me about Ricardo Montalban. He never apologized for being Mexican. I spent 66 years apologizing. Every role, every interview, every time I opened my mouth. “Well, you know, I’m not really Mexican. My father was Irish. Oh, I don’t have an accent in real life. I’m American, really.
Naturalized citizen.” Apologizing, always apologizing for being born in Chihuahua, for having brown skin, for having an accent I worked for years to hide. Ricardo never apologized, not once. He’d do interviews. “Yes, I’m Mexican. Yes, I have an accent. Yes, I’m proud of both.” And, somehow, somehow, Hollywood respected him for it.
While I chased their approval by erasing myself. 1982, I saw him at an awards show. We were both older, gray hair, slower walks. “Ricardo.” “Anthony, congratulations on your Cecil B. DeMille Award.” “Thanks. You deserve one, too.” “Maybe.” That smile. “But, I have something better.” “What’s that?” “I look in the mirror and recognize the man looking back.
” He said it kindly, not as an insult, but it cut deeper than any insult ever could because I didn’t. I looked in the mirror and saw Zorba, or Gauguin, or some Arab warlord, never Anthony Quinn, never Manuel Antonio Rodolfo Quinn Oaxaca, just roles.
You know what I hated most about Ricardo Montalban? His obituary. He died in 2009, 8 years after me. I read it. Well, I’m So, Francesco told me about it. “Ricardo Montalban, Mexican actor known for Fantasy Island and Star Trek, died today. He was 88.” Mexican actor, not ethnic character actor, not versatile chameleon, just Mexican actor.
And, it was said with pride, with respect. My obituary, “Anthony Quinn, versatile actor who played Greeks, Arabs, and Italians, died today.” Versatile. That’s the word they use when you were too ashamed to be yourself. I won two Oscars. Ricardo was never even nominated. I did 150 films.
He did maybe 80. I played every nationality on Earth. He played Mexican. And yet, and yet, he won because he kept his soul, and I sold mine. Role by role, year by year, until there was nothing left but Zorba’s laugh and Gauguin’s brushstrokes and a thousand accents that weren’t mine.
Francesco asked me yesterday, “Dad, do you have regrets?” “Yeah. I regret not being Ricardo Montalban. I regret not having his courage to just be Mexican, proudly, loudly, unapologetically. I regret every time I told an interviewer, ‘Well, I’m not really Mexican.’ I regret every time I dropped my accent to sound more American.
I regret every time I took a role playing another nationality because I was ashamed to play my own. Ricardo never did that, never once. And, I hated him for it because his pride reminded me of my shame. Cary Grant stole my wedding night. Cecil B. DeMille stole my dignity. Marlon Brando stole my comparisons.
John Wayne stole my country. W.C. Fields stole my son. But, Ricardo Montalban, he didn’t steal anything. He just showed me, every time I saw him, every time we spoke, what I could have been if I’d had the courage, if I’d been proud instead of ashamed, if I’d been Ricardo instead of trying to be everyone.
The others took things from me. Ricardo just held up a mirror and showed me a man I could have been, a Mexican actor, proud, dignified, himself, instead of a chameleon who forgot what color he was born. That’s the man I hated most, not for what he did to me, but for what he showed me, that I didn’t have to disappear to succeed.
I just had to be brave enough to stay. And, I never was. Ricardo Montalban died proud. I’m dying versatile. And, that’s the hatred that doesn’t end, even in death. Because he’s remembered as a Mexican actor who made it. And, I’ll be remembered as an actor who could play anything, except himself.
” Epilogue. Francesco. “Dad, do you want me to turn it off?” Anthony. “No. Leave it running.” Anthony. “You know what’s funny? I spent my whole life being angry at those men, Grant, DeMille, Brando, Wayne, Fields, angry at Hollywood, angry at America, angry at Mexico. But, anger is just It’s just sadness that hasn’t finished yet.
I was sad, sad I never got to be loved for being myself because I never knew who that was. I won two Oscars for disappearing into other people and spent a lifetime disappearing from myself. Turn it off now. June 3rd, 2001. Anthony Quinn died two days after recording that tape. His last words weren’t captured, but Francesco said they were, “I tried.
” Not, “I succeeded.” Not, “I failed.” Just, “I tried.” They buried him with honors. Two Oscars, Walk of Fame star. The obituaries called him the greatest ethnic actor of his generation. Ethnic. Even in death, he was a category. Not a man, a category. The tape sat in Francesco’s collection for 20 years. Released this year, 2024.
“Because,” he said, “people should know my father was more than Zorba.” Was he? You decide. In the end, Anthony Quinn was everyone’s idea of everyone and no one’s idea of himself. They say hatred is what remains when love has nowhere left to go. Quinn loved the idea of being accepted and spent 86 years hating that he never was.
Not by Hollywood, not by America, not even by himself. He was the greatest actor you never really knew. And that’s exactly how he hated it.