7 Actors Orson Welles Absolutely Detested In a shocking revelation that has reignited the fascination surrounding one of cinema’s most polarizing and legendary figures, new insights have emerged into the tangled web of disdain and outright animosity Orson Welles harbored toward seven Hollywood actors, a list that reads like a who’s who of mid-20th-century cinema and exposes the fiery temperament of a man whose genius was only rivaled by his capacity for contempt, because while the world remembers Welles as the prodigy who gave us Citizen Kane, the revolutionary who reshaped storytelling with his baritone voice and unmatched directorial flair, those who stood on the wrong side of his volatile opinions knew him as a relentless critic, a thunderous force of ego and intellect who wielded his words like weapons, slicing reputations apart with the same precision he used to construct his masterpieces, and what has surfaced now is nothing short of jaw-dropping, for the curtain has finally been pulled back on the bitterness, betrayals, and artistic wars that defined his relationships with seven actors he absolutely detested, each story a window into Welles’ mercurial psyche and his uncompromising demand for authenticity in an industry built on illusion.

First on the infamous list is Charlton Heston, a man of granite jaw and heroic postures, immortalized in epics like Ben-Hur and The Ten Commandments, yet in Welles’ eyes reduced to nothing more than, as he scathingly put it, “a hard piece of wood,” for Welles loathed what he saw as Heston’s stiff, impenetrable approach to acting, a hollow monument to machismo without the fluidity of soul, and their collaboration on Touch of Evil in 1958, where Welles directed and Heston starred, only deepened the contempt, with insiders claiming that Welles mocked Heston on set, deriding his inability to convey nuance, and later telling confidants that the man belonged more in a wax museum than on a film set, a judgment so merciless it echoed long after the cameras stopped rolling, painting Heston as one of the most unfortunate recipients of Welles’ withering disdain. Then came Humphrey Bogart, the so-called tough guy of Hollywood, whose smoky voice and trench-coated swagger made him the darling of noir, yet Welles dismissed him with a venomous simplicity, accusing Bogart of “always pretending to be tough,” a biting remark that stripped away the aura of authenticity Bogart had so carefully cultivated, for to Welles, Bogart was an actor lost in self-caricature, recycling the same gestures, the same cigarette-smoldering bravado, until he was less a man than a myth hollowed out by repetition, and though the world adored Bogart’s grit, Welles sneered at it, claiming that real toughness was not in clenched jaws or narrowed eyes but in vulnerability and raw honesty, qualities he found utterly absent in Bogart’s performances, leaving a bitter chasm between two giants of the screen whose paths rarely crossed but whose mutual awareness was clouded by contempt. More shocking, perhaps, was Welles’ ire toward his once-beloved confidant Joseph Cotten, the actor whose career was launched by Welles himself in Citizen Kane and The Magnificent Ambersons, for theirs was a friendship forged in the fires of artistic revolution, yet shattered by what Welles perceived as betrayal, a choice by Cotten to pursue the comforts of Hollywood stardom rather than remain steadfast to the radical artistic vision they once shared, and though Cotten spoke fondly of Welles in public, Welles privately accused him of selling out, of abandoning genius for mediocrity, of trading loyalty for fame, and his bitterness festered over the years, transforming affection into rancor, so that by the end of Welles’ life, Cotten’s name no longer conjured memories of camaraderie but of disappointment and betrayal, a reminder that even the closest bonds can sour when tested by the merciless demands of ego and ambition. Equally stunning is Welles’ resentment toward Laurence Olivier, widely regarded as one of the greatest actors of all time, whose mastery of Shakespeare and towering presence on stage won him endless accolades, yet for Welles, Olivier was a maddening paradox, a man of immense talent poisoned by an ego so insatiable it suffocated the authenticity Welles prized above all, and though Welles admired Olivier’s technical brilliance, he detested what he perceived as artifice, a showman’s need to dominate rather than inhabit, to dazzle rather than reveal, and their encounters, though limited, were laced with tension, as Welles reportedly accused Olivier of turning Shakespeare into a peacock’s parade, reducing tragedy to spectacle, and while audiences gasped in admiration, Welles seethed in disgust, for to him Olivier embodied the very vanity that corrupted true artistry. The disdain did not stop there, for Welles’ critique extended to Joan Fontaine, the luminous star of Hitchcock’s Rebecca and Suspicion, whom he eviscerated with a chilling metaphor, describing her as “an iceberg that never melted,” a remark that not only questioned her emotional depth but also suggested a coldness that repelled both co-stars and audiences in Welles’ view, and though Fontaine’s performances were lauded by many for their restraint and elegance, Welles saw only frigidity, a refusal to surrender to the messy vulnerability that defined greatness in his eyes, and he reportedly avoided opportunities to work with her, dismissing her as incapable of reaching the emotional truths he demanded, leaving Fontaine as one more casualty of his merciless standards. Then there was Errol Flynn, the swashbuckling hero adored by millions for his roguish charm and athletic grace, yet despised by Welles, who considered him a fraud, a shallow entertainer whose off-screen scandals bled into performances that Welles derided as “juvenile theatrics for the masses,” and though Flynn’s box-office magnetism was undeniable, Welles viewed him as the epitome of Hollywood excess, a man who coasted on charisma while avoiding the rigors of true artistry, and it is said that Welles once sneered to a friend that Flynn’s sword fights contained more choreography than soul, a damning critique that underscored his belief that Flynn was a circus act masquerading as an actor. Lastly, Welles’ scorn fell upon Marlon Brando, a revelation that may shock modern cinephiles who revere Brando as a revolutionary, yet Welles, though acknowledging his raw talent, detested what he perceived as Brando’s indiscipline, his self-indulgence, and his eventual descent into parody, for while A Streetcar Named Desire and On the Waterfront showcased brilliance, Welles believed Brando squandered his gifts, drowning them in ego, excess, and laziness, and he reportedly mocked Brando’s later performances as bloated shadows of his potential, a tragic squandering of greatness that infuriated Welles, who saw in Brando a reflection of his own battles with decline and waste, and thus his contempt was tinged with envy, disappointment, and the bitterness of a man who recognized too much of himself in another. These seven names—Heston, Bogart, Cotten, Olivier, Fontaine, Flynn, and Brando—form not just a list of enemies but a map of Welles’ relentless pursuit of artistic truth, a pursuit that brooked no compromise and tolerated no mediocrity, and while his words were harsh, they reveal a man at war with an industry he both dominated and despised, a man who demanded more from his peers than most were willing or able to give, and in his disdain we glimpse the ferocity of his love for art, for it was not hatred born of pettiness but of passion, a conviction that cinema was sacred and that too many defiled it with vanity, laziness, or cowardice. The revelations, now resurfacing decades after his death in 1985, not only illuminate the contradictions of Welles’ character but also serve as a haunting reminder of Hollywood’s cutthroat nature, where admiration and animosity intertwine, and where genius often isolates as much as it inspires, for Orson Welles was a man who changed cinema forever but who walked through its golden age surrounded by ghosts of resentment, a titan who built monuments of art even as he tore down those around him with words that still sting today, and as we reflect on the seven actors he absolutely detested, we find not just gossip but a portrait of an artist who refused to bow, a man whose legacy is as much about the masterpieces he created as the enemies he made, leaving us to wonder whether his brilliance was fueled by his contempt and whether without that fire, the legend of Orson Welles would burn as brightly as it does still.