The Omaha actor who arrived on Broadway at twenty and changed what American screen acting was — making the emotion visible from the inside rather than performed from the outside — and who spent the remaining fifty years of his career refusing to let the industry forget that he had done so, on terms the industry found alternately magnificent and infuriating.
Portrait · Marlon BrandoBorn Marlon Brando Jr. on April 3, 1924, in Omaha, Nebraska — the son of a cattle feed salesman and an amateur actress who was also an alcoholic. He was raised primarily by his mother's energy and his own rebellion, expelled from military school, and arrived in New York at nineteen where Stella Adler taught him what became the specific quality of his screen work: that the character's emotion was felt, not demonstrated.
Elia Kazan's Broadway production of A Streetcar Named Desire (1947) — Brando as Stanley Kowalski — is the inflection point in American acting history. The performance replaced the mannered externality of classical stage acting with something that appeared to be happening rather than being performed. The film (1951) transferred it to cinema, where it was even more disorienting: the camera at this proximity had not seen anything like it before.
Eight Oscar nominations followed across a career of exceptional range: the dock worker in On the Waterfront (1954, Oscar); the Mexican revolutionary in Viva Zapata! (1952); the leather-jacketed outlaw in The Wild One (1953); the Japanese interpreter in Sayonara (1957). Then the cultural drift: a period of commercial misuse, difficult productions, the specific contempt for the industry that his performances had generated a right to feel.
Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather (1972) — Brando as Don Vito Corleone — is the comeback no one had the right to expect after a decade of mediocre material, and it is the performance against which all subsequent American screen acting in the crime genre has been measured. He sent a Native American activist to decline the Oscar. Bernardo Bertolucci's Last Tango in Paris (1972), the same year, is the companion piece: Paul, the American expatriate in Paris, the grief and the rage without the protective archetype. He died on July 1, 2004, in Los Angeles.
The cotton in the jowls, the hoarsened voice, the deliberate physicality of a man whose body has earned its age — Brando built the character from the outside in, which is the opposite of his usual method and the reason the result has a quality his earlier work doesn't have. The garden scene — Vito playing with his grandson, the tomatoes, the death — is the most moving thing in a film of overwhelming force, played by a man who had earned the right to that kind of simplicity.
The "contender" speech — delivered in the back seat of a car to Rod Steiger's Charlie, the brother whose choices ended Terry's boxing career — is the most analysed scene in American screen acting history and the one most consistently cited by subsequent actors as the moment they understood what the form could do. Brando plays it not as a speech but as a series of discoveries — the character arriving at the thought as the character, not the actor, finds it.
Stanley's quality — the man whose animal intelligence is more honest than any refinement the play contains — is played by Brando without the moral framing the script provides, which is the reason the performance remains disturbing. He does not perform Stanley's violence; he performs Stanley's desire, which is more frightening — the violence arrives as a consequence of the desire, not as a demonstration of villainy.
Paul's quality — the man whose grief has removed all the social scaffolding that makes a person legible — is the most unguarded performance Brando gave. He used his own biographical material without fictional mediation, which is the most extreme application of the method's principle and the reason the result has a quality that his more consciously constructed performances don't approach — the nakedness of a person who has stopped performing.
An actor is at most a poet and at least an entertainer.
Marlon Brando's legacy is a door he opened in 1947 — the door between the stage actor performing emotion and the screen actor transmitting it — through which every subsequent American screen actor has walked, whether they know it or not. Two Oscars, eight nominations, the Godfather, the Waterfront, the Streetcar, and the specific quality that no subsequent actor has surpassed: the emotion happening before the expression, the thought arriving in real time.
He found the industry unworthy of his attention and said so. He was wrong about that — the industry's best films were worthy — but he was right about the specific claim: the actor who changed the language of American screen performance had more right to contempt for the institutions that managed it than any other person in Hollywood history, and the contempt was itself a form of intellectual honesty that the institution consistently failed to reward.