By Peg Aloi

Gene Hackman’s legacy will never fade, and now, with his passing, many filmgoers may finally appreciate the enormity of his talent and the enduring impact of his work.

Gene Hackman in The Poseidon Adventure.

I suppose my love of Gene Hackman (who died this week, aged 95, alongside his wife Betsy Arakawa in a tragic accident still being investigated) began around 1973 or so, after I saw The Poseidon Adventure on television one night. At 10 years old, I was interested in things that adults read and watched. The 1972 blockbuster film was rated PG; there was no nudity and very little cursing, so it is tame by today’s standards. But I knew so-called disaster films weren’t really meant for kids. I heard Maureen McGovern’s song “Morning After” on the radio before seeing the film and that made me curious, but I had no idea how scary and moving this film would end up being. They don’t make films like this anymore: an epic genre film, a shipwreck in a storm, full of action and suspense, character-driven by an all-star cast (Hackman, Ernest Borgnine, Shelley Winters, Jack Albertson, and Carol Lynley). The grandiose Titanic must have taken a page or two from this impressive thriller: the S. S. Poseidon was not a new ship, but a luxury liner about to be decommissioned, on its last voyage from New York to Greece. In every disaster film there’s a tragic hero, and in this one it was Hackman’s Frank Scott: an unorthodox clergyman, embracing progressive new ideas about God, religion, and the Church.

As Reverend Scott, Hackman was confident, even arrogant, tall and trim in charcoal slacks and cream-colored turtleneck (an amplified clerical collar, in a way), holding forth to spellbound passengers at the New Year’s Eve celebration, before the ship and the evening go horribly off course. The small group of survivors trying to figure out what to do follow Scott’s lead. He says they need to move upwards, to the ship’s hull (the vessel is now capsized and upside down) if they are going to have any hope of being rescued. Scott’s physical presence (Hackman was 6’ 2”, very tall for a screen actor) and charisma, his take-charge actions make him their default leader: being a man of God (perhaps) didn’t hurt, either. Of course, as we often see in disaster films, especially from this era, men often vie for dominance in crisis situations, and Ernest Borgnine as Rogo, a gruff middle-aged cop, challenges Scott’s decisions and authority.

As the survivors continue their perilous journey through the ship, there are casualties along the way. But Scott’s leadership never wavers. It’s as if he knows any show of hesitancy or weakness could undercut the group’s resolve: his courage keeps them buoyant. But, lest Scott come off as having some kind of narcissistic savior complex, he also shows boundless compassion and deep grief when survivors perish. This character’s bravery permeates what is one of the most iconic moments of screen acting in the 20th century: Hackman screaming, through clashing metal noise and steam, screaming at God himself, demanding to know how many more lives had to be sacrificed, and then willingly, unhesitatingly, giving his own. Just thinking of it still makes me shiver.

Though William Friedkin’s The French Connection was released in 1971, I didn’t see it until several years later, even though I knew he’d won an Oscar for it. I once again found Hackman mesmerizing, his tough, gruff Popeye Doyle an unforgettable figure in the annals of ’70s crime thrillers. From that point on, every time I saw Hackman in a film, I ended up marveling at his versatility, sometimes not recognizing him at first (as with his sweet 1974 comedic cameo in Young Frankenstein, or the creepy supervillain Lex Luthor in 1978’s Superman). Then, in 1988, two of Hackman’s roles (he was in five films released that year) again blew me away: in Alan Parker’s Mississippi Burning as an FBI agent investigating a Civil Rights era crime and becoming entangled with a KKK member’s wife, and in Woody Allen’s Another Woman as a kind man spurned by a woman (Gena Rowlands) who chooses a selfish lover over him. Hackman as a middle-aged romantic figure in both these films caught me off-guard: never a “leading man” in the traditional sense, this screen legend nevertheless helped reinvigorate tired tropes of Hollywood sex appeal.

Gene Hackman in The Unforgiven.

Then in 1992, at 62, and clearly in the prime of his sprawling, successful career, Hackman played a role in a period western that redefined his genius all over again. Directed by and starring Clint Eastwood, the film brilliantly pitted two antiheroes against each other: Eastwood as a retired gunslinger, once a legend, and Hackman’s “Little Bill” Dagget, an arrogant, sadistic sheriff in a seemingly lawless town. In addition to upending the classic western genre, The Unforgiven delivered a striking and memorable portrayal: a terrifying, sociopathic villain played by a well-loved star. Four years later, Hackman again pulled out all the stops with a memorable turn as a staunch conservative politician whose assumptions are torn asunder in The Birdcage. Was this when Hackman crossed over into being a character actor? Or did he merely cement his legacy as an actor who could literally do anything? More iconic roles followed, perhaps most notably the eccentric patriarch in The Royal Tenenbaums (2001), before Hackman retired in 2004. His legacy will never fade, and now, with Hackman’s passing, many filmgoers may finally appreciate the enormity of his talent and the enduring impact of his work.

Peg Aloi is a former film critic for the Boston Phoenix and member of the Boston Society of Film Critics, the Critics Choice Awards, and the Alliance for Women Film Journalists. She taught film studies in Boston for over a decade. She has written on film, TV, and culture for web publications like Time, Vice, Polygon, Bustle, Dread Central, Mic, Orlando Weekly, Refinery29, and Bloody Disgusting. Her blog “The Witching Hour” can be found on substack.