By Kristin Cho
As a child, I would sit with my dad in front of the old television, its rotary knob clicking like a clock, winding back time. I’d sprawl across the floor, belly pressed to the carpet, chin cradled in my hands. I would gaze at the black-and-white movies while my dad tried to explain the story to me. He was an aspiring writer and a film enthusiast, and I sort of briefly became one, too, studying film in college. I recall his frequently expressing admiration for Marlon Brando, both as an actor and a humanitarian. He praised Brando’s efforts in advocating for Native Americans and minorities, particularly those whose voices were not heard and who were underrepresented. He told me about the legendary 1973 Oscar incident, upon which Brando instantly became my dad’s favorite actor. Although I had no clue what my dad was talking about, the actor’s name stuck: Brando. In several respects, my dad and Marlon Brando had similar childhood experiences: parents who were emotionally unavailable, alcoholism in the family, feelings of isolation and loneliness, and the challenges they faced in their adulthood.
Recently, I found myself reminiscing about my dad (he passed in 2017) and the rare moments we shared together. Feeling nostalgic, I decided to watch his favorite film, On the Waterfront (1954). This led to my not only watching all of Brando’s films but also delving deeper into understanding Marlon Brando as a person, not the actor, not the myth. I have engaged in extensive research, and through this journey, I discovered why Brando was my dad’s favorite actor and why he wanted me to understand Brando as a human being. All of this led me to write this article for this month’s Fold, which focuses on Marlon Brando. Drawing from his biography, interviews, and his own words, I trace the legacy he left behind in films, memories, and the heart and soul of a man who never ceased his quest for truth, meaning, love, and peace.
Marlon Brando made a significant contribution to the fight against both racial and human rights injustices. He stood beside Martin Luther King Jr. in the fight for civil rights and ardently supported Native American causes, a rare stance for a prominent Hollywood actor at that time. As an actor, he left a lasting impression with his portrayal of Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire (1951). His performance was emotionally intense and authentic, breaking from Hollywood norms. Brando’s acting was innovative, as he deeply engaged with the character, delivering a level of realism that effectively connected with audiences. Despite attaining fame and recognition early in his career, he exhibited ambivalence toward his celebrity status. He prioritized truth and artistic integrity over fame, as evidenced by his absence from the 1952 Academy Awards at his first nomination for Best Actor at the age of 28. For Brando, acting was a powerful medium to convey important messages, recognizing that his craft could contribute to social change and was not only Hollywood pageantry.
As Marlon Brando’s career progressed, his discomfort with the industry increased, escalating alongside his successes. By the time he starred in Mutiny on the Bounty (1962), he had a strained relationship with the system that made him famous. He started to see Hollywood’s true nature. Initially, Hollywood depicted him as a genius, a sex symbol, and a revolutionary actor who transformed cinema. Brando possessed the rare ability to fully embody any character convincingly, ensuring that the audience found his performance credible. For example, Brando’s “Friends, Romans, countrymen” monologue as Mark Antony in Julius Caesar (1953) is a notable highlight of his early career. His delivery of the lines was not merely recitation; it exuded an effortless gravity. Brando excelled in infusing naturalism into Shakespeare’s work, which is a challenging feat. This character is a distinct shift from his role of Mexican revolutionary Emiliano Zapata in Viva Zapata! (1952). Brando viewed Zapata as an idealistic figure driven to act against injustice, fighting for the people. However, as Brando aged, he spoke out politically and resisted conforming, thus shifting the narrative to one where he was seen as difficult, eccentric, and a fallen star. Off camera, Brando was described in the tabloids as volatile and challenging. Despite winning two Academy Awards for Best Actor and being the youngest winner at the time, he was no longer considered “profitable.”
During the 1960s, while many perceived him as floundering in subpar films, a deeper analysis reveals a man striving to maintain authenticity within an all-consuming industry. A study of his filmography indicates a curious mind determined to explore, feel, and understand human experiences, rather than seeking mere fame. For example, in The Ugly American (1963), Brando aimed to highlight the dangers of cultural arrogance and political ignorance, urging Americans to question the moral implications of their actions abroad. In Reflections in a Golden Eye (1967)—one of his most remarkable and daring performances—Brando inquired into the inner turmoil of a pained individual, playing a closeted army officer grappling with his identity. Meanwhile, Burn! (1969) was a politically charged passion project that resonated with his views on colonialism, exploitation, and revolution.
When Marlon Brando embarked on his artistic endeavor with One-Eyed Jacks (1961), he regarded it as a personal project, frequently referring to it as his “baby.” This film was momentous because it was the only production that Brando starred in, directed, rewrote, and edited, dedicating intense emotional energy to its creation. Nevertheless, the studio intervened during the editing process and drastically altered both the film’s tone and structure, cutting many of Brando’s psychologically complex, poetic, and character-driven scenes. This undermined his artistry and creative expression. Feeling betrayed and disillusioned by this experience, especially since it was his directorial debut, Brando chose never again to direct.
Brando’s inner turmoil peaked with Last Tango in Paris (1972). His role as Paul—a man consumed by grief and despair—mirrored his own struggles. Brando admitted feeling “depleted and exhausted” after the film, revealing in his memoir, Songs My Mother Taught Me, that he had “violated [his] innermost self.” He vowed never again to emotionally destroy himself for a movie. With the release of The Godfather (1972) and Last Tango in Paris, Brando regained his status as a bankable star, becoming the most sought-after actor in Hollywood. Despite attempts to turn him into a commodity, Last Tango in Paris marked a pivotal moment for Brando. He reversed the script on a system that had exploited him for decades, using it to his own advantage. For instance, in Superman (1978) and Apocalypse Now (1979), he demanded—and even received—a considerable sum of money for a minimal amount of work.
Meanwhile, he assumed a new persona. The Brando of Mulholland Drive, the prankster with disguises, and the eccentric legend who defied Hollywood’s norms became his latest acts. His characters, Lee Clayton in The Missouri Breaks (1976) and Dr. Moreau in The Island of Dr. Moreau (1996), were so outlandish that it felt like Brando was using absurdity and mockery to shield his vulnerability, giving Hollywood only what he wanted to give.
Tracing Brando’s filmography, I observed the trajectory of his career and the gradual disenchantment of an individual who initially believed in the transformative power of truth. On-screen, Brando embodied reality. He didn’t act as a character; he became one. He showed cinema what emotional authenticity looked like. The irony, however, was that a man who made fiction feel like truth couldn’t stop his own life from feeling fake. Brando described fame as an illusion that detaches one from reality. His mistrust extended beyond Hollywood, including journalists who twisted truth for spectacle. Truman Capote, in his infamous 1957 New Yorker profile of Marlon Brando, “The Duke in His Domain,” broke the first rule of journalism—integrity—sacrificing Brando’s dignity and reputation for literary flair and personal spite. But Capote wasn’t an exception, as Brando rarely found safety in the company of men, perhaps because so few ever looked on him without envy. His looks, talent, and magnetism made him iconic to the world, but isolating to the men around him who seemed to resent what they couldn’t possess.
Despite his aversion to receiving accolades, Marlon Brando undeniably revolutionized acting and redefined its possibilities. During his lifetime, he never claimed the top spot, and perhaps never even noticed it. Yet, when he left, the throne he once occupied stood empty—just an empty seat that remains unfilled. And it’s still empty. To some, Brando will always be seen as a sex symbol and to others, a poet; to many, he is the artist who reshaped acting forever. For those who know what he stood for, he’s the voice for the unheard. Above all, Brando was a human being—flawed, complex, and striving.
“I don’t want to be remembered as an actor,” Brando once said. “I want to be remembered as a human being who cared.” To me, he was a man who experienced pain and hope. Through this journey, I understood why Brando was my dad’s favorite actor and to him, a human being. Somewhere along the way, I wasn’t only trying to understand Brando; I was also trying to understand my dad. Their lives were different on the surface—Brando was a world-renowned actor and my dad, a quiet, troubled man trying to survive. But beneath the public façade and private silence, they shared uncanny similarities. Both men were searching for love, truth, and meaning. Brando gave shape to something I couldn’t name in my dad, something that helped me listen to a man who never told his story. Something that helped me see Dad, if only a little.
Upon reflecting on how to present this narrative, it became clear that I am not merely recounting Brando’s story through films and memories; I am writing for anyone meeting him for the first time. The younger generation deserves more than fragments, gossip, and subjective opinions. They deserve an accurate depiction that includes the betrayals, the brilliance, and the true character behind the myth. If you see him clearly, without the noise, you’ll understand why, in the end, Brando gave Hollywood two middle fingers and walked away as the true rebel who couldn’t be bought. I wish I could have been alive to witness his rise to fame, his ascent to the pinnacle, and his return to earth to tell us that there is nothing there, only to watch his shadow fade into the sunset in the South Seas, where the tranquility he sought awaited him.
I was once asked, “If you had an opportunity to have a conversation with Marlon Brando, what would you ask him?”
Me: what’s on your mind, Mr. Brando?
Brando: [pause, looks down, then up with that slow, unreadable gaze]
Brando: It doesn’t matter now what’s on my mind. I’ve said what I needed to say. What are you fighting for, kid?
[He gives a small mischievous boyish smile and chuckles softly]
