John Wayne, one of the most iconic figures in American cinema, built a legacy of grit, determination, and old-school values.

 

 

 

 

But behind the legend was a man driven by deep passions, fierce loyalties, and enduring grudges.

Perhaps nothing reveals the complexities of the Duke more than the story of the one man he hated more than anyone else—James Arness.

In 1960, John Wayne made the biggest gamble of his career. He poured everything he had into a personal dream: making *The Alamo*.

Wayne didn’t just star in it—he produced and directed it. To finance the film, he mortgaged his home, staked his fortune, and bet his reputation on a story he believed in with all his heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was more than just a movie; it was a symbol of American courage, sacrifice, and loyalty.

And to bring that dream to life, he turned to someone he trusted completely—his close friend, James Arness.

Their friendship had begun in the golden years of Hollywood. Wayne was already a towering figure by the early 1950s, and Arness was still struggling to make a name for himself.

It was Wayne who helped change that. He personally recommended Arness for the role of Marshal Matt Dillon in the new television series *Gunsmoke*, a move that launched Arness into stardom for two decades.

When *Gunsmoke* premiered, Wayne even introduced the show, lending his iconic presence to ensure it got the attention it deserved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Their bond seemed solid—two rugged men shaped by the same values, both standing tall in the world of Westerns.

So when Wayne asked Arness to join *The Alamo*, he expected a simple yes. But Arness declined. The reasons were never made fully clear.

Maybe it was a scheduling conflict. Maybe he didn’t want to be part of a project so risky. Maybe he simply didn’t believe in the film the way Wayne did.

Whatever the truth, his refusal cut Wayne deeply. For a man who valued loyalty above all else, it was a betrayal he couldn’t forgive.

Wayne never got over it. To him, Arness hadn’t just turned down a role.

 

 

 

 

 

He had walked away from a personal mission, abandoned a friend in the hour of greatest need. From that moment on, their friendship was over.

No public outburst, no dramatic confrontation—just a silence that lasted until Wayne’s death. Wayne never worked with Arness again.

He never spoke of him without venom. It was one of the deepest wounds of his life, and it never healed.

This wasn’t the only grudge Wayne carried. He held strong feelings about the people around him, and he wasn’t afraid to express them.

 

 

 

 

 

Gene Hackman, for example, never worked with Wayne, but that didn’t stop the Duke from repeatedly criticizing him.

Wayne reportedly called Hackman “the worst actor in town,” despite Hackman’s two Academy Awards and near-universal praise.

Wayne’s daughter Aissa said her father would tear apart Hackman’s performances whenever he saw them. Why? No one really knew.

Hackman symbolized the new wave of Hollywood actors—raw, emotional, less bound by the old ideals Wayne stood for.

Wayne’s judgments weren’t limited to actors. He turned on Clark Gable for clashing with director John Ford during the filming of *Mogambo*.

 

 

 

 

Wayne took Ford’s side without question. To him, loyalty to friends outweighed all other considerations.

He once said of Gable, “He’s extremely handsome, but acting is the only thing he’s smart enough to do.” That was Wayne’s way—plainspoken, often harsh, and deeply personal.

His feud with Frank Sinatra became the stuff of legend. The two men couldn’t have been more different. Sinatra was liberal, outspoken, and close to the Kennedys.

Wayne was a conservative firebrand, outspoken in his support of anti-communist investigations and deeply suspicious of liberal politics. Their differences clashed in Hollywood and in Las Vegas.

One night, Sinatra’s loud parties kept Wayne awake, and Wayne stormed into Sinatra’s suite, slapping the bodyguard who stood in his way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Though their animosity cooled in later years—Sinatra even visited Wayne during his final illness—their feud represented a broader cultural divide in postwar America.

Then there was Harry Cohn of Columbia Pictures, a studio boss who once humiliated Wayne over a rumored affair and forced him into demeaning roles.

Wayne never forgot the insult. When offered a major role by Columbia years later, he turned it down flat.

Even when he needed work, Wayne refused to take orders from men who had disrespected him.

Wayne’s beliefs and grudges also extended into politics. He was a proud member of the Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals and supported the House Un-American Activities Committee during the Hollywood blacklist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He helped drive screenwriters like Carl Foreman out of the country. In a 1971 interview with *Playboy*, Wayne made openly racist and homophobic remarks that stunned even the conservative America of the time.

He said, “I believe in white supremacy until the blacks are educated to a point of responsibility,” and referred to *Midnight Cowboy* using a slur. These comments have haunted his legacy ever since.

Privately, his views could be even darker. In a letter to President Nixon, he referred to Henry Kissinger with an anti-Semitic slur and urged Nixon not to visit China.

During the 1973 Oscars, when Native American activist Sacheen Littlefeather appeared to decline Marlon Brando’s Best Actor award in protest of Hollywood’s treatment of Native Americans, Wayne tried to charge the stage. It took six men to restrain him.

 

 

 

 

 

Despite these controversies, Wayne remained a hero to millions.

His portrayal of stoic, principled men in *The Searchers*, *Red River*, *True Grit*, and *The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance* helped shape the American image of masculinity.

His 1970 Oscar win for *True Grit* felt like a long-overdue recognition for a lifetime of work.

And in his final film, *The Shootist*, he played a dying gunslinger facing cancer—just as he was in real life.

Wayne’s battle with cancer became part of his legacy. After surviving lung cancer in 1964, he spoke openly about the disease, helping to remove its stigma.

When he died in 1979 of stomach cancer, his family carried on his fight, founding the John Wayne Cancer Institute.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The institute became a leader in cancer research and awareness, saving lives in his name.

But even that legacy has been challenged. In 2019, the *Playboy* interview resurfaced, sparking calls to remove Wayne’s name from airports and schools.

His family defended him, asking people to remember his good works and charitable contributions.

John Wayne was never a simple man. He was a legend who stood for toughness, loyalty, and tradition—but also a man who held deep prejudices and unshakable grudges.

His greatest betrayal came not from an enemy, but from a friend he loved like a brother.

James Arness’s decision not to stand beside him in *The Alamo* left a scar that never faded.

For all his triumphs and all his failures, John Wayne remains one of the most complicated figures in American cultural history—part hero, part cautionary tale, and all icon.