At 80, Sam Elliot Names The Six Actors He HATED

In the ever-shifting landscape of Hollywood, where authenticity is a commodity often manufactured and sold, Sam Elliott remains an unmovable monument to a bygone era. With a voice that rumbles like distant thunder across a prairie and a mustache that has become a symbol of grizzled integrity, he is more than an actor; he is the custodian of a certain American ideal. He is the modern cowboy, the stoic lawman, the quiet professional who values substance over style. But this unwavering commitment to his principles has come at a cost. Behind that stoic facade lies a deep well of conviction and, as it turns out, a profound disappointment with the direction of his craft, embodied by a handful of actors he believes have betrayed the very essence of acting. This is not a story of petty on-set squabbles, but a tale of artistic disillusionment—a quiet war waged by Hollywood’s last honest man against the phonies, pretenders, and sellouts.

Elliott’s code is simple, forged in the dust of countless Westerns: be real, do the work, and respect the heritage. It is this code that first brought him into conflict with Kevin Costner, another titan of the modern Western. While Costner’s films like “Dances with Wolves” and “Yellowstone” have been commercial successes, Elliott, a man who has dedicated his life to the genre, saw a lack of genuine grit. He felt Costner’s portrayal of the cowboy was a sanitized, romanticized version—a Hollywood caricature that missed the hardship and complexity of the real thing. For Elliott, it wasn’t personal; it was about protecting a legacy. He saw the cowboy not as a costume to be worn, but as an identity to be earned through understanding and respect for the culture. Costner, in his eyes, was playing dress-up.

This fierce protectiveness of the Western genre exploded into the public consciousness with his now-infamous criticism of Jane Campion’s Oscar-winning film, “The Power of the Dog.” Elliott took aim at the film’s star, Benedict Cumberbatch, and the film’s overall depiction of the American West. He blasted what he saw as a “prissy” and inauthentic portrayal of ranchers, famously questioning what a New Zealand director and a British actor knew about the heart of the American cowboy. He was particularly incensed by the film’s homoerotic undertones and the depiction of cowboys in chaps and bow ties, calling it a perversion of the genre he held sacred. The backlash against Elliott was swift, with many labeling his comments as homophobic and out of touch. But for Elliott, it was never about sexuality; it was about authenticity. He saw a film shot in New Zealand, starring a British actor, deconstructing a mythos he had spent his life upholding. It was an attack on the very soul of the West as he understood it.

His disdain is not reserved solely for the Western genre. It extends to what he perceives as a decline in the craft of acting itself, a trend he saw embodied in the rise of sitcom star Ashton Kutcher. The two worked together on the Netflix series “The Ranch,” and the experience was reportedly a grating one for the veteran actor. Elliott came from a generation that honed its craft through discipline and subtlety. Kutcher was a product of a different era—the world of reality television and broad, laugh-track comedy. Elliott saw his approach as lazy, a form of celebrity masquerading as acting that “embarrassed the craft.” He couldn’t reconcile Kutcher’s light, almost flippant, style with his own deeply held belief that acting was a serious, demanding art form.

This preference for subtlety and restraint also put him at odds with the famously eccentric Nicolas Cage. While many celebrate Cage’s fearless, over-the-top performances, Elliott saw them as indulgent and undisciplined. He once described Cage’s acting as “too loud, too weird,” a stark contrast to his own belief in quiet power. Elliott believes that the most profound emotions are often the ones left unspoken, conveyed through a glance, a posture, or a weighted silence. Cage’s brand of explosive, operatic acting was, to him, the antithesis of this philosophy. It was noise, not signal; theatrics, not truth.

Perhaps the most personally painful rift was the one that developed with his once-close friend, Jeff Bridges. They were kindred spirits, two actors who seemed to share a similar, laid-back approach to their work and life. They co-starred in “The Big Lebowski,” a film that would become a cultural touchstone for them both. But Elliott observed a change in Bridges after he won an Academy Award for “Crazy Heart.” He felt his old friend had become consumed by the Hollywood machine, embracing the polish and celebrity that came with Oscar gold. The easy camaraderie they once shared grew cold, replaced by a professional distance. For Elliott, it was a profound disappointment, a feeling that his friend had lost a piece of his authentic self to the very industry they had both navigated for so long.

Finally, there is Elliott’s deep-seated contempt for the excesses of method acting, a practice he sees perfectly encapsulated by Jared Leto. Leto is infamous for his extreme on-set behavior—sending his co-stars disturbing “gifts,” refusing to break character for months on end. Elliott views these antics not as a sign of dedication, but as pure, unadulterated pretension. He sees it as a desperate cry for attention, “theatrics masquerading as talent.” For a man who believes the work should speak for itself, Leto’s brand of self-aggrandizing performance art is the ultimate insult to the profession. It places the focus on the actor’s ego, not on the character or the story.

In the end, Sam Elliott’s “blacklist” is more than a list of actors he dislikes. It is a manifesto. It is the final stand of a man who believes in a Hollywood that may no longer exist—a place of quiet dignity, hard work, and an unwavering commitment to the truth. He is a relic, perhaps, but a vital one. He reminds us that beneath the glitz and the glamour, acting is a craft, and that some things—authenticity, integrity, and a deep respect for the stories being told—are still worth fighting for, even if it means standing alone.