Introduction
Howard Hawks slapped a young actor on Rio Bravo set. What Dean Martin did next changed. Hollywood Old Tucson, Arizona. November 1958. The Desert Sun beat down on the western town set where Rio Bravo was being filmed. It was one of the biggest productions of the year. John Wayne was the star playing a small town sheriff facing down a gang of outlaws.
Dean Martin had been cast against Type as Dude, an alcoholic deputy trying to redeem himself. It was Dean’s first serious dramatic role, a departure from the comedies he’d been making with Jerry Lewis. The director was Howard Hawks, a legend in Hollywood. He’d made Bringing Up Baby with Carrie Grant and Katherine Hepburn, The Big Sleep with Humphrey Bogart, Red River with John Wayne and Montgomery Clif.
He was 62 years old at the peak of his powers, and he ran his sets with absolute authority. Hawks had a reputation. He was brilliant but demanding, patient with stars, but brutal with supporting players. He a expected perfection and had little tolerance for mistakes. Most actors were terrified of him but worked hard to earn his approval because a Howard Hawks film could make your career.
Dean had been nervous about working with Hawks, nervous about the dramatic role, nervous about proving he could act without Jerry. But the first few weeks had gone well. Hawk seemed pleased with Dean’s performance. John Wayne had been supportive and friendly. The cast and crew had fallen into a good rhythm until the incident with Tommy.
Thomas Tommy Brennan was a 20-year-old actor from New York. This was his first film role. He’d done theater in Manhattan, gotten good reviews in small productions, and his agent had managed to get him cast as one of the younger deputies in Rio Bravo. It wasn’t a big part, maybe 15 lines across four scenes, but it was a start, a chance to break into Hollywood.
Tommy had been excited, maybe too excited. He’d arrived on set two weeks earlier, eager and energetic, asking questions about everything, watching the established actors work, trying to absorb as much as he could. Some of the crew found him annoying, too enthusiastic, too naive. But Dean had liked him, reminded Dean of himself 15 years earlier, trying to make it in show business, full of dreams and determination.
The scene they were filming on that November day involved Dude and several deputies preparing for the final confrontation with the bad guys. It was tense, dramatic, the kind of scene that required everyone to be precisely on their marks, hitting their cues, delivering their lines with the exact right timing. Tommy was nervous.
It was his biggest scene in the film. He had three lines, but they were important lines, and he’d be sharing the frame with Dean Martin and two other established character actors. The pressure was enormous. Hawks called action. The scene began. The other actors delivered their lines perfectly. Then it was Tommy’s turn. He froze.
His mouth opened, but nothing came out. The words he’d rehearsed a hundred times vanished from his mind. He stood there silent, his face going red. Cut. Hawk’s voice was calm, but cold. Tommy, you okay? I’m sorry, Mr. Hawks. I just I’ll get it this time. They reset. Went again. This time, Tommy remembered his first line, but delivered it wrong.
Put the emphasis on the wrong word. Made it sound unnatural. Hawks cut them again. Third take. Tommy rushed his lines, stepped on another actor’s dialogue, ruined the rhythm of the scene. Fourth take, Tommy hit his marks, but forgot to look at the right person while delivering his line, breaking the ey line that Hawks had carefully choreographed.
By the fifth take, everyone on set was tense. The other actors were getting frustrated. The crew was watching nervously. And Hawk’s patience, which was never abundant, was wearing thin. Tommy, what’s the problem? Hawk walked onto the set. his tall frame casting a shadow over the young actor. I’m sorry, sir. I’m just nervous.
I’ll get it right. You’ve had five chances. How many more do you need? I don’t know. I’m sorry. Hawk studied Tommy for a long moment. The entire set was quiet. Everyone knew Hawk’s reputation. They’d all heard stories about his temper, though most of them had never witnessed it firsthand. Do you know how much film costs? Hawk’s voice was getting louder.
Do you know how much it costs to have John Wayne and Dean Martin and 50 crew members standing around waiting for you to remember three simple lines? I’m trying my best. Your best isn’t good enough. Hawk stepped closer. You’re wasting everyone’s time. You’re wasting money. You’re wasting my patience.
Tommy’s eyes were starting to water. I’m sorry. Sorry doesn’t help. Competence helps. Professionalism helps. And you have neither. Dean, who’d been standing off to the side, stepped forward. Howard, maybe we should take a break. Let the kid compose himself. Hawks turned to look at Dean. This isn’t your concern, Dean. I’m directing. You’re acting. Stay in your lane. I’mjust saying the kid’s nervous.
Give him a minute to breathe. He’s had five takes. How much breathing does he need? Dean opened his mouth to respond, but Hawks had already turned back to Tommy. One more take, one more chance, and if you screw it up, you’re done. We’ll rewrite the scene without you. Understand? Tommy nodded, unable to speak. His hands were shaking.
The other actors returned to their marks. Dean gave Tommy an encouraging nod, trying to offer some support. Hawks called action for the sixth time. Tommy delivered his first line. It was decent. Not perfect, but decent. He delivered his second line better. He was finding his rhythm. He moved to deliver his third line, the final one, the one that would complete the scene. And he forgot it completely.
stood there, mouth open, searching his memory, finding nothing. Hawks called cut. Then he walked onto the set. What happened next took maybe 3 seconds, but seemed to unfold in slow motion. Hawks reached Tommy, drew back his hand, and slapped him across the face. The sound echoed across the desert set.
Tommy staggered back, his hand going to his reening cheek, his eyes wide with shock. The entire crew froze. John Wayne, standing 20 ft away, took a step forward but stopped, uncertain what to do. “Maybe that’ll wake you up,” Hawk said, his voice cold. “Maybe that’ll help you focus.” Tommy stood there trembling, tears now streaming down his face.
Not from the physical pain, though the slap had clearly hurt, but from the humiliation, the shame of being struck in front of the entire cast and crew. Dean moved fast. He crossed the space between himself and Hawks in four strides, grabbed Hawks by the shoulder and spun him around. The director caught off guard, stumbled slightly.
What the hell, Dean? What the hell yourself? Dean’s voice was low but intense. You just hit a kid, a 20-year-old kid who’s nervous and trying his best. He was wasting. I don’t care what he was doing. You don’t hit people. You don’t lay hands on actors because they are not performing the way you want. Hawks pulled away from Dean’s grip.
This is my set. I run things here. And if I need to slap someone to get a performance, then you’re not the director I thought you were. Dean’s voice got louder, carrying across the set. You’re supposed to be a legend, Howard. Supposed to be one of the best, but the best directors don’t assault their actors. They guide them.
They teach them. They create an environment where people can do their best work. Hawks’s face reened. You’re out of line, Martin. No, you’re out of line. You crossed a line the moment you hit Tommy. And I’m not going to stand here and pretend it didn’t happen. Dean turned to Tommy, who was still standing there in shock.
You okay, kid? Tommy nodded, unable to speak. Go take a break. Get some water. Compose yourself. Dean looked back at Hawks. We’re all taking a break right now. This shoot is paused until you and I have a conversation. You don’t have authority to watch me. Dean pulled off his costume hat, started walking toward his trailer. If you want to continue this production, if you want me to deliver the performance you need, we’re having a conversation now.
Hawk stood there furious, his hands balled into fists. The crew looked at each other nervously. John Wayne walked over to Hawks, put a hand on his shoulder, spoke quietly. Whatever Duke said seemed to calm Hawk slightly. After a moment, Hawks followed Dean toward the trailers. Inside Dean’s trailer, away from the watching crew, the two men faced each other.
Hawk was still angry, his jaw clenched. Dean was calm but firm. Howard, you can’t hit actors. You know that, right? I’ve been directing for 30 years. Don’t tell me how to run my set. Then don’t make me tell you. Dean sat down on the small couch. Look, I respect you. I respect your work. I wanted this role specifically because you were directing.
But what you just did out there, that’s not directing. That’s abuse. The kid was ruining take after take, wasting time, wasting money. So help him, coach him, give him direction [clears throat] that actually helps instead of just yelling at him. Hawks sat down heavily in the chair across from Dean.
I don’t have time to hold everyone’s hand. This is a professional production. People need to show up ready to work. Tommy’s ready to work. He’s just nervous. It’s his first film. He’s sharing a scene with established actors. And instead of making him feel safe instead of giving him confidence, you terrified him. Made it impossible for him to do his job.
Hawk was quiet for a moment. What do you want me to do? Apologize to him. Tell him you were wrong. Give him another chance, but this time actually help him instead of just criticizing him. I don’t apologize. Then you’re going to lose this production because I’m not going back out there until you do.
And I’m guessing Duke won’t either. And without us, you don’t have a movie. Hawks looked at Dean, seemed to be calculatingwhether this was a bluff. Are you serious? You’d walk away from this film. In a heartbeat, Dean’s voice was absolute. Howard, I’ve got a career. I’ve got money. I’ve got options. I don’t need this movie.
But Tommy, this is everything to him. This is his shot, and you’re destroying it because you can’t control your temper. Dean leaned forward. I grew up poor. Really poor. My parents were Italian immigrants. My father worked in a barber shop. My mother did laundry. And I saw what happened when powerful people abused powerless people.
I saw my father get cheated by employers who knew he wouldn’t fight back. I saw my mother work herself to exhaustion because she had no other options. And I promised myself that if I ever had power, I’d use it differently. He paused. You’ve got power, Howard. You’re Howard Hawks. You’re a legend. And you just use that power to hit a 20-year-old kid who was nervous. That’s not strength.
That’s cowardice. Hawk’s face had gone from red to pale. Nobody had talked to him like this in decades, maybe ever. He sat there processing what Dean had said. Finally, he spoke. “You really think I was wrong? I know you were wrong, and deep down, so do you.” Hawk stood up, walked to the small window, looked out at the set where crew members were standing around waiting.
I’ve made 50 films, won awards, worked with the biggest stars in Hollywood, and you’re telling me I don’t know how to direct? I’m telling you that talent doesn’t excuse cruelty, that success doesn’t give you the right to hurt people, that being a great director and being a decent human being aren’t mutually exclusive. Dean stood up, too. Tommy Brennan came out here with dreams, with hopes, with the belief that hard work and talent would be enough.
And in 5 minutes, you nearly destroyed all of that. You nearly made him believe that success in Hollywood requires enduring abuse. And if he believes that if that’s the lesson he learns, then this industry is broken and we’re all complicit in keeping it broken. Hawks turned around. What if I apologize and he still can’t deliver the performance? Then we’ll work with him until he can. We’ll rehearse.
We’ll adjust the blocking. We’ll do whatever it takes to help him succeed. Because that’s what good directors do. They don’t give up on actors. They find ways to bring out the best in them. If you’re inspired by Dean Martin’s courage in standing up for this young actor, make sure to hit that like button and subscribe for more incredible true stories from Hollywood’s golden age.
Hawks and Dean returned to the set 15 minutes later. The crew had been waiting, uncertain what would happen. Tommy was sitting on a crate near the edge of the set, his face still red from the slap, his eyes puffy from crying. Hawk walked directly to him. The entire set went silent. Tommy. Hawk’s voice was different now. quieter, less aggressive.
I owe you an apology. What I did hitting you, that was wrong. Completely wrong. There’s no excuse for it. Tommy looked up, shocked. I got frustrated, angry, and I took it out on you in a way that was unacceptable. Hawks paused. I’m sorry. Truly sorry. And if you want to leave this production, if you want to file a complaint, I’ll understand.
Tommy shook his head quickly. No, sir. I want to stay. I want to finish the scene. Then let’s figure out how to do that. Hawk sat down next to Tommy. Tell me what’s making you nervous. What’s tripping you up? Tommy hesitated, then started talking. About how the lines felt unnatural in his mouth. About how he was worried about hitting his marks and forgot to focus on the words.
About how the presence of established actors made him self-conscious. Hawks listened. Really listened. Then he started making suggestions. Small adjustments to the blocking that would make Tommy more comfortable. Permission to paraphrase the line slightly if the exact wording felt awkward. Encouragement to focus on the emotion rather than perfect technical execution.
They rehearsed the scene three times without the camera rolling, just the actors moving through the blocking, finding the rhythm, building confidence. Dean participated fully, offering encouragement to Tommy, making small jokes to ease the tension. Then Hawks called for the cameras one more time. For real this time. But remember Tommy, this isn’t life or death. It’s just a movie. Do your best.
That’s all anyone can ask. They rolled camera. The scene began. Tommy delivered his first line. It was good. Natural. He delivered his second line. Even better. He moved through his blocking smoothly, hit his marks, made eye contact at the right moments. Then he delivered his third line, the one he’d been forgetting. It came out perfectly.
The exact right tone, the exact right emotion. Hawks let the scene play out. Cut. Print. That was excellent, Tommy. Really excellent. Tommy’s face lit up. Really? Really? That’s the take we’re using. Hawk stood up. Everyone take 5 minutes, then we’ll move on to the nextsetup. As the crew dispersed, John Wayne walked over to Dean.
That was something what you did standing up to Howard like that. Dean shrugged. Couldn’t let it slide, Duke. That kid didn’t deserve to be hit. Wayne nodded. You know, I’ve worked with Howard on six pictures now. Never seen him apologize to anyone. You must have really gotten through to him. I hope so.
Dean looked over at Tommy, who was talking animatedly with the other actors, his confidence restored. For the kid’s sake, I hope so. The rest of the day’s shooting went smoothly. Tommy nailed his remaining scenes. Hawks was more patient, more collaborative, more focused on helping his actors succeed rather than just demanding perfection.
But at the end of the day, when most of the crew had left, Hawks pulled Dean aside. “We need to talk about what happened.” Dean nodded. “Okay, what you did today,” standing up to me, threatening to walk off the picture, that could have destroyed this production. “It could have, but it didn’t.” Hawks looked uncomfortable. I’ve been thinking about what you said about [snorts] power and responsibility about using power correctly and and you were right.
Hawk sat down on an empty equipment crate. I’ve spent 30 years building a reputation, being demanding, being tough, getting results through fear and intimidation, and it worked. I made great films. But somewhere along the way, I forgot that the people I’m working with are human beings, that they have feelings, that they deserve respect. Dean sat down next to him.
It’s not too late to change. I’m 62 years old. You think I can change? Tommy’s 20. You think he can forget what happened? Dean looked at Hawks. You hit him, Howard, in front of everyone. That’s going to stay with him. But you also apologized. You helped him succeed. You showed him that people can admit when they’re wrong.
That’s going to stay with him, too. The question is, which memory will be stronger? Hawks was quiet for a long moment. I don’t want to be remembered as the director who hit actors. Then don’t be. Be the director who made a mistake, admitted it, and did better. Be the director who created an environment where people could do their best work.
Be the legend you’re supposed to be. Hawk stood up, extended his hand. Thank you, Dean, for being honest with me, for not letting me get away with that. Dean shook his hand, just doing what needed to be done. Rio Bravo wrapped six weeks later. The final film was excellent. Critics praised Dean’s dramatic performance.
John Wayne was his usual reliable self, and Tommy Brennan in his small role was noted by several reviewers as a promising newcomer to watch. But what happened on that November day, the slap and the confrontation and the apology, that stayed quiet. Hawks didn’t want it publicized. Dean didn’t want to embarrass Hawks.
And Tommy was grateful enough for how things turned out that he didn’t speak publicly about the incident. The story might have stayed buried forever if not for what happened 6 months later. In May 1959, Dean was at a party in Beverly Hills. Industry people, actors, directors, producers, all mingling and networking. Dean was talking with a young actress when he overheard a conversation nearby.
A director named Robert Aldrich was telling a group of people about a recent production problem. An actor had repeatedly messed up a scene. Aldrich had gotten frustrated and in his words, had to get physical to make his point. The group laughed nervously. Someone said something about how sometimes actors need a wakeup call.
Dean excused himself from his conversation and walked over to Aldrich’s group. Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help overhearing. You hit an actor? Aldrich looked defensive. It was just a slap to snap him out of it. And did it work? Eventually, after we did a few more takes, Dean shook his head. No. I mean, did it work? Did hitting him make him a better actor? Did it create an environment where he could do his best work? Did it help him grow and develop as an artist? Aldrich didn’t have an answer. [snorts] Because I’m going to
tell you something, Dean continued, “A few months ago, I watched Howard Hawk slap a young actor on the Rio Bravo set. And you know what happened? The kid froze. Couldn’t work. couldn’t function. The slap didn’t help. It destroyed his confidence. The group was listening now. The conversation around them quieting.
But then Hawks apologized, worked with the kid, helped him find the performance. And you know what? The kid delivered. Did great work. And Hawks learned something about himself, about how power should be used. Dean looked directly at Aldrich. So, here’s what I’m asking you. Are you going to be the kind of director who hits actors, who thinks violence is a tool? Or are you going to be the kind of director who helps actors, who creates an environment where people can do their best work? Aldrich’s face reened. You’re out of line, Martin.
Maybe, but someone needs to say it.Because if we let directors hit actors without consequences, if we pretend that’s just how things work in Hollywood, then we’re all complicit. We’re all part of the problem. Dean walked away, leaving Aldrich and his group in uncomfortable silence. The story of what Dean said at that party spread through Hollywood faster than any gossip.
Within a week, everyone in the industry had heard some version of it. Dean Martin confronting Robert Aldrich. Dean revealing that Howard Hawks had hit an actor on Rio Bravo. Dean calling out the culture of abuse that permeated film sets. Aldrich was furious and threatened to sue Dean for defamation, but his lawyer advised against it because it would require him to testify under oath about hitting actors, which could open him up to legal liability.
Hawks was less angry and more resigned. He called Dean not to yell, but to talk. You told people about Tommy. I told people that hitting actors is wrong. I used you as an example because you’re respected. Because if people know that even Howard Hawks can admit he was wrong, maybe others will think twice before doing the same thing. You’ve made me look bad.
No, Howard, you made yourself look bad when you hit Tommy. I just made sure the lesson wasn’t wasted. Hawks was quiet for a moment. You know this could change things. How directors are allowed to behave on set. That’s the point. Dean’s voice was firm. It needs to change. We can’t keep pretending that abuse is just part of the creative process.
After Dean’s confrontation at the party, something shifted in Hollywood. The director’s guild started having quiet conversations about conduct on set. Studios began including language in contracts about appropriate behavior. Actors started feeling empowered to speak up when they were mistreated. It wasn’t a revolution.
Change in Hollywood never happens that fast, but it was a shift, a crack in the foundation of how things had always been done. Tommy Brennan’s career took an interesting trajectory. He worked steadily through the 60s and 70s, never becoming a star, but making a good living as a character actor. He appeared in dozens of films and television shows, earning respect for his professionalism and his kindness to younger actors.
In 1983, 25 years after Rio Bravo, Tommy was being interviewed for a documentary about Howard Hawks. The interviewer asked about working with the legendary director. Tommy told the story. All of it. The nervousness. The multiple failed takes. The slap. Dean’s intervention. Hawks’s apology. The successful scene that followed.
The interviewer was shocked. Hawks hit you on camera? Not on camera, but in front of everyone. Tommy’s voice was matter of fact. It was wrong. He knew it was wrong, but he did it anyway because that’s how things worked back then. Directors had absolute power and some of them abused it. But Dean Martin stood up for you. Yeah. Tommy smiled. Dean didn’t have to.
I was nobody, a kid with three lines, but he saw someone being hurt and he acted. Not because it benefited him, not because it was easy, but because it was right. Tommy leaned forward. What Dean did that day changed my life. Not just because it saved me from further abuse, but because it showed me what courage looks like, what it means to use your power and privilege to protect others.
And I’ve tried to live by that example ever since. The documentary footage of Tommy’s interview became one of the most watched clips about old Hollywood. It circulated on social media decades later introduced new generations to the story of Dean Martin and Howard Hawks and the slap that changed Hollywood. Because that’s what it did slowly, gradually, but fundamentally, it changed how people thought about power dynamics on film sets.
It started conversations about appropriate conduct. It made actors feel less alone when they were mistreated. It showed that even legends like Howard Hawks could be held accountable. Make sure to hit that like button and subscribe to our channel for more powerful stories about the people who changed Hollywood from the inside. Howard Hawks directed seven more films after Rio Bravo.
By all accounts, he was different on those sets, more patient, more collaborative, more focused on creating environments where actors felt safe to take risks and do their best work. In 1977, 3 years before his death, Hawks gave an interview to Cay Du Cinema. The interviewer asked about his evolution as a director, about how his approach had changed over his 50-year career.
Hawks talked about technical innovations, about working with different stars, about the evolution of cinema. Then, unprompted, he brought up Rio Bravo. I made a mistake on that film. A serious mistake. I hit a young actor because I was frustrated with his performance. It was wrong. Completely unjustifiable. The interviewer, surprised by this admission, asked what happened next.
Dean Martin stood up to me, told me I was wrong, made me apologize, made me bebetter. Hawks paused. That moment changed me as a director and as a person. I’d spent decades believing that demanding perfection at any cost was the mark of a great director. Dean showed me I was wrong. That the mark of a great director is helping actors find their best performances, not terrorizing them into compliance.
Hawks looked directly at the camera. If I have any advice for young directors, it’s this. Your actors are not your employees, they’re your collaborators. Treat them with respect. Create an environment where they feel safe to fail, to experiment, to find the truth of a scene. Because fear doesn’t create art. Trust creates art.
When Howard Hawks died in 1977, his obituaries mentioned his groundbreaking films, his innovative techniques, his influence on generations of filmmakers. But among the people who had worked with him, he was remembered for something else. The director who changed, who admitted he was wrong, who learned to be better.
Dean Martin never sought credit for Hawk’s transformation, never made it about himself. When asked about the incident in interviews, he’d downplay his role. I just did what anyone would do. Stood up for someone who couldn’t stand up for himself. But the people who were there knew better. They knew that most people wouldn’t have stood up to Howard Hawks.
That most people would have looked away, protected their careers, avoided confrontation. Dean didn’t. He put himself on the line for a 20-year-old nobody because it was the right thing to do. Tommy Brennan died in 2009 at the age of 71. His obituary in variety mentioned his long career, his dozens of credits, his reputation as a generous and supportive colleague.
It also mentioned the incident on Rio Bravo. Brennan often spoke about how Dean Martin’s intervention on the Rio Bravo set changed his life and career. Dean showed me that standing up to power is possible. Brennan said in a 2003 interview that you don’t have to accept abuse as the price of success, that courage matters more than career advancement.
At Tommy’s funeral, his daughter spoke about her father’s legacy. She talked about his kindness to young actors, his willingness to mentor newcomers, his insistence on respectful working conditions. My father never forgot what Dean Martin did for him. Never forgot the lesson of that day. And he spent the rest of his career paying it forward.
every young actor he helped, every abusive director he called out, every time he created a safe space for people to do their best work, that was Dean’s legacy living on through him. She paused, emotion catching in her throat. My father used to say that Hollywood is full of people chasing fame and fortune. But the people who really matter, the people who really change things are the ones who stand up when it’s hard, who protect the vulnerable, who use their power for good.
Dean Martin was one of those people. and my father tried every day to be one, too. When Dean Martin died on Christmas Day 1995, the story of Rio Bravo and Tommy Brennan was mentioned in several obituaries. It had become part of Dean’s legend, part of what defined him beyond the music in the movies and the cool persona. But the full impact of what Dean did that day, the ripples that spread out from that one moment of courage, those are harder to measure.
How many actors stood up to directors because they’d heard Dean’s story? How many directors changed their behavior because they didn’t want to be the next Howard Hawks? How many sets became safer, more collaborative, more humane because one person decided that abuse wasn’t acceptable? There’s no way to count, no way to quantify.
But the change was real. Hollywood in 1958, when Rio Bravo was filmed, was a place where directors could hit actors without consequences. Hollywood today, while still imperfect, is a place where such behavior ends careers. That change didn’t happen because of one person or one incident. It was the result of decades of work by countless people.
But Dean Martin standing up to Howard Hawks on that November day in Arizona. That was part of it, an important part, a moment that showed what was possible when someone with power chose to use it correctly. A legendary director slapped a young actor. Dean Martin stood up to him and what happened next changed Hollywood.
Not overnight, not completely, but fundamentally in ways that made the industry better, safer, more humane. That’s the story. Not about celebrity or fame or box office success, but about courage. About using privilege to protect others, about refusing to accept that that’s just how things are done is a sufficient excuse for cruelty.
Dean Martin did that on a hot November day in AI, the Arizona desert. And Hollywood for all its continuing flaws is better because he did. If this story moved you, if it reminded you that one person really can make a difference, please hit that like button and subscribe to our channel. We share these powerful true stories because theymatter, because they show us what real character looks like, and because the courage of people like Dean Martin deserves to be remembered and celebrated.