The legendary actor and civil rights activist Burt Lancaster, who marched alongside Martin Luther King Jr. and delivered some of cinema’s most unforgettable performances, has left behind a posthumous bombshell that is shaking the foundations of Hollywood history. In a stunning revelation published by Hollywood Truth magazine, a secret notebook belonging to Lancaster has surfaced, containing a list of fourteen names—the most revered icons of the Golden Age—whom he bluntly labeled as the most evil individuals the industry has ever produced.
The discovery, made in March of this year, has sent shockwaves through the entertainment world, forcing a reckoning with the dark underbelly of an era long romanticized as pure glamour and grace.
Lancaster, known for his towering presence in classics like “From Here to Eternity” and his unwavering commitment to social justice, did not hold back in his private writings. The notebook, which he kept in the final years of his life, reads less like a memoir and more like a curse left for future generations. It is a raw, unflinching account of cruelty, manipulation, and 𝓪𝓫𝓾𝓼𝓮 that challenges everything we thought we knew about the silver screen’s most beloved figures.
The first name on the list, and the one Lancaster considered the most malevolent, is Elizabeth Taylor, a woman whose violet eyes and legendary beauty masked a storm of calculated destruction.
According to Lancaster’s detailed entries, Taylor’s reign of terror began long before her public persona was cemented. In 1962, during the filming of “Cleopatra” at Cinecittà Studios in Rome, she locked herself in her dressing room for 14 hours, refusing to come out simply because a female co-star wore a dress of the same color. The production ground to a halt, costing thousands of dollars, while Taylor hurled a glass of wine at the director when he demanded she resume work.
Lancaster describes her not just as a diva but as a queen of manipulation who controlled every aspect of the films she starred in, bending producers and directors to her will with ruthless precision.
The diary goes on to detail Taylor’s marriages, particularly her union with Richard Burton, which Lancaster portrays not as a passionate love story but as a calculated power grab. She absorbed control over Burton’s career, leveraging her influence to dominate Hollywood, forcing studios to capitulate to her every demand. Lancaster writes that her relationships were constant battles for assets and control, where she deceived and seized everything from the men she married, leaving a trail of broken careers and shattered lives in her wake.
The image of Taylor as a fragile, tragic figure is shattered by Lancaster’s cold, damning prose.
Next on the list is Kirk Douglas, a cinematic titan known for his heroic roles, but Lancaster paints him as a predator in human skin. The diary describes Douglas as a cold-blooded manipulator who would stop at nothing to protect his power, trampling anyone who dared defy him. Lancaster recounts a chilling incident from 1959 involving actress Lisa Avery, who was dropped from a major film project simply for refusing Douglas’s invitation to a private dinner.
This was no coincidence, Lancaster insists, but a deliberate act of punishment designed to send a message to anyone who would not comply with his wishes.
Douglas’s cruelty extended beyond casting sessions. Lancaster reveals that the actor used drugs as instruments of coercion, buying and distributing substances to compel directors, producers, and co-stars to obey his commands. Those who resisted faced brutal consequences, from being removed from projects to being forced into dangerous situations where no one dared speak in their defense.
Lancaster’s words are stark: Douglas was not merely a Hollywood star but a monster prepared to crush every obstacle in his path to power. The revelation is particularly jarring given Douglas’s public image as a rugged, principled hero.
The third name on the list is Natalie Wood, whose fragile beauty and sorrowful eyes concealed a ruthless strategist. Lancaster writes that Wood once deliberately put a co-star in a difficult position to remove him from a project simply because she disliked him. She staged a fainting scene in the middle of a film set, forcing a 10-hour production halt to pressure producers into firing the actor.
Her control was so intense that no one dared speak up, fearing threats to their careers. Lancaster hints that Wood’s mysterious death in 1981 was not an accident but a price paid for the schemes she had sown.
Just weeks before her death, Lancaster notes, Wood had threatened to ruin a close friend’s career if they did not obey her instructions. The diary quotes Lancaster as writing, “The sea did not 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁 her. It only concealed what she left behind on the shore.”
This chilling line suggests that Wood’s death on a yacht was the culmination of a life built on deceit and manipulation, a permanent stain on Hollywood history that has only now come to light through Lancaster’s unflinching account.
Mickey Rooney, the outwardly friendly entertainer, is the fourth name on the list, and Lancaster’s description of him is no less damning. Rooney, he writes, took pleasure in verbally tormenting others, mocking background actors in front of the entire crew for trivial mistakes like their hairstyle or costume. He did not merely humiliate them; he delighted in seeing them collapse before him, laughing with satisfaction as if he had won a victory.
Lancaster recounts that Rooney turned his wives into slaves, forcing them to labor both mentally and physically, using violence to control every gesture.
One of the most brutal incidents Lancaster records occurred in 1967, when Rooney slapped his wife directly on a film set simply because she was behind schedule. The act left her physically and emotionally wounded, and Lancaster describes Rooney’s marriages not as romantic stories but as dark dramas where power and manipulation dominated until the victims were utterly exhausted. The psychological scars Rooney left on those close to him, Lancaster argues, are a testament to a man who destroyed lives with the same ease he delivered punchlines on screen.
Marilyn Monroe, the fifth name, is portrayed by Lancaster as a black hole that devoured Hollywood. He writes that Monroe was not merely deceitful in matters of the heart but exploited her status to intimidate and pressure directors, co-stars, and studios into complying with her unreasonable demands. During the filming of “Some Like It Hot” in 1959, Monroe frequently vanished from the set without notice, causing the crew to halt work for hours.
Lancaster writes, “She didn’t just pretend to be fragile. She turned that fragility into a weapon to control everyone around her.”
Monroe also used secret romantic entanglements to manipulate powerful figures. In 1961, she began a relationship with producer Jack Warner, and when he suggested she collaborate with another male actor, she triggered a dramatic emotional crisis, forcing Warner to make decisions that benefited only her. The chaos she created on set caused many people to suffer losses and harm solely because of her greed and deceit.
Lancaster’s account strips away the myth of Monroe as a tragic victim, revealing a woman who wielded her vulnerability as a weapon.
Errol Flynn, the sixth name, is described as a devil in a gentleman’s suit. Behind his captivating smile and elegant demeanor, Lancaster writes, was a man living a debauched life, willing to 𝓪𝓫𝓾𝓼𝓮 power to control and destroy others. Flynn hosted decadent parties where drugs, prostitutes, and violence intertwined in darkly orchestrated spectacles.
His victims remained silent, crushed under the weight of his wealth and influence. When arrested for 𝒹𝓇𝓊𝑔 trafficking, Flynn used his connections to secure his release, continuing his criminal activities without facing consequences.
The women Flynn seduced and deceived were treated as tools for satisfying his desires, discarded once they no longer served a purpose. For Lancaster, Flynn was not simply rude or violent but a boundless monster in his capacity for crime. The story of Flynn is not the final entry on Lancaster’s blacklist, as ahead lies Spencer Tracy, a man hailed as a legend but revealed as a manipulative individual filled with horrifying secrets.
Spencer Tracy, the seventh name, is described by Lancaster as the devil in the dressing room, a man who always harbored a fury ready to erupt after every drink. Alcohol was not an accidental indulgence for Tracy but a powerful tool used to instill fear and control those around him. Lancaster writes, “He didn’t just drink to get drunk.
He drank to hurt.” Tracy was known for sexual assault and physical aggression on set, and in 1911 during the filming of “Judgment at Nuremberg,” he smashed a bottle of alcohol on a makeup table simply because a makeup artist made a minor mistake.
Tracy exploited his authority to impose his will and intimidate colleagues, forcing them to comply and violating the privacy of his co-stars as a form of 𝓪𝓫𝓾𝓼𝓮. Lancaster concludes that Tracy was a ruthless figure who knew how to use his power to break anyone daring to oppose him. He could transform into a saintly figure with just a smile, then threaten to commit suicide to coerce a co-star into doing what he wanted.
The diary paints a picture of a man whose darkness was hidden behind his acclaimed performances.
James Stewart, the eighth name, is a 𝓈𝒽𝓸𝒸𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 inclusion given his beloved image as the nice guy in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Lancaster reveals that Stewart was a harshly judgmental man who employed cunning tactics to maintain his position. He would quietly note every minor mistake of his co-stars throughout filming and discreetly pass these notes to the director once the shoot ended, keeping everyone around him constantly anxious.
In 1957, Stewart refused to act alongside a black actor, using the excuse of script requirements to conceal his intentions.
Stewart also resorted to despicable tricks, forging documents to accuse actors who dared oppose him. A single falsified paper was enough to ruin someone’s reputation and force them off a project. Lancaster writes, “He didn’t need to shout.
He just had to sit quietly and the entire room immediately felt they were not decent enough to exist there.” The account shatters the wholesome image of Stewart, revealing a man who used silence as a weapon.
Henry Fonda, the ninth name, is described as Hollywood’s invisible judge. Beneath his outwardly righteous appearance, Lancaster writes, Fonda was a master manipulator who used cold silence instead of violence to destroy others. He inflicted psychological harm on his own family, particularly his daughter Jane Fonda, who grew up under the harsh shadow of a father who never offered praise or protection.
Fonda pushed colleagues to the brink of despair, in some cases to the point of contemplating suicide, merely to assert his personal power.
Lancaster’s diary makes clear that Fonda’s cruelty was not limited to his family but extended to his professional life, where he used fear and sophisticated manipulation to maintain control. The image of Fonda as a symbol of justice is replaced by that of a man who killed with silence, leaving a trail of psychological devastation in his wake.
Jane Fonda, the tenth name, is portrayed by Lancaster as a brainwasher with an angelic face. On one occasion on set, she demanded the dismissal of a cameraman simply because he was a Christian and did not agree with radical feminism. When her demand was not met, she threatened to hold a press conference to publicly accuse discrimination within the film crew, creating an atmosphere of tension that engulfed everyone.
Lancaster writes that Jane said to him directly, “If you are not on my side, that means you are against justice.”
Jane did not need violence or weapons, Lancaster argues. All she required was a microphone and a crowd to exert pressure, harass colleagues, and eliminate anyone who disagreed with her. She leveraged the influence of her fame to manipulate the psychology of those around her, compelling them either to obey or to face public shaming and ostracism.
The diary reveals a woman who used extreme ideals as a tool for control, leaving a legacy of fear behind her activism.
Bing Crosby, the eleventh name, is described as a man who always forced others to obey. Outwardly calm and composed, Crosby’s private home was a true hell where his cruelty reached its extreme. Lancaster records that Crosby used a gaze colder than steel to mentally torture his own children, making his son stand alone in the yard in freezing weather without a shirt simply because he received a low grade.
Crosby’s 𝓪𝓫𝓾𝓼𝓮 went beyond mental torment, employing physical violence, threats, and beatings as tools to control his children.
Gary Crosby, Bing’s own son, later confirmed everything, saying he would rather be the child of a criminal than be his son. Lancaster’s diary exposes the evil that Crosby sowed within the very walls of his own home, a stark contrast to his public image as a beloved entertainer.
Gary Crosby, the twelfth name, is described as a distorted reflection of his father. According to Lancaster, Gary was not only a victim of cruelty but became a warped version of Bing, the man who beat him as a child with a golf club. As an adult, Gary was accused of abusing his girlfriend, assaulting others over trivial reasons, and smashing the windshield of a director’s car simply because he was not invited to dinner.
He was also accused of 𝒹𝓇𝓊𝑔 use, involvement in prostitution, and attacking innocent people.
Lancaster writes, “He does not know how to love. The only thing he knows is how to make others afraid because that is the only language his father left him.” Gary’s violent actions and abusive behaviors were direct results of a childhood nurtured in violence, leading him to reenact the terrible mistakes that Bing had imposed upon him.
The diary serves as a haunting testament to how evil is sometimes not innate but taught and ingrained.
Joan Crawford, the thirteenth name, is described as a woman who preferred violence to solve everything. Lancaster writes that Crawford was far from the gentle, nurturing mother figure she portrayed on screen, instead frequently manipulating and physically abusing her children. Her daughter Christina once endured being hit with a coat hanger, and on one occasion, Crawford broke a comb across her hand before coldly saying, “Pain is a woman’s first lesson.”
Lancaster dubbed her the woman who spreads fear, someone who used both drugs and violence to create a world under her control.
Lucille Ball, the fourteenth and final name, is described by Lancaster as having a haunting smile of a razor’s edge. As the head of Desilu, Ball was a psychological dictator who showed no tolerance for any obstruction to her power. She kept a notebook to record every minor fault of her employees, from the way they smiled to the way they knocked on doors.
Anyone who erred three times was immediately fired without explanation. She forced a writer to rewrite an entire script within 24 hours, then threw the manuscript at his face in a meeting.
Ball had secret microphones installed in meeting rooms to eavesdrop and determine who was truly loyal. Lancaster writes, “That laughter once saved CBS, but it was also the very same laughter that crushed the spirits of dozens of people under her command.” The diary concludes with a chilling warning about the dark secrets Hollywood has always tried to keep hidden, leaving the world to grapple with the truth behind the glittering facade of the Golden Age.
