The legendary actor Paul Newman, a man revered for his piercing blue eyes, his quiet intensity on screen, and his monumental philanthropic legacy, harbored a deep and abiding hatred for one man that he never bothered to hide. That man was Richard Burton, the Welsh actor whose tumultuous life and career intersected with Newman’s in the most personal of ways. Newman’s loathing was not a matter of professional jealousy, but a visceral reaction to what he saw as Burton’s flamboyant ego, reckless chaos, and a self-dramatizing nature that he found utterly unbearable.
The animosity was a simmering grudge that lasted for decades, a stark contrast to Newman’s otherwise disciplined and humble public persona.
Newman, who rose from a middle-class family in Shaker Heights, Ohio, to become a Hollywood titan, built his career on authenticity and a core of discipline forged in the crucible of World War II. He served as a radio operator and turret gunner in the US Navy in the Pacific, an experience that instilled in him a profound sense of duty and humility. This foundation made Burton’s flamboyant antics all the more offensive to him.
Newman once said, “Just thinking about him makes my blood boil,” a rare admission of personal animosity from a man known for his grace. He saw Burton as a guy who “makes everything about himself,” thriving on attention at the expense of others.
The roots of this hatred were deeply personal, stemming largely from Burton’s stormy and highly publicized relationship with Elizabeth Taylor. Newman, who worked alongside Taylor in the 1958 classic Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, held her in the highest regard. He admired her talent, her grace, and her resilience, and he felt she deserved far better than the destructive 𝒹𝓇𝒶𝓂𝒶 that defined her marriage to Burton.
Newman fumed at the spectacle, seeing Burton’s indulgence and public turmoil as a humiliation for a woman he considered a peer and a friend. “He dragged her through a circus,” Newman said, his disdain palpable even years later.
Newman’s own marriage to Joanne Woodward, a love story that spanned 50 years until his death in 2008, stood in stark contrast to the Burton-Taylor saga. Newman famously quipped, “Why go for a hamburger when you have steak at home?” a testament to his devotion.
He and Woodward built a partnership rooted in mutual respect, collaborating on films and sharing a philanthropic vision that would ultimately define Newman’s legacy beyond the screen. This stable, loving relationship made Burton’s chaos all the more repugnant to Newman. He saw Burton’s personal life as a destructive force, one that he could not stomach despite acknowledging the man’s raw acting talent.
The professional rivalry between the two actors was undeniable, but Newman’s hatred went far beyond competition. In the 1960s and 1970s, their paths crossed frequently in the Hollywood scene, and Newman’s disdain was palpable. He found Burton’s self-dramatizing antics unbearable, a stark contrast to his own understated approach to fame.
While Newman respected Burton’s acting chops, he could not separate the man from the personal chaos he created. “I don’t hate many, but he’s an easy one,” Newman admitted, a rare and candid confession that laid bare the depth of his feelings.
Newman’s own life was a masterclass in discipline and artistry. Born Paul Leonard Newman on January 26, 1925, he rose from a middle-class background to become a Hollywood icon. His early years were shaped by a love for the stage, shining in school plays before World War II intervened.
He served in the US Navy, a period that forged his core values of discipline, humility, and duty. After the war, he studied at Kenyon College and honed his craft at the Yale 𝒹𝓇𝒶𝓂𝒶 School and New York’s Actor Studio under masters like Lee Strasberg. His breakout in the 1950s came with films like Somebody Up There Likes Me (1956), where he played boxer Rocky Graziano with raw charisma.
His role as Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958) alongside Elizabeth Taylor launched him to stardom, setting the stage for a career defined by flawed, magnetic anti-heroes. In the 1960s and 1970s, Newman delivered unforgettable performances in classics like The Hustler (1961), Hud (1963), Cool Hand Luke (1967), and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969). His piercing blue eyes and quiet intensity made him a heartthrob, but his skill earned him critical acclaim.
By the 1980s and 1990s, he proved his staying power with towering performances in The Verdict (1982) and The Color of Money (1986), the latter snagging him a long-overdue Oscar for his soulful take on pool hustler Fast Eddie Felson.
Even late in his career, films like Nobody’s Fool (1994) and Road to Perdition (2002) showcased his ability to blend humor, heart, and gravitas, cementing his legend across decades. Beyond acting, Newman lived boldly. A racing enthusiast, he competed professionally, co-owning Newman/Haas Racing, a top Indy car team, and called racing the only thrill rivaling acting.
His greatest legacy, however, was his heart. In 1982, he co-founded Newman’s Own, a food brand that donates all profits, over $600 million, to charity. He also launched the Hole in the Wall Gang Camp for children with serious illnesses, touching countless lives.
In The Color of Money, directed by Martin Scorsese, Newman reprised his role as Fast Eddie from The Hustler. His weathered, cunning portrayal, layered with wisdom and regret, was a masterclass in nuanced acting, earning him universal praise and that elusive Oscar. In 1994’s Nobody’s Fool, he played Sully, a gruff yet tender everyman in a small-town tale.
Critics called it one of his finest hours, his subtle humor and raw humanity making Sully achingly real. This artistry endured, a testament to his commitment to his craft, a commitment that stood in stark contrast to the chaos he saw in Burton.
Newman’s first marriage to Jackie Witte in 1949 came as he chased acting dreams in regional theater. They had three children: Scott, born in 1950; Susan, born in 1953; and Stephanie, born in 1954. But the grind of early career struggles and Hollywood’s pull led to a divorce in 1958.
That same year, he married actress Joanne Woodward, a love story for the ages. Their chemistry sparked in The Long, Hot Summer (1958), and their Las Vegas wedding marked the start of a 50-year bond. They welcomed three daughters: Nell, born in 1959; Lissy, born in 1961; and Clea, born in 1965, and built a partnership rooted in mutual respect.
Newman’s famous quip about not going for a hamburger when he had steak at home captured his devotion. They collaborated on films, shared philanthropy, and defied Hollywood’s fleeting romance stereotype. Their love endured until his death in 2008, a stark contrast to the turmoil of the Burton-Taylor marriage.
This stability likely fueled Newman’s disdain for Burton, who he saw as thriving on attention at others’ expense. Newman’s hatred was not just jealousy; it was rooted in his fierce sense of fairness and integrity, a code of conduct that Burton’s flamboyant ego violated.
In June 2008, news broke that Newman, the iconic actor and philanthropist, had lung cancer. Fans and peers were stunned, given his vibrant legacy. He was treated at Memorial Sloan Kettering in New York, a top cancer center.
His friend and Newman’s Own co-founder, A. E. Hotchner, revealed that Newman had confided in him about the illness 18 months earlier, showing his private strength as he battled quietly while still championing his charities.
A heavy smoker for decades, Newman quit in 1986, but the habit’s long shadow lingered, adding poignancy to his fight. He faced it with the same grace that defined him.
On September 26, 2008, Newman died at the age of 83 in his Westport, Connecticut home. He passed peacefully, surrounded by loved ones. Cremated after a private funeral, his death marked the end of a life blending cinematic brilliance, racing passion, and boundless generosity.
His legacy, through his films, philanthropy, and unshakable love with Woodward, burns eternal, a beacon of artistry and humanity. Yet, even in death, the story of his hatred for Richard Burton remains a fascinating footnote, a glimpse into the complex emotions of a man who otherwise embodied grace and integrity.
Newman’s disdain for Burton was not a fleeting sentiment but a deep, personal grudge that simmered for years. He saw Burton’s flamboyant ego and reckless chaos as antithetical to everything he valued. Newman, who valued authenticity, saw Burton as thriving on attention at others’ expense.
Their paths crossed in the 1960s and 1970s Hollywood scene, and Newman’s disdain was palpable. He called Burton a guy who makes everything about himself, a stark contrast to his own understated approach to fame and life.
Much of this hatred stemmed from Burton’s relationship with Elizabeth Taylor. Newman, who admired Taylor’s talent and grace, felt she deserved better than Burton’s destructive 𝒹𝓇𝒶𝓂𝒶. He saw Burton’s indulgence and public turmoil as humiliating for her, a circus that dragged her through the mud.
While respecting Burton’s acting chops, Newman could not stomach his personal chaos, especially its toll on someone as gifted as Taylor. This was not professional jealousy; it was a moral stance, rooted in his fierce sense of fairness and integrity.
Newman’s own life was a testament to the values he held dear. From his service in the Navy to his decades-long marriage to Woodward, he embodied discipline, humility, and duty. His philanthropic work through Newman’s Own and the Hole in the Wall Gang Camp demonstrated his boundless generosity.
He used his fame for good, donating over $600 million to charity. This legacy of giving stood in stark contrast to the self-dramatizing antics he saw in Burton, making his hatred all the more understandable.
The rivalry between Newman and Burton was a clash of two titans, each representing different facets of Hollywood stardom. Newman was the quiet, intense craftsman, while Burton was the flamboyant, charismatic performer. Newman’s disdain for Burton was not just personal; it was philosophical.
He saw Burton’s chaos as a betrayal of the integrity that should define an artist. This hatred, while intense, was a reflection of Newman’s own values, a man who held himself and others to the highest standards.
In the end, Newman’s legacy is one of artistry and humanity. His films continue to inspire, his philanthropy continues to give, and his love story with Woodward continues to captivate. Yet, the story of his hatred for Richard Burton adds a layer of complexity to his character.
It shows that even the most gracious of men can harbor deep-seated grudges, especially when they see someone they care about being hurt. Newman’s hatred for Burton was not a flaw; it was a testament to his fierce loyalty and his unwavering sense of right and wrong.
As we remember Paul Newman, we remember a man who lived boldly, loved deeply, and gave generously. His hatred for Richard Burton was a small part of a much larger life, a life defined by cinematic brilliance, racing passion, and boundless generosity. His legacy burns eternal, a beacon of artistry and humanity that will continue to inspire for generations to come.
And while his disdain for Burton may have been intense, it was ultimately a reflection of his own integrity, a man who could not abide chaos when he saw it harming someone he admired.
