He nurtured John Wayne when Wayne was still a B-movie cowboy. He cast the Duke against type in Red River (1948) as a obsessed, almost villainous cattle driver—giving Wayne the role that finally proved he could act . He later re-teamed with him for the Rio Bravo trilogy (along with El Dorado and Rio Lobo ), creating the template for the aging Western hero.
And then there’s Howard Hughes. The two were close friends and flying enthusiasts. Hawks advised Hughes on Hell’s Angels and helped him navigate Hollywood politics. It was Hawks who convinced Hughes to fund Scarface (1932) when every other studio ran from its violence. The result is still the gangster film—brutal, operatic, and shockingly modern. So why isn’t Hawks a household name like Hitchcock or Ford?
Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday holds her own against a room of cigar-chomping reporters—and out-acts Cary Grant. Angie Dickinson in Rio Bravo walks into a saloon and immediately owns the place. Lauren Bacall, just 19 years old in To Have and Have Not (1944), practically invents modern flirtation: “You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow.”
As he once put it: “I’m a storyteller. That’s the only thing I’m any good at.” Howard Hawks
Partly because he worked in comedy. For decades, critics dismissed screwball as lightweight. Only when French critics like Jacques Rivette and Jean-Luc Godard championed him did America catch on. “There is no American director more intelligent, more skillful, more natural, or more alive than Howard Hawks,” Rivette wrote in 1953.
He made the fastest screwball comedy ( His Girl Friday ), the most influential gangster film ( Scarface ), the greatest Western ( Rio Bravo ), the first modern aviation drama ( Only Angels Have Wings ), and a hard-boiled noir that still defines cool ( The Big Sleep ). He worked with Faulkner, Hemingway, and Bogart. He discovered Lauren Bacall and turned John Wayne into an icon.
From pilot Geoff Carter in Only Angels Have Wings (1939) to sheriff John T. Chance in Rio Bravo (1959), Hawks’ heroes are men (and sometimes women) who know their job, do it well, and refuse to whine about it. They live by an unspoken code: perform under pressure, protect your crew, and never, ever talk about your feelings. He nurtured John Wayne when Wayne was still a B-movie cowboy
“A good movie,” he once said, “is three good scenes and no bad scenes.”
The fast-talking buddy banter of The Big Lebowski ? Hawks. The hangout vibe of Quentin Tarantino’s Jackie Brown ? Hawks. The professional competence of The Right Stuff ? Hawks. The overlapping dialogue of Aaron Sorkin? Straight from His Girl Friday . The cool, competent heroine of Aliens ? Ellen Ripley is a Hawksian woman.
That progressive streak came from personal experience. Hawks’ first wife, Athole Shearer (sister of Norma), was a fierce intellect. His sister, Grace, was a pioneering aviator. He grew up around women who didn't take nonsense. That respect bleeds into every frame. No director had a better bench. Hawks worked with William Faulkner (on The Big Sleep and To Have and Have Not ), though the Nobel laureate famously hated Hollywood. Hawks’ solution? He treated Faulkner like a mechanic. “Bill, this scene doesn’t work. Fix it.” And Faulkner did. And then there’s Howard Hughes
The result? Films that feel alive. Watch His Girl Friday (1940), where dialogue overlaps like jazz improvisation. Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell talk over each other, a chaotic symphony of wit and desperation. That wasn't an accident. Hawks instructed his cast to step on each other’s lines, breaking the cardinal rule of 1930s cinema. “People talk that way in real life,” he said. The studio was horrified. Audiences were delighted. If there is a Hawks signature, it’s not a visual flourish or a recurring symbol. It’s a character type: the professional.
But Hawks’ real legacy is simpler: he made movies that feel good to watch. No pretension. No lectures. Just professionals doing their jobs, cracking wise, falling in love, and surviving.
Partly because he was too good at hiding. He never developed a “look” like Hitchcock’s voyeuristic camera or Ford’s Monument Valley vistas. Hawks shot straight, cut clean, and stayed invisible. His style is no style—the hardest style to achieve.
And partly because he didn't suffer fools. Hawks walked away from projects when studios meddled. He retired early, making his last film ( Rio Lobo ) in 1970, then spent two decades flying planes, racing cars, and refusing to give interviews. When he died in 1977, the obituaries noted him as “director of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes .” They missed the point entirely. Watch any great Hollywood film from the last fifty years, and you’ll see Hawks.
Hawks called these women “Hawksian women”—intelligent, capable, equal to any man. He famously told Bacall, “Don’t be a movie actress. Be a real person.” He hated simpering ingénues. He wanted partners.