Gene Hackman, the gruffly charismatic actor whose five-decade career redefined the contours of American screen masculinity—from the morally compromised narcotics detective Popeye Doyle in The French Connection to the slyly malevolent Lex Luthor in Superman—has died at 95. His wife, classical pianist Betsy Arakawa, 64, was also found deceased alongside him in their Santa Fe, New Mexico, home on Wednesday, February 26, according to the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office. The couple’s dog was also discovered dead at the scene.
Authorities confirmed that a neighbor’s request for a welfare check prompted deputies to arrive at the residence on Old Sunset Trail shortly before 2 p.m. local time. The bodies were not formally identified until early Thursday morning. While foul play is not currently suspected, the Sheriff’s Office emphasized that an “active and ongoing investigation” remains underway, with causes of death still undetermined.
Hackman, who retired from acting in 2004 after starring in the comedy Welcome to Mooseport, had long embraced a reclusive life in Santa Fe, far removed from the Hollywood spotlight he once dominated. His marriage to Arakawa in 1991—38 years after he wed his first wife, Faye Maltese, with whom he had three children—marked a chapter of quiet companionship. Arakawa, a Juilliard-trained musician, was rarely photographed publicly, mirroring Hackman’s aversion to fame. Together, they cultivated an existence defined by privacy, art, and the stark beauty of the New Mexico desert.
Hackman’s career was a masterclass in versatility. He won his first Academy Award for The French Connection (1971), delivering a performance so coiled with intensity that it became a blueprint for the antihero cop genre. His second Oscar came two decades later for Unforgiven (1992), where he transformed into Little Bill Daggett, a sheriff whose folksy charm masked a seething brutality. Between those peaks, he ricocheted from blockbusters (Superman) to arthouse darlings (The Royal Tenenbaums), his gravelly voice and everyman grit lending gravitas to roles that ranged from tragic to absurd.
Yet Hackman’s off-screen persona was famously enigmatic. Unlike the larger-than-life characters he portrayed, he shunned interviews, red carpets, and the trappings of celebrity. In retirement, he authored historical novels and relished anonymity—a stark contrast to the fiery authority figures he immortalized on film.
The news of his death reverberated across generations of cinephiles, many of whom grew up watching Hackman shape-shift through genres. Whether as the paranoid eavesdropper in The Conversation (1974) or the flamboyant drag club owner in The Birdcage (1996), he wielded a rare ability to fuse vulnerability with menace, making even the most flawed characters irresistibly human.
As tributes pour in, questions linger about the circumstances of his and Arakawa’s passing. The Sheriff’s Office has declined to speculate, noting only that the case remains open. For now, the world is left to mourn not just a Hollywood icon, but a man who—much like the roles he chose—defied easy categorization.
Hackman is survived by his children Christopher, Elizabeth, and Leslie. No memorial plans have been announced.
Source: people
