Yul Brynner Truly Hated Him More Than Anyone…Try not to Gasp

In January 1985, a dying man sat in a plain chair with no costume, no makeup, and no audience but a camera lens.

Yul Brynner — the bald, commanding actor who had spent 34 years playing the King of Siam — looked directly into the lens and delivered what would become his final performance.

“Now that I’m gone,” he said, his voice thin but unwavering, “I tell you, don’t smoke.

Whatever you do, just don’t smoke.” He knew the commercial would only air after his death.

When it did, months later, it stopped a nation cold — a man speaking from beyond the grave, warning millions not to repeat the mistake that killed him.

It was a stunning final act from a man who had spent his entire life performing control.

But the real story of Yul Brynner isn’t found in that commercial, or even in the 4,625 performances he gave as the King of Siam.

It’s found in a rivalry that consumed him for two decades — and a deathbed phone call that finally revealed the truth.

Brynner’s need for dominance had roots that stretched back to childhood. Born in 1920 in Vladivostok to a wealthy mining family, his early life was one of privilege and instability.

When he was four, his father abandoned the family for a glamorous Russian actress, leaving young Yul with a lesson he would carry for the rest of his life: people you love can disappear, and the only way to keep them close is to control them completely.

That lesson shaped everything that followed — a childhood bouncing between Harbin, Paris, and eventually New York; a stint as a circus trapeze artist that ended in a devastating back injury; an opium addiction he barely escaped; and a fierce, driven ambition that found its outlet on stage.

When Brynner landed the role of the King of Siam in “The King and I” in 1951, he didn’t just play a king — he became one, both on stage and off.

He shaved his head, commanded the room with his voice, and instituted unofficial rules: co-stars had to stand still and silent when he spoke, and stay at least ten feet away.

It worked. Brynner won a Tony, then an Oscar for the 1956 film adaptation. He was untouchable.

Then came 1960, and a young television actor named Steve McQueen changed everything. Cast in “The Magnificent Seven” as a supporting gunfighter with just seven lines of dialogue, McQueen refused to disappear into the background.

Denied a bigger role, he built one out of pure physical presence — adjusting his hat, flipping coins, rattling shotgun shells, anything to pull focus during Brynner’s scenes.

Production assistants reportedly counted him touching his hat 42 times during a single Brynner monologue.

When Brynner, self-conscious about his height, had the crew build small dirt mounds for him to stand on during shots, McQueen kicked them apart before every take.

The rivalry boiled into open conflict during a river-crossing scene, when McQueen scooped water with his hat mid-shot, instantly stealing the moment from the ensemble.

Brynner confronted him physically. The tension became public enough that Brynner issued a press statement denying any feud — then privately demanded McQueen call the papers and deny it himself.

McQueen’s answer was blunt and unprintable. When Brynner married his third wife on set during filming, every cast member was invited except McQueen.

When the film premiered, the outcome was undeniable: despite minimal dialogue, McQueen stole the picture.

He became the breakout star, propelling him toward “The Great Escape,” “Bullitt,” and a decade as Hollywood’s most electric leading man — while Brynner’s film career gradually cooled.

The two men didn’t speak again for twenty years. Then, in 1980, Steve McQueen — dying of mesothelioma at just 49 — picked up the phone and called Brynner.

According to accounts from people close to both men, McQueen apologized for his behavior on set, but also thanked Brynner for something the older actor had never acknowledged: despite every provocation, Brynner never used his star power to have McQueen fired.

He could have. He didn’t. And that restraint had let McQueen become a star. Brynner’s reported response was extraordinary: “I am the king, and you are the rebel prince.

Every bit as royal and dangerous to cross.” Both men wept. McQueen died months later, on November 7, 1980.

Brynner didn’t attend the funeral, but sent flowers and privately told friends, “I lost my rebel prince.”

Three years later, Brynner received his own lung cancer diagnosis — payment for decades of heavy smoking that began at age twelve.

He kept performing anyway, pushing through his final tour of “The King and I” even as his body failed.

His last performance came on June 30, 1985. He died that October, reportedly telling his son at his bedside, “Tell them I was the king.

But Steve was the one who made me fight to stay king.” Weeks later, his anti-smoking PSA aired across America, and its impact proved immense — countless viewers cited it as the reason they finally quit.

In the end, both the king and the rebel prince died from the same habit neither could control.

Brynner spent his life mastering everything around him except the one force that ultimately destroyed him.

McQueen lived defiantly free and died young. Their final phone call suggested that maybe they weren’t so different after all — two men who needed exactly what the other represented, and only understood it when it was almost too late.