"I question the value of stars. I think they're overrated. They get too much money, too much praise"
About this Quote
Elia Kazan speaks as a director who helped create stars yet distrusted the machinery that turns actors into commodities. Trained in the collectivist ethos of the Group Theatre and instrumental in the rise of the Actors Studio, he prized truthful behavior and ensemble work over glamour. His films are a paradox that clarifies the point: he drew landmark performances from Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire and On the Waterfront, from James Dean in East of Eden, and later launched Warren Beatty in Splendor in the Grass, but he used their magnetism to serve character and story, not to flatter celebrity.
The complaint is aesthetic as much as economic. When a performer arrives freighted with publicity and payroll, audiences see the star first and the role second. The star’s brand becomes a constraint on casting, tone, and endings; scenes bend to protect a persona. Budgets skew toward salaries and marketing, narrowing what subjects can be risked and dictating safe, familiar arcs. For a director obsessed with social texture, moral ambiguity, and the craft of collaboration, that imbalance distorts the work and devalues the invisible labor of writers, cinematographers, editors, and crews who make truth possible on screen.
There is also a moral charge. Excess praise inflates ego and reduces the humility actors need to disappear into a role. Kazan cultivated an environment in which performers could be raw, even unflattering, because the film’s integrity mattered more than a star’s sheen. His preference for discovering or reshaping actors was not anti-actor; it was anti-idolatry. He wanted presence without pedestal.
The irony is deliberate and instructive. He understood the power of charisma and used it ruthlessly, but he believed stardom should remain a tool, not a goal. The line still lands in an era driven by celebrity metrics: it argues for re-centering attention and money on the story and the collective, where the enduring value of cinema actually resides.
The complaint is aesthetic as much as economic. When a performer arrives freighted with publicity and payroll, audiences see the star first and the role second. The star’s brand becomes a constraint on casting, tone, and endings; scenes bend to protect a persona. Budgets skew toward salaries and marketing, narrowing what subjects can be risked and dictating safe, familiar arcs. For a director obsessed with social texture, moral ambiguity, and the craft of collaboration, that imbalance distorts the work and devalues the invisible labor of writers, cinematographers, editors, and crews who make truth possible on screen.
There is also a moral charge. Excess praise inflates ego and reduces the humility actors need to disappear into a role. Kazan cultivated an environment in which performers could be raw, even unflattering, because the film’s integrity mattered more than a star’s sheen. His preference for discovering or reshaping actors was not anti-actor; it was anti-idolatry. He wanted presence without pedestal.
The irony is deliberate and instructive. He understood the power of charisma and used it ruthlessly, but he believed stardom should remain a tool, not a goal. The line still lands in an era driven by celebrity metrics: it argues for re-centering attention and money on the story and the collective, where the enduring value of cinema actually resides.
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