Lee Van Cleef Refused To Attend John Wayne’s Funeral—What Really Happened Will Break Your Heart

June 11th, 1979. Morning, Los Angeles. The city wakes to news that’s been expected for days, but still feels impossible. John Wayne died at UCLA Medical Center. Stomach cancer. He was 72 years old. The Duke is gone. Here’s what happened. Within hours, the phone calls begin. Studio executives, co-stars, directors, crew members, everyone who ever worked with Wayne receives word about the funeral.
June 15th, Our Lady Queen of Angel’s Catholic Church. Formal invitation. The entire industry will be there. Leven Clee sits in his living room in Oxnard, California, staring at the invitation that arrived by messenger. His wife, Barbara, watches him from the doorway. She’s seen that look on his face before. The same look he had when they told him his son had died.
When his first marriage fell apart, when the blacklist nearly destroyed his career. Pain that goes deeper than words. Van Clee is 54 years old. Weathered face, angular features, eyes that can convey menace or kindness with equal conviction. He’s been in the business for 27 years. Started as a villain in High Noon. Became an international star in Sergio Leon Spaghetti Westerns.
The good, the bad, and the ugly for a few dollars more. But none of that matters right now. All that matters is the invitation in his hand and the fact that he can’t bring himself to accept it. Barbara walks over, sits beside him. Lee, talk to me. Van Clee doesn’t respond immediately, just keeps staring at the invitation, the embossed letters, the date, the time, the location where they’ll say goodbye to John Wayne.
I can’t go, he finally says. What do you mean? I can’t walk through those doors. Can’t sit in that church. Can’t watch them lower him into the ground. Barbara takes his hand. Why not? Then Cle’s voice cracks. Because if I go, it means he’s really gone. And I’m not ready for that to be true.

To understand why Van Clee couldn’t attend Wayne’s funeral, you have to go back 20 years to 1959 to a sound stage at Warner Brothers where they’re filming Rio Bravo. Lean Clee isn’t supposed to be there. He’s supposed to be finished in Hollywood. Blacklisted, labeled difficult. Can’t get work. Can’t pay bills. Can’t feed his family.
He’s painting houses to survive. taking odd jobs, watching his career die slowly. Then the phone rings. His agent, tentative, almost apologetic. Lee, John Wayne wants you for Rio Bravo. It’s a small part, but it’s something. Van Clee doesn’t believe it. Wayne, John Wayne wants me. Says he remembers your work in High Noon.
Says you’re perfect for the role. Van Clee shows up to the set like a man walking to his own execution. Convinced this is some kind of mistake. Convinced someone will realize they called the wrong actor. Convinced the blacklist will follow him through those doors. Wayne is there when Van Clee arrives. Sitting in his director’s chair reading the script.
He looks up sees Van Clee standing uncertain by the entrance. You leave Van Clee? Yes, sir. Wayne stands, walks over, extends his hand. John Wayne, welcome to the picture. Van Clee shakes his hand, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to whisper in Wayne’s ear. for the security guard to escort him out.
Wayne sees the fear in his eyes. You all right, Mr. Wayne? I need to tell you something. I’ve had trouble getting work lately. Some people consider me. Wayne cuts him off. I don’t care what some people consider you. I consider you a damn fine actor, and that’s all that matters on my set. Van Clee feels something break loose in his chest. Relief. Gratitude.
Something close to hope. Thank you. He manages. Wayne claps him on the shoulder. Don’t thank me. Just do good work. That’s all I ever ask. Then Clee does more than good work. He’s electric in his scenes. Brings intensity and danger to every moment. Wayne notices. So does director Howard Hawks.
Between takes, Wayne and Van Clee talk about acting, about the business, about what it takes to survive in Hollywood. When the industry decides you’re expendable, they’ll try to break you. Wayne says, “Studios, critics, politics, all of it. The only way to survive is to be better than they think you are. Work harder. Show up earlier.
Never give them a reason to doubt you’re a professional.” Van Clee absorbs every word like a man dying of thirst absorbing water. The role in Rio Bravo doesn’t change Van Clee’s career overnight, but it does something more important. It reminds the industry he exists. Reminds directors he’s talented. Most importantly, it gives him the confidence to keep fighting.
Three years later, Ben Clee gets another call. The man who shot Liberty Valance, John Ford directing, James Stewart and John Wayne. They want Van Clee for one of the villains. Van Clee shows up on set, nervous again. Ford has a reputation for being tough, cruel, even breaking actors down to build them back up.
Wayne spots Van Clee on the first day. Walks over immediately. Good to see you again, Lee. Mr. Wayne, Duke, call me Duke.Throughout the shoot, Ford rides Van Clee hard, questions his choices, makes him do take after take after take. Van Clee can feel himself shrinking under Ford’s withering gaze. During a lunch break, Van Clee sits alone, considering quitting. Can’t take the abuse anymore.

Can’t handle being torn apart in front of the crew. Wayne sits down across from him. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just unwraps his sandwich, takes a bite. Finally, Ford’s an Van Clee looks up surprised. Wayne continues. He tears you down because he wants to see if you’ll crumble. If you do, he knows you’re not strong enough for the role.
If you don’t, he knows he can push you further than you thought possible. I don’t know if I can take much more. Wayne leans forward. Yes, you can because I’ve seen you work. I know what you’re capable of. And Ford knows it, too. That’s why he’s pushing. He sees something in you worth pushing toward. Van Clee finishes the film, delivers one of the best performances of his career.

Ford never compliments him directly, but on the last day of shooting, he gives Van Clee a single nod. It’s enough. Years pass. Van Clee’s career explodes after Sergio Leon casts him in for a few dollars more. He becomes an international star. The Man with Noame trilogy makes him a legend. He’s working constantly, making good money, finally secure.
But he never forgets what Wayne did for him. Never forgets who gave him a chance when nobody else would. 1970s Van Clee and Wayne cross paths occasionally. Industry events, award shows, sometimes just running into each other at restaurants. Always the same greeting from Wayne. How you doing, Lee? Always the same gratitude from Van Clee. Better than I deserve. Thanks to you.
Wayne waves it off. You did the work. I just opened the door. But Van Clee knows better. Wayne didn’t just open a door. He dragged Van Clee through it when everyone else was trying to nail it shut. 1978. Van Clee hears through the grapevine that Wayne is sick. Stomach cancer. Bad. Van Clee wants to reach out, wants to visit, but doesn’t know if it’s appropriate.
They’re not close friends in the traditional sense. Don’t spend holidays together. Don’t vacation together. But there’s something between them, something deeper than friendship. A bond forged in the fire of redemption. Van Clee sends a letter instead. Short, simple. Thank you for seeing me when I was invisible.
Thank you for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself. Thank you for being the man everyone says you are. Wayne’s response comes two weeks later. Also short, also simple. Stop thanking me and keep working. That’s the only gratitude I need. June 1979, Vindis and Van Clee receives the funeral invitation. He tries to prepare himself, puts on his suit, ties his tie, stands in front of the mirror practicing what he’ll say to Wayne’s children, to Pilar, to the other actors who will be there.
But every time he tries to leave the house, his legs won’t move. Barbara tries to help. Lee, he’d want you there. I know. Then why can’t you go? Van Clee sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, because I owe him everything. My career, my confidence, my ability to stand in front of a camera without apologizing for existing, and I never told him that. Not really.
I sent a letter, but that’s not enough. It’s never enough. He knew, did he? Van Clee looks at his wife with red eyes because I should have said it to his face. should have looked him in the eye and said, “You saved my life.” But I was too proud or too embarrassed or two something and now I can’t and that’s unbearable. Barbara sits beside him.
So going to the funeral would make it worse. Going to the funeral would make it final. Would mean accepting that I’ll never get another chance to say what I should have said. And I can’t accept that. Not yet. The funeral happens without him. Van Clee stays home, sits in his living room, doesn’t turn on the television when they broadcast parts of the service, doesn’t read the newspaper coverage, doesn’t listen when friends call to tell him who spoke, who cried, who said what.

He just sits there holding the invitation, feeling like a coward, and knowing it’s the only honest thing he can do. Days pass, weeks, the industry moves on. other news, other deaths, other celebrations. But Van Clee can’t move on. The guilt of not attending sits on his chest like a stone. One morning, he wakes up and tells Barbara, “I’m going.
Going where?” To say goodbye the way I should have. Van Clee drives to Pacific View Memorial Park in Corona del March. Wayne’s grave. He brings nothing. No flowers, no gifts, just himself. The grave is covered with flowers from the funeral. Hundreds of bouquets, notes, cards, photographs, tributes from people who loved Wayne, who admired him, who wanted to say goodbye.
Van Clee stands at the edge of the grave, looks down at the marker. John Wayne, 1907 to 1979, and he talks. I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral.I know that was wrong. I know you would have been disappointed, but I couldn’t sit in that church and pretend this was just about saying goodbye to a colleague because you weren’t a colleague to me, Duke. You were the reason I survived.

His voice breaks. He pushes through. You didn’t have to cast me. Didn’t have to give me a chance. I was nobody. I was worse than nobody. I was poison, but you saw something. Or maybe you just didn’t care what other people said. Either way, you open the door and I never thanked you properly for that.
A cemetery worker passes by in the distance. Van Clee doesn’t notice. Every role I got after that, every success I had, it started with you. Started with you telling the industry I was worth taking a chance on. And I never forgot that. Never took it for granted. But I also never told you face to face what it meant.
Then Clee wipes his eyes. So, I’m telling you now, even though you can’t hear me, even though it’s too late, you saved my life, Duke. You gave me back my dignity, and I will spend the rest of my career trying to honor that gift by being the professional you believed I could be. He stands there for another hour, silent, just being present with his grief, with his gratitude, with everything he couldn’t say when it mattered.
Finally, he turns to leave, stops, turns back. I’ll do good work. That’s what you always asked for. I’ll keep doing good work. That’s my promise to you. Van Clee visits Wayne’s grave six more times over the next year. Always alone. Never tells anyone. It’s private, sacred. His way of maintaining the connection he couldn’t bear to sever at the funeral.
Years later, in a 1985 interview, someone asks Ben Clee about working with John Wayne. He tells the story of Rio Bravo, the story of the man who shot Liberty Valance. The story of a man who gave chances when nobody else would. The interviewer asks, “Did you attend his funeral?” Bes long silence then, “No, I couldn’t, but I said goodbye in my own way.
Why couldn’t you attend?” Van Clee considers his answer carefully. Because going to the funeral would have been about everyone else’s grief, and I needed to deal with my own first. I needed to say things that couldn’t be said in front of a crowd. Personal things, grateful things, things between him and me. Do you regret not going every day? And not at all.
I regret that people might have thought I didn’t care, but I don’t regret taking the time I needed to grieve properly, to say goodbye on my own terms. The interviewer doesn’t push further. Senses there’s more to the story, but respects Van Cleiff’s privacy. 10 years after Wayne, his instructions are specific.
He wants to be cremated, his ashes scattered at sea, no, no service, no opportunity for people to feel obligated to attend. His wife Barbara understands Lee learned from his experience with Wayne that grief is personal, that sometimes the most profound tributes happen in private, that presence at a funeral doesn’t measure the depth of connection between two people.
Before Van Clee’s ashes are scattered, Barbara does one thing. She visits Wayne’s grave, places a photograph there. Van Clee and Wayne on the set of Rio Bravo. Both of them laughing at something off camera. Both of them young and vital and full of possibility. She doesn’t leave a note. The photograph says everything that needs saying.
Two men, two careers intertwined. One gave a chance. The other took it and ran. One died first. The other couldn’t say goodbye in public, but said everything that mattered in private. June 1979, the whole industry gathered to mourn John Wayne. But one man stayed home. Not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much, because his gratitude was too big for a church service.
Because his grief required solitude, and because sometimes the empty seat speaks louder than any eulogy could. Have you ever been unable to attend something important because the emotions were too overwhelming? Sometimes absence isn’t about disrespect. It’s about recognizing that your grief deserves its own space, its own time, its own private reckoning.
And sometimes the most profound way to honor someone is to be honest about what you can and cannot bear.