Clarence Williams III Was Hollywood’s Most Feared, Here’s Why | HO!!

There are actors who become legends, and then there are legends who become enigmas. Clarence Williams III, best known for his electrifying role as Link Hayes on The Mod Squad, was Hollywood’s most quietly feared man for decades.

But the reasons why go far beyond his steely gaze and the intensity he brought to every role. This is the untold story of a man whose life was shaped by loss, darkness, and a relentless refusal to play by anyone’s rules but his own.

Williams’ journey began in Harlem, August 21, 1939, in a world heavy with secrets. His mother vanished when he was just six months old—a mystery so complete that her name disappeared from census records and family albums. “She felt like a photograph that blew away in a windstorm,” Williams once said.

Raised by jazz royalty—his grandfather, Clarence Williams, penned classics like “Taint Nobody’s Business If I Do,” and his grandmother, Eva Taylor, sang blues on vaudeville stages—Williams’ childhood was privileged but haunted. By age six, he was living above a funeral home, walking past corpses daily, learning to stare death in the face before he could even ride the subway.

A Childhood of Shadows and Survival

Williams’ formative years were marked by a brutal intimacy with mortality. Harlem in the 1940s was violent; three homicide victims a week came through the mortuary below his home. He saw stab wounds before he learned multiplication tables and watched eight tiny coffins lined up after a fire. These images burned themselves into his psyche, shaping the “radioactive stare” that would later unsettle casting directors and captivate audiences.

But the darkness wasn’t only in the streets. Family stories held their own secrets. Williams’ great aunt Helen, a church organist, unwittingly smuggled Vicks inhalers and codeine cough syrup into Rikers Island, hidden in her organ bench. Clarence accompanied her on the apology visit after the scam was exposed, learning at age 14 what it meant to be innocent and guilty all at once—a duality that would define his acting.

From Numbers Runner to Broadway Prodigy

Williams never planned to be an actor. As a teenager, he ran numbers for Harlem’s underground lottery, dodging police and memorizing street rhythms that would later inform his stage presence.

At 18, he stumbled into the American Negro Theater in Harlem looking for $20 and walked out with a starring role. That night, with Cicely Tyson and James Earl Jones in the crowd, his career began—a six-decade odyssey powered by raw talent and unyielding will.

His breakthrough came in 1964 with Slow Dance on the Killing Ground, earning a Tony nomination as the youngest Black actor ever in that category. Hollywood noticed, but Williams turned down lucrative TV and film offers, preferring the authenticity of the stage—even if it meant living on $125 a week. “I’d rather play kings for peanuts than sidekicks for gold,” he famously said.

The Mod Squad: Lightning in a Bottle

Hollywood’s fear of Williams began with The Mod Squad. Producer Aaron Spelling auditioned over 350 actors for the role of Link Hayes, but Williams walked in wearing army boots, a wool cap, and an unreadable expression. He didn’t smile, didn’t play it safe.

Bill Cosby, fresh from seeing Williams on stage, called Spelling: “If you want lightning on film, that’s your guy.” Spelling listened. ABC panicked, worried that Southern viewers wouldn’t accept a Black man in the role, but Spelling threatened to cancel the show if Williams wasn’t cast.

When The Mod Squad premiered in 1968, 26 million viewers tuned in. Williams became the first Black actor to lead a prime-time cop drama. He pushed boundaries, demanding that the show depict real corruption—like the episode where Link witnesses a cop stealing heroin, based on Williams’ own childhood memories of Harlem police.

ABC wanted to cut the scene, but Williams threatened to walk. The episode aired; police unions sent hundreds of complaints, but the show earned its first Edgar Award nomination for “showing real corruption.”

Behind the scenes, Williams was an intimidating force. Co-star Michael Cole admitted he was terrified of Williams’ ability to “steal a scene without saying a word.” Peggy Lipton’s agent complained that Williams dominated promotional material. Tensions ran high, but the chemistry was real—and ratings soared.

Refusing Hollywood’s Stereotypes

After The Mod Squad ended in 1973, Williams faced a choice: embrace the wave of blaxploitation films, or hold out for roles that mattered. He chose the latter, turning down eight offers between 1973 and 1976, sacrificing millions in potential earnings. “He didn’t want to be a gun in a trench coat,” one agent said. “He wanted to be something real.”

This refusal made Williams an outcast in Hollywood’s eyes. Some called him arrogant; others said he was betraying the Black community by rejecting roles that provided visibility, however flawed. But Williams was unyielding. He returned to Broadway, performing opposite Dame Maggie Smith in Night and Day and reminding critics why he mattered. He was no cartoon villain—he was something deeper, more dangerous.

A Force in Silence—And Terror

Williams’ power on screen was legendary. In Purple Rain (1984), Prince handpicked him after watching The Mod Squad, saying, “That guy can break me with his eyes.” Williams locked himself in a Minneapolis hotel, channeling memories of Harlem’s violence and family pain. His performance as Prince’s father was so intense, it left crew members in tears and broke piano keys on set.

Director John Frankenheimer recognized Williams’ unique menace, casting him in 52 Pickup (1986) as Bobby Shai, a killer who never yelled but terrified with rhymes and velvet gloves. Williams practiced every line to the beat of a metronome, creating a rhythm of dread. Critics called him “death in velvet gloves.” Over four Frankenheimer films, Williams appeared for less than 50 minutes total—but left scars.

In Tales from the Hood (1995), Williams played Mr. Sims, a funeral home director with secrets in every casket. He drew on childhood memories of death and silence, creating a performance so real that it blurred the line between actor and character. The film bombed at first, but became a cult classic. Jordan Peele later called Williams’ performance “proof that horror could say something deeper.”

But the role came with real danger. Universal Studios received nine death threats after the film’s release, some containing white powder. The FBI opened a case and warned Williams on set. He laughed off the threats: “If you confuse me with Mr. Sims, maybe you need a mortician more than I do.”

The Quiet Mentor and Reluctant Icon

Williams was more than an intimidating presence—he was a mentor and friend. Lucille Ball, whose office neighbored his at Desilu, taught him comic timing and how to wield silence. When ABC tried to make Williams cut his afro in 1970, Ball sent a lipstick-kissed memo: “Hair does not a hoodlum make. Audiences adore it.” His afro became a symbol of pride and rebellion—decades before the natural hair movement.

His marriage to actress Gloria Foster was a partnership of equals, marked by mutual respect and quiet loyalty. They divorced amicably in 1984, dividing their 2,400 books by alternating ISBN numbers and vowing to defend each other against tabloids. Their holiday phone calls became legendary in theater circles.

Williams’ intensity on set was matched by his discipline. He memorized every line, expected the same from others, and stayed in character for 12 hours straight. “Did you come to say lines or to tell the truth?” he once asked a co-star. Directors praised him for saving hours on shooting schedules; his presence demanded excellence.

A Final Act of Quiet Strength

Williams kept his greatest struggle private. Diagnosed with colon cancer, he continued working, even auditioning in 2019 while undergoing chemotherapy. He didn’t want the world to see him sick, choosing to be remembered at full strength—much like Chadwick Boseman years later. He died at home in Los Angeles on June 4, 2021, at age 81.

After his death, tributes poured in from every corner of the industry. Directors, actors, musicians described a man who was generous, kind, brilliant, and deeply private. “His artistry and sheer coolness were unmatched,” said Rusty Cundieff. Lenny Kravitz saw his own face in Williams growing up. Prince’s estate thanked him for the powerful performance in Purple Rain. NPR wrote that behind all those serious characters was someone who made people feel safe.

Hollywood’s Most Feared—And Most Respected

Clarence Williams III was feared not because he was violent or unpredictable, but because he demanded honesty—from himself, from his colleagues, and from the industry. He refused to be a stereotype, refused to play by Hollywood’s rules, and forced America to reckon with the truths it would rather ignore.

He was a quiet force, a reckoning in every frame. And in the end, he proved that the most dangerous man in Hollywood is the one who refuses to be anything but himself.