In the popular imagination, Roddy McDowall was the perfect Hollywood gentleman: a child star who successfully transitioned to a respected adult career, a gentle soul, a talented photographer, and a friend to all the industry’s legends. He was known for his loyalty, his wit, and his unforgettable portrayal of Cornelius, the empathetic chimpanzee archaeologist in Planet of the Apes. Yet, McDowall was not just a player on the Hollywood stage; he was the ultimate archivist of its raw, hidden reality, a man who, when cornered, made a desperate decision that stained his legacy, and whose final act of self-preservation was to lock away a century of Tinseltown’s most dangerous secrets.

The quiet deception began in the early 1970s. While studios were busy throwing away original film reels to clear storage space, McDowall was building something extraordinary in his North Hollywood garage: a private film archive that even major studios would envy. By 1974, he had amassed 337 different films, including 160 rare 16mm prints—a treasure trove of lost cinema featuring classics like Citizen Kane and My Friend Flicka. He believed these films needed to be saved, viewing himself not as a pirate, but as a protector of history. He even acquired Errol Flynn’s entire personal collection. His motivation was simple: owning copies helped him study and improve his acting, even keeping a print of his death scene from Escape from the Planet of the Apes to critique his own performance.

But his passion crossed a legal line. Charging friends what he remembered paying, or sharing tapes with fellow collectors, meant he was breaking copyright rules, as he did not own the rights to the prints themselves—20th Century Fox and other studios did.

The December Raid and the Unthinkable Betrayal

Everything exploded on December 18, 1974. The FBI descended on Roddy McDowall’s house with agents and trucks, executing the biggest film piracy raid in the bureau’s history. They seized 160 film reels and over 1,000 video tapes, a collection the government valued at a staggering $5.5 million. Prints of his own movies, including Planet of the Apes and Lassie Come Home, were boxed and labeled as evidence.

The government was building a case that McDowall was actively copying and distributing films illegally. Faced with the destruction of his career and reputation—or worse, jail time—Roddy McDowall chose a path no one could have anticipated: he cooperated.

Instead of fighting the charges, he assisted the FBI, giving them names and information. He named Rock Hudson, revealing that the star had given him a print of Giant. He named Arthur P. Jacobs from the Planet of the Apes series, along with other celebrities like Dick Martin and Mel Tormet. The betrayal was shocking. One fellow collector noted that while losing the films broke Roddy’s heart, betraying his friends hurt even more. Years later, even his close friend, journalist Robert Osborne, was unaware that McDowall had cooperated with the authorities. If Rock Hudson ever found out, he never mentioned it.

By June 1975, the government dropped the case, and McDowall wasn’t charged. However, the damage was irreversible. His name was forever tied to the raid, his movie nights stopped, and some friendships never recovered. The keeper of Hollywood’s secrets had been forced to turn on the very people he cherished, exposing a desperate man caught between the laws of commerce and the preservation of art. He attempted to redeem himself by later helping to create the National Film Preservation Board, using his knowledge to save films legally, even working on the restoration of Cleopatra from 1963.

The Confidant and the Chameleon

Roddy McDowall’s public career was defined by his incredible versatility and commitment. From his early role as the breakout child star in How Green Was My Valley—a film that famously beat Citizen Kane for Best Picture—to his later triumph on Broadway in Camelot, he proved he could handle any challenge.

His most iconic transformation, however, required him to completely disappear. Every morning for Planet of the Apes, he had to wake up at 2:00 a.m. and sit in the makeup chair for three and a half hours just to become Cornelius, the gentle chimpanzee. This was a grueling, five-day-a-week commitment that necessitated the creation of entirely new foam rubber to allow his skin to breathe. His dedication was legendary, and the role made him a worldwide sensation. He was so committed that he even returned for the short-lived 1974 Planet of the Apes TV series, where he became a new character, Galen, and used his knowledge to streamline the punishing makeup process for the entire team.

But his most important role may have been off-camera: the “father confessor of Hollywood.”

The Safe Space and the True Expose

McDowall knew everything about everyone, but told no one. He lived during a time when being openly gay could instantly ruin a career, a period marked by gossip magazines like Confidential targeting stars. McDowall chose to stay quiet in public, but behind closed doors, he created a sanctuary. His Malibu home became a place where gay and straight celebrities, including Rock Hudson and Tab Hunter, could relax without fear, laugh, and be themselves, far from the masks Hollywood forced them to wear. He even filmed some of it, not for scandal, but to keep a record of their true selves. He also did playful, risky photoshoots with Tab Hunter, capturing images of them posing like boyfriends, which, if discovered by the studios, would have destroyed both their careers.

His eye for the truth was also channeled into his photography. In 1966, he released his first major book, Double Exposure, which featured 98 celebrities described by other famous people, an unheard-of format that established him as one of Hollywood’s most trusted photographers. Later volumes were darker, more honest. Double Exposure Take Two included shocking, unvarnished images of Judy Garland during her worst days in 1963—photos captured during her breakdowns, when she was crying, sick, and tired. The book exposed how MGM had pushed her so hard that by 40, her health was gone, a raw visual chronicle of the pills and the alcohol that shadowed her life.

McDowall was also the eternal protector of Elizabeth Taylor. They met as child actors in 1943, and their friendship lasted until his death. McDowall called her every single day to check in. He was her safe place, a constant presence in a life defined by chaos. Double Exposure Take Four was dedicated to their 50-year friendship, with Taylor opening up about her marriages, addictions, and weight struggles, a heart-wrenching collection of images showing her without makeup or crying after a divorce. When he was dying from cancer in 1998, Taylor flew back to Los Angeles and visited him daily until the very end.

The Lost Love and the Final Lock

Beneath the public loyalty and the professional veneer, McDowall harbored a deep personal heartbreak. In 1951, Elizabeth Taylor introduced him to Montgomery Clift. The two men fell deeply in love, and McDowall moved to New York just to be near him, practically stopping his acting career for two and a half years. When Clift finally ended the relationship, McDowall was devastated to the point of a suicide attempt. He survived, and with remarkable emotional strength, he never held it against Clift, remaining by his side until the end. They even acted together in The Defector, Clift’s final film, which Clift admitted he could not have finished without McDowall’s unwavering support.

The man who had witnessed and documented the most private agonies of the world’s biggest stars—from Clift’s horrific car crash and his subsequent decline, to Judy Garland’s breakdowns, to the studio’s destructive cut of A Star Is Born—knew that some truths were simply too dangerous for the living.

When Roddy McDowall died in 1998, he left behind something extraordinary and highly protective: decades of personal diaries, letters, and home videos, which he bequeathed to Boston University. In his will, however, he stipulated that no one could open the archive until the year 2098—a full century after his death.

The legal experts and those close to him believe the contents must be explosive, the ultimate reason for such an unprecedented seal being to protect those still alive or their immediate descendants. The sealed archive is rumored to contain details about Elizabeth Taylor’s abusive marriage to Eddie Fisher, which McDowall documented, as well as letters detailing Rock Hudson’s AIDS diagnosis and the industry’s determined efforts to cover up the truth long before the public knew. There are also home movies showing Judy Garland during drug breakdowns and deeply personal recordings with Paul Newman, Natalie Wood, and Anthony Perkins.

Perhaps most painful is the speculation that one of the diary entries describes the day he attempted to take his own life after Montgomery Clift left him. That entry, and hundreds like it that document the secret loves, the private betrayals, and the unbearable pressures of Hollywood’s elite, sits under lock and key.

Until the clock strikes 2098, Roddy McDowall—the gentle actor, the conflicted archivist, the loyal friend who was forced to become a betrayer—remains one of the most enigmatic and essential figures in Hollywood history, his ultimate truth sealed by a silence that lasts a century.