Jack Taylor (American actor)|Jack Taylor

I’ll never forget the sound of his laughter echoing through the house, a deep, rolling chuckle that always seemed to start in his belly and burst out like a happy secret. Jack Taylor, my dad, our husband, our friend, left this world on a quiet May morning in 2026, but the stories he told and the love he gave are still very much alive. He was born George Brown Randall in Oregon City, a fact he’d often whisper with a twinkle, as if sharing a stage name only he and the universe knew. From the moment he could talk, he was performing—first for his family in Portland, then for anyone who’d listen in those early LA television gigs. But it was the bold, almost reckless decision to chase his heart to Mexico and then across Europe that defined his adventurous spirit. He’d come home from a Jesús Franco set with wild tales of filming in crumbling castles or sun-bleached plazas, his eyes alight not with the glamour of Hollywood, but with the sheer, gritty joy of making something out of nothing. His career was a tapestry of those low-budget, high-imagination films—*Succubus*, *Conan the Barbarian*, *The Ninth Gate*. To the world, he might have been "that actor from the European exploitation movies," but to us, he was simply Dad. He’d come off a long day of shooting, still in costume, and we’d beg him to recite lines in that deep, commanding voice. He’d oblige, then immediately switch to a ridiculous puppet show with his socks, making us collapse in giggles. His passion wasn’t for fame; it was for the craft, for the characters, for the magic of disappearing into a story. He collected first-edition horror novels and classic film posters, not as trophies, but as old friends. His joy was in the sharing—sitting in his study, the smell of old books and pipe smoke in the air, telling us why a particular scene worked or how an actor held a pause. Family was his greatest role. For fifty-two years, he was a devoted husband to our mom, Clara. Their love story was one of his favorites to tell—a whirlwind romance that began with a shared love of terrible monster movies and grew into a partnership as sturdy and enduring as any oak. He was a patient, playful father who taught us to fish with more storytelling than actual technique, who cried at every school play, and who believed our wildest dreams were worth pursuing. His impact rippled far beyond our dinner table. So many younger actors and crew members he worked with over the decades have reached out to share how his kindness, his willingness to share a sandwich or a piece of advice on a tough set, made all the difference in their own journeys. He never saw them as competition