For millions of television viewers, Bill Bixby will forever be remembered as the soft-spoken scientist who carried a terrible secret, warning the world that they “wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.” What few people realized at the height of his fame was how much quiet suffering the man behind that role carried in real life. His death in 1993 ended a career that spanned more than three decades, but it also closed a story marked by resilience, repeated loss, and an illness that slowly drained him away from public view.
Bill Bixby was born Wilfred Bailey Everett Bixby III on January 22, 1934, in San Francisco, California. An only child, he grew up curious, articulate, and naturally drawn to performance. At Lowell High School, he found his footing in speech and debate, discovering an early talent for holding attention and communicating emotion. That instinct stayed with him for life.
After high school, Bixby attended City College of San Francisco and later the University of California, Berkeley. But formal education couldn’t compete with his growing desire to act. He left school and began chasing roles the hard way, taking modeling jobs and appearing in commercials to support himself while auditioning. It was a familiar grind for actors of his generation, but Bixby’s ease in front of the camera quickly set him apart.
His big break came in 1963 when he was cast as Tim O’Hara in My Favorite Martian. Paired with Ray Walston’s eccentric alien Uncle Martin, Bixby played the grounded human counterbalance with charm and warmth. The show ran for three seasons and made him a recognizable face in American households. Walston later said that people liked Bixby “instantly and completely,” a reflection of the quiet likability he brought to every role.
From there, his television career accelerated. He starred in The Courtship of Eddie’s Father as widowed father Tom Corbett, a role that showcased his emotional depth and earned him three Emmy nominations. The performance cemented his reputation as an actor capable of vulnerability without sentimentality. Audiences trusted him, and television executives did too.
In the early 1970s, Bixby took on the lead in The Magician, playing stage illusionist Anthony Blake. Though the series was short-lived, it developed a devoted following and further demonstrated his range. He also appeared in films such as Lonely Are the Brave and guest-starred on popular shows, proving he wasn’t limited to one genre or tone.
Everything changed in 1978 when he was cast as Dr. David Bruce Banner in The Incredible Hulk. Unlike the comic-book bravado audiences might have expected, Bixby played Banner as deeply human—haunted, gentle, and perpetually searching for peace. His restrained performance grounded the series, giving emotional weight to the transformation that followed. The role became iconic, and Bixby later returned to the character in multiple made-for-TV movies, directing two of them himself.
By that point, he had also begun carving out a respected career behind the camera. Directing appealed to him as a way to shape stories without standing at their center. Throughout the 1980s, he directed episodes of shows like Goodnight, Beantown, Sledge Hammer!, and later became a regular director on Blossom. Colleagues praised his calm authority and actor-friendly approach, traits born from decades of experience in front of the lens.
While his professional life flourished, his personal life unraveled in devastating ways. Bixby married actress Brenda Benet, but the marriage ended in divorce in 1980. A year later, their six-year-old son, Christopher, died suddenly from a rare throat infection. The loss shattered him. Friends described a grief that never fully lifted.
Tragedy struck again in 1982 when Benet died by suicide. In the span of just over a year, Bixby lost his child and his former spouse, wounds that cut far deeper than anything the public ever saw. Despite this, he continued working, throwing himself into projects rather than retreating from life.
In the 1970s, Bixby had often been labeled one of Hollywood’s most eligible bachelors, but he remained uncomfortable with fame’s social trappings. He openly disliked Hollywood parties and small talk, preferring quiet weekends at the beach in Malibu. He described himself as intensely private, someone who valued intimacy over attention.
That privacy became even more pronounced after his health began to fail. In 1991, Bixby was diagnosed with prostate cancer. The illness was aggressive, and treatment took a heavy toll. Unlike many stars of his era, he chose not to hide it completely. He spoke publicly about the diagnosis, hoping to encourage other men to seek early screening. Privately, he acknowledged the seriousness of his condition and admitted that his deepest wish was to die peacefully in his sleep.
In 1990, he married Laura Michaels, though the marriage ended the following year as his health declined. Then, in October 1993, just weeks before his death, he married artist Judith Kliban. By that point, his strength was fading rapidly. While directing Blossom in November, he was often too weak to stand, working from a sofa on set. Kliban cared for him at their home near Century City as his condition worsened.
On November 21, 1993, Bill Bixby slipped into a coma and died at the age of 59. He was gone far earlier than anyone expected, leaving behind unfinished plans, unrealized years, and a body of work that continues to resonate.
His legacy is inseparable from television history. From the playful chemistry of My Favorite Martian to the tenderness of The Courtship of Eddie’s Father, and from the quiet torment of David Banner to his steady hand as a director, Bixby left an imprint defined not by spectacle but by sincerity. He brought humanity to every role, even when playing men on the brink of transformation.
Outside of acting, he found joy in simple pursuits: Chinese cooking, bridge, music, and gardening. These small comforts grounded him in a life that, despite fame, was often marked by loss.
Decades after his death, audiences continue to rediscover Bill Bixby through reruns and streaming platforms. His performances endure because they feel honest, lived-in, and deeply human. Behind the legend was a man who carried immense pain quietly, worked tirelessly, and left television better than he found it.
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