Morris, the Movie Star Alligator Who Appeared in ‘Happy Gilmore,’ Dies of Old Age Based on his growth rate and tooth loss, the 640-pound gator was estimated to be at least 80. He starred in movies and TV shows between 1975 and 2006 After starring in numerous movies and television shows, Morris retired in 2006 and lived out his final days at the Colorado Gator Farm. RJ Sangosti / MediaNews Group / The Denver Post via Getty Images Morris, the alligator who starred in Happy Gilmore and numerous other movies and TV shows, has died. In an announcement from the Colorado Gator Farm, where the beloved 640-pound reptile had lived for the last two decades, caretakers say the cause of death was “old age.” “He started acting strange about a week ago. Wasn’t lunging at us and wasn’t taking food,” says Jay Young, the farm’s owner and operator, while tearfully petting Morris’ head in a video posted on Facebook. Morris was nearly 11 feet long at the time of his death, according to another post the Colorado Gator Farm shared on Facebook. Based on his growth rate and tooth loss, Young estimates the gator was at least 80 years old. “While we knew this was inevitable, we are very saddened by his passing,” the Colorado Gator Farm writes. Morris was rescued from a Los Angeles backyard, where he was being kept as an illegal pet. He began his prolific career in 1975 and kept working until his retirement in 2006. His TV and film credits include Interview With the Vampire, Dr. Dolittle 2, Blues Brothers 2000, “Coach,” “Night Court” and “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno,” reports Thomas Peipert of the Associated Press. But he’s perhaps best known for Happy Gilmore, the 1996 comedy starring Adam Sandler as a down-on-his-luck hockey player who discovers his powerful golf swing. After Gilmore hits a shot in a tournament, Morris grabs his golf ball with his mouth. Gilmore confronts the alligator. “Give me my ball! Give it here!” he shouts, while waving his golf club in the alligator’s face. Morris responds by snapping his jaws a few times. After Gilmore tries unsuccessfully to grab the ball from the alligator’s gaping mouth, he sees the creature is missing one eye. Gilmore realizes it’s the same gator that bit off the hand of his mentor, Derick “Chubbs” Peterson (Carl Weathers). When Morris sprints into a nearby pond, Gilmore follows. After a brief tussle, Gilmore retrieves his ball from the gator’s mouth and holds it above his head as the crowd cheers. Later, he presents the alligator’s head to Chubbs, who is so shocked he falls backward through an open window to his death. On May 14, Sandler posted a tribute to Morris on Instagram.“You could be hard on directors, make-up artists, costumers—really anyone with arms or legs—but I know you did it for the ultimate good of the film,” the actor wrote in a caption accompanying a still from the movie. “The day you wouldn’t come out of your trailer unless we sent in 40 heads of lettuce taught me a powerful lesson: Never compromise your art.” He added: “I will miss the sound of your tail sliding through the tall grass, your cold, bumpy skin, but, most of all, I will miss your infectious laugh.” Sandler is working on a sequel to the film, called Happy Gilmore 2, which will be released on Netflix in July. Morris does not appear in the new film, since he died in the first movie. But his memory will live on. “We have decided to get Morris taxidermied so that he can continue to scare children for years to come,” the Colorado Gator Farm writes on Facebook. “It’s what he would have wanted.” The farm is located in Mosca, a small town roughly 200 miles southwest of Denver. Situated in the San Luis Valley, the farm is home to roughly 300 alligators, as well as snakes, lizards, crocodiles and tortoises, per CBS News Colorado’s Logan Smith. Young’s parents, Erwin and Lynne, started the operation as a tilapia farm in the late 1970s. They brought in baby alligators to clean up the dead fish, but as the reptiles grew, visitors began showing up to see them. Today, the farm serves as a refuge for unwanted, illegal and abused reptiles. Get the latest stories in your inbox every weekday.

I started writing my own film scripts when I was ten, and I basically wanted to be Indiana Jones. Well, I wanted to be Indy, the director and the guy who did the stunts and the storyboards after seeing Temple of Doom with my dad at the Harrogate Odeon. He'd bought me the Official Souvenir Magazine – I knew it was important – which was full of colourful costume sketches, storyboards detailing some of the action I'd just seen, and glossy pictures of cast and crew in glamorous locations. I think that was the first time I had an inkling of what I wanted to do with my life, but growing up in a small Yorkshire town wasn't exactly conducive to being Indiana Jones: the most useful film locations there were my buddy Richard's back garden and the local woods, but we endeavoured and made a three-minute epic where I, as Indy, swung across imagined alligator-infested swamps and ran through not-so-dense forests pursued by invisible tribesmen. Growing up in the Eighties was a fertile time for the imagination of anyone, particularly anyone who wanted to follow in the footsteps of Lucas and Spielberg. By the time I'd left school prematurely at sixteen and worked as a film assistant (when TV used to be shot on film) before returning to higher education, my friend Derek had already worked on the new Star Wars film, rubbed shoulders with Robert Altman and Tim Burton, and slept on a lot of mates' sofas. That, I thought, was my next goal. Not the sofas part – the working on big movies part. World History Archive / Alamy Stock Photo But again, there's this persistent myth that one has to "break into" the film industry, as Spielberg himself did; all one has to do is occupy an empty office at a film studio and pretend one works there until one does. The sad truth is that the film industry doesn't want you. I mean, it might do – but it just doesn't know it yet. Either way, you hear all kinds of motivational and anti-motivational stories in the press: everything from "Just pick up a phone and make a film" to "You can't just pick up a phone and make a film." Or "don't ask permission: be a rebel and just do what you want" but then also "make friends with producers and nurture working relationships" to get your films made. So which is it? I'm here to tell you it's both. I had years of making my own feature films (four to date) where I didn't ask permission to do so, just found private investors and gathered a cast and crew each time, to different levels of ambition and difficulty. There's a Spielberg quote in the Official Souvenir Magazine of Temple of Doom that I always remember, and it's something like: "You look at the script and think, how are we going to do all this? But somehow or other, it gets done." That's been the driving force of every movie I've made to date: we found the money, we gathered the crew, we did everything. Sure, some of them played in cinemas and then didn't do anything else (my first was deemed "too cheap" for a home release), but some won awards, and one even made it to Blu-ray. Score! But then came the pandemic, and I'd be lying if I didn't say it punctured the ambitions of just about everyone. It was not just the personal crises, loss, and fear it faced us with, but also the seemingly insurmountable heights to scale to get films made – which was already a challenge. In 2020, you might have thought things were picking up speed: we released our latest lo-fi feature film – the zombie comedy Zomblogalypse, which ended up on the aforementioned Blu-ray – in cinemas and film festivals, and I met with producers to sign a script deal for my ambitious action-horror. And then came about two years of "the market is dead" and "no one's making anything at the moment" and a hundred times the usual cliched setback talk of "it's not a good time right now…" except it was painfully, abundantly clear that this was in fact true. Zomblogalypse So during this time, all the while trying in earnest to get any movie off the ground (and we're talking baby budgets here), somewhere during the process, I decided to stop thinking of myself as a producer and director and just be a writer for a while. This was partly due to the amount of times I was told in producer meetings – both in TV and film – that they'd find a director for my script. And a co-writer. And a development executive. Now, I knew who all these people were because I'd read my Indiana Jones Official Souvenir Magazine, but the key point was that I needed to stop trying to do everything and focus on the scripts. A director, unless they're Mr Spielberg, can only direct every few years, while a writer can always write on a notepad by the bed, on the Notes app on their phone (which is how I'm writing this), on their laptop with half an hour to spare, and so forth. And yes, you're saying, but what if a writer doesn't have half an hour to spare because of their job or their family? And to that, I say yes, noted, but… you have to write. Find the time. In every minimum wage job I ever had, I wrote scripts. Sorry, former employers: you were all funding my screenwriting habit. I actually left secure and (under)paid employment fifteen years ago this very week and haven't looked back – but that's another story... Steven Spielberg (around 1995) – Pictorial Press Ltd / Alamy Stock Photo The point (finally) is that I decided to double down as a writer and pen a movie trilogy. Why, you ask? As if it isn't hard enough getting one screenplay written and submitted to a producer. And it is hard: I submitted my action-horror to my producer five years ago, after five years of scribbling and re-drafting and working with a co-writer and trying to get the damn thing self-financed and finally getting an industry producer to read it… why would I now, while I wait for that one to bear fruit – through strikes and fires and other Hollywood nonsense – go and do something stupid like write a trilogy? It comes down to that rebellious notion of not asking permission. I've got a trilogy in me (after years of working out several individual scripts and realising they're all linked thematically), so why not go for broke and write all three? Advice from my peers so far is a mix of "just write one and sell that first" because that's hard enough, and "f^&k yeah, go for it! No one else is writing a trilogy!" So, having written what has now evidently become the middle chapter, I've set to work on writing the first and drafting out the third. They're a mix of genres, but each one does stand alone, just in case I'm only able to get one into production (they're action thriller, sci-fi romcom, and action horror, in case you wondered). I don't know how wise it's going to prove to write three films at once, but so far, I'm enjoying the challenge. Pictorial Press Ltd / Alamy Stock Photo I'm a huge fan of the Back to the Future trilogy (who isn't) and how Bobs Zemeckis and Gale wrote the second and third as back-to-back projects, so I'm inspired by that and other well-made trilogies like Ginger Snaps and the more recent Fear Street. I like the format, and I've never written this way before. But after five years of stalled production and juggling one-off ideas (there are currently about twenty in my In Development folder), I'm doubling down for what, at age fifty, is my most ambitious project to date: writing a trilogy that may never get made, but which I'll do everything to try and get made. I'd rather make up for lost time than not make anything again. And as a writer, it's the ultimate project. Who doesn't love a trilogy? Hopefully, one day, a producer will agree with me that being this insanely ambitious is the way forward. Because I've been hiding in the shadows for too long as a struggling director, it's time to be a writer!