Even though he’s inextricably linked to the 1970s—the period during which he was, almost inarguably, Hollywood’s biggest star—Robert Redford’s cultural impact spans decades. His ascension from promising romantic lead to white-hot movie star, a process that began with small parts in the late ’50s and culminated with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1968), describes a singular career path. Never satisfied with coasting on his gleaming Californian beauty, Redford simultaneously developed formidable acting chops and learned the mysterious art of romancing movie cameras, so once he found his first perfect role in the Sundance Kid, he already had an irresistible combination of natural gifts and nurtured skills. Significantly, Redford recognized early that a huge component of successful movie acting is participation in the storytelling process; while he was unquestionably conscious of his best angles and the moments that supported his iconoclastic persona, he was also a responsible steward of narrative priorities.
An argument could be made that Redford’s glorious ’70s run actually begins with Butch Cassidy, which has a forward-looking style, and continues with the bleak character study Downhill Racer (1969). Concurrently, his ’70s run has some missteps, including the unmemorable buddy picture Little Fauss and Big Halsy (1970) and the relatively vapid star vehicle The Electric Horseman (1979). But given the spectacular peaks of Redford’s ’70s run, a few false notes are of little consequence. The Candidate and Jeremiah Johnson (both 1972). The Sting and The Way We Were (both 1973). The Great Waldo Pepper and Three Days of the Condor (both 1975). And then Redford’s first unassailable masterpiece, as actor and (uncredited) producer—All the President’s Men (1976). Redford willed the picture into existence, suggesting that Woodward and Bernstein transform their Watergate reporting into a book, and Redford assembled the stellar team that crafted one of the finest films in Hollywood history.
Rare is the box-office champion without naysayers. Redford was no exception. His notorious tardiness was perceived by many as a power move. Like most major stars, he sparked frustration and outright despair by flirting with projects only to step away at the final moment before committing. He chewed up his share of directors and writers, and his treatment of Oscar-winning scribe William Goldman was particularly shabby—after Goldman wrote three films for Redford, including Butch Cassidy, the actor steamrolled his friend on All the President’s Men, even surreptitiously hiring additional writers, and then spent decades downplaying Goldman’s contributions, even though Goldman won his second Oscar for the project. Redford’s relationship with one of his most frequent collaborators, director Sydney Pollack, was fraught to the extreme of periodic estrangement. By all reports, Redford was deliberately confounding and intimidating—he followed his impulses and left some emotional wreckage in his wake.
Conversely, stories of his empathy for fellow performers are countless, from his ingenious weaponizing of Mary Tyler Moore’s previously hidden dark side to his careful protection of a juvenile Scarlett Johansson in one of her first major roles. And his decades-long commitment to elevating Native American voices continued through to the end of his life; Redford’s last onscreen role was a cameo in the Native-themed series Dark Winds, which he helped produce.
The vagaries of his personality aside, Redford's best work is extraordinary. Beyond the titles mentioned, he notched occasional acting triumphs in the 1980s and beyond. The Natural (1984). The Last Castle (2001). All Is Lost (2013). A pair of lovely victory-lap indies, Out Souls at Night (2017) and The Old Man & the Gun (2018). Spanning the same period, of course, was Redford’s acclaimed directorial career, which achieved a spectacular launch with Ordinary People (1980), the project that netted Redford’s only competitive Oscar, for Best Director. (Amazingly, he received only one acting nomination, for The Sting—it remains a blight on the Academy that he was overlooked for All Is Lost.) And then there’s the other reason acting became a side hustle for Redford after the ’70s, his involvement in such nonprofit activities as the Sundance Film Festival and the Sundance Film Institute. A case could be made that Sundance is the man’s true cinematic legacy because it’s provided a launching pad for decades of new filmmakers.
It’s customary in appreciations of this sort to mention a personal connection if one exists. My interaction with Redford was brief but memorable (for me, not him). Circa the late ’90s, Redford was shooting The Horse Whisperer in the coverage area of a periodical for which I wrote, so I participated in an intimate press conference lasting about 20 minutes. By random circumstance, I was the only reporter at the event who specialized in film, so I asked most of the questions. Afterward, the movie’s publicist shared Redford’s remarks upon leaving the event—words to the effect of “that guy knew his stuff.” I don’t get the impression Redford issued compliments lightly. I should add another nuance to fill out the picture—while I’m not especially prone to feeling starstruck, I have never in my life experienced personal charisma as powerful as the aura that Redford exuded during my brief time in his presence. I thought I understood Redford’s magnetism before sitting a few feet away from him, but I had no idea.
The arts generally, the cinema specifically, and our national conversation—especially concerning the dignity of indigenous persons—was enriched for decades by Redford’s work. His influence will outlive him, as will the virility of the performances he gave and the stories he told. We should all aspire to a fraction of that significance.
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