Redford Behind the Lens

We had barely received the news of Robert Redford’s death when such an important part of Hollywood’s façade from the second half of the twentieth century disappeared due to pure biology. The first reaction, after coming to terms with his loss, is to ask ourselves what his secret really was. What could such a magnetic personality contain within that allowed him, single-handedly and over decades, to sustain any project in which he was involved?

Robert Redford’s personality was rich enough in nuances that two glances at a couple of commonplaces would not suffice. Redford had the time to be many things at once: a select member of the star system, the spoiled child of any telephoto lens, an ever-unconformist activist, the weaver and guardian of the greatest laboratory-showcase for independent production (the Sundance Film Festival). And also a film director. Redford could reach glory in front of the camera, but some of his greatest achievements he obtained behind it. In fact, he inaugurated a curious trend that had successors over two decades (Warren Beatty, Kevin Costner, Mel Gibson): actors whose Oscars came to them as directors.

This Redford, the director, gathers many of the traits that make him recognizable, and adds another we did not expect: that of going unnoticed. We could say he hovers over his projects without disturbing them, letting history unfold. But all his vital concerns are there. His recurring themes, summed up in the maxim that it takes a certain dose of courage and integrity to stand alone against the world, appear at one time or another, like alarm signals reminding us of the many detours along the road, and of some people’s eagerness to interpret the traffic manual in their own way. Redford does not use a heavy brush to point out good and bad; he simply sketches outlines that the narrative goes on to fill with life and intentions.

Robert Redford takes his time before stepping behind the camera, almost like his buddy Paul Newman. After a decade of box-office hits that had placed him at the pinnacle of his profession, he sought a change in his career, and it was precisely then that he allowed himself to be drawn in by Judith Guest’s bestseller Ordinary People. Deconstructing a model American family after a traumatic accident, and then observing its gradual disintegration gave Redford the chance to step aside and focus on making his images narrate credibly. Ordinary People (1980) became a reality through the modest production company of its director (Wildwood) and the distribution of Paramount Pictures, which trusted in the ability and drawing power of the debuting filmmaker. As a reward for a job well done, he would collect all sorts of accolades, enough to end up being the “dark horse” of 1980 in the race for the Academy Awards. To the surprise of those who only saw in the actor a photogenic head of hair, the film earned Redford his first Oscar. If there is any downside to starting with the bar set so high, it is that this would force our man to compete continuously with himself to surpass it. Although the rest of his work would always remain noteworthy, it would not surpass his debut — nor would that matter much to him.

The Milagro Beanfield War (1988) seems even more modest than its predecessor, but it marks Redford’s first “political” incursion, with common people scoring a point against the powers that tried to bend them to their will. Sprinkled here and there with touches of a very particular magical realism, it remains a charming fable, well told through a series of competent supporting actors (Sônia Braga, Rubén Blades), though with its low profile, it disappointed those who expected to see its director destined for greater enterprises.

A River Runs Through It (1992) aims to be a film-fleuve (no pun intended) centered on the strained relationships between fathers and sons, and not just one of those vehicles to promote the 1990s Redford, Brad Pitt. The result is a calm and beautiful film, supported by a landscape even more so, splendidly photographed by Philippe Rousselot. It shows, more than any of his other works, Redford’s fondness for natural settings and his ability to turn them into characters themselves. Destined to be more respected by the public than by critics, this may be the film where the intentions and results of its director come together most successfully.

Quiz Show (1994) is visually and stylistically different from Robert Redford’s previous films. Through a successful 1950s version of the TV show, we observe the slavery involved in keeping an audience hooked week after week, which leads the television network airing the program to rig the answers in such a way as to promote the contestant who looks best on screen—in this case, the son of a respected professor. Ralph Fiennes and John Turturro convey all the tension they carry within the trap they have agreed to enter, while Rob Morrow (Dr. Fleischmann from Northern Exposure) serves as Redford’s voice of conscience and denunciation, in what would be his first and only leading role.

Four years later, Redford was back at it. The Horse Whisperer (1998) ended up being his most commercially successful project and at the same time, his most impersonal work. Twenty-seven years later, it remains the film for which he is most remembered among the nine he directed. If you add to a stellar cast (Kristin Scott Thomas, Sam Neill, Scarlett Johansson, Chris Cooper) a powerful romantic drama (albeit a very predictable one), and a director who, for the first time, doubles his role by also putting his iconic face on screen as the protagonist, success is almost guaranteed. Nevertheless, Robert Redford would hardly ever again combine both tasks in the future.

The Legend of Bagger Vance (2000) is a good example of how our man sometimes chooses subjects for his films that, on the surface, could not interest us less, but which almost always end up drawing us in. With a cast perhaps better suited for an action movie, it presents us with an unconventional story of overcoming on several levels, with more than one surprise—especially in the true central character of the narrative, the golf caddie played by Will Smith.

After a seven-year hiatus, Lions for Lambs (2007) is an honest attempt at denunciation, at showing that even behind the best intentions, the worst can lurk. Perhaps it is too academic, and too self-aware of being a battering ram against the George W. Bush Jr. administration. Perhaps the message that politicians lie and journalists cover up was already too ingrained. Beyond that, the idea of splitting the action into three stories that eventually intersect takes time to gain momentum. Released with the stamp of a blockbuster, it ended up disappointing many of the expectations—both of those who wanted a punch on the table and of those who hoped for a generational acting duel.

More accurate in both intentions and results, and much more overlooked by the public, is The Conspirator (2010), a story of a falsely accused man and his subsequent trial, which works nimbly and showcases the strong performances of its leads, James McAvoy and Robin Wright. Redford returns to a low-profile style that allows us to focus more on the details, many of which remain in our minds even after the film ends.

We finally arrive at The Company You Keep (2012), Redford’s last attempt as a filmmaker. Here he tackles the figure of the innocent activist pursued by the machinery of power demanding accountability for actions dating back three decades—the same time our hero has spent in hiding. It is another recurring theme in his filmography, even predating his work as a director (Three Days of the Condor, Sidney Pollack, 1975). The problem is that such a promising premise loses credibility because of the director’s insistence on playing a protagonist 25 years younger than himself, which undermines believability. Once the suspense is established, the film squanders it with a bland second half whose reflections feel like something already seen

I would leave for the end two films that Redford did not direct, although it might have seemed otherwise. In Truth (James Vanderbilt, 2015), he embodies a retiring prime-time news anchor who is offered the chance to uncover a scandal that could cost an election, and who, once again, is seen rowing against the current—accused of spreading falsehoods, yet determined to let the world burn if that is the price for saving his conscience.

In his final and admirable performance, The Old Man and the Gun (David Lowery, 2018), he shapes to his liking the figure of Forrest Tucker, an octogenarian thief incapable of redemption, for he rightly suspects that breaking the law is the only thing he truly knows how to do. The undercurrent of bitterness we feel when contemplating the bleak fate awaiting him runs parallel to the strange sympathy the character and his troubled life evoke. The story itself slips by in a heartbeat, not only because of its brief running time but because we sense that after this, there will be no more Redford. No more subtle critiques, no more righteous vindications. Not even those blue eyes frozen in the same eternal expression of We did what we could, didn’t we?