When I woke up two days ago, I checked my inbox as I always do, before I swing my legs over the side of my bed to rise. I think I’ve developed that habit during recent years, to still be in the relative safety of my bed while reading the potentially scary headlines of the morning. That way I don’t get knocked off my feet by anything too awful. On this particular morning, a couple of emails announcing the death of Robert Redford at age eighty-nine were staring me in the face. In recent years, I’d seen photos of him as he advanced into old age. I knew that one of these days, this fit, athletic person would succumb to the inevitable, as is the way of the world for all of us living creatures. But I lingered longer over the announcement of his death than I do over most others, which are turning up at what seems to be rapidly increasing frequency these days. One of the hazards of aging. Anyway, he was one of the public icons in my little life. And while I thought about how unlikely that was, considering the men I usually find attractive, it was absolutely true. Fittingly, both of my kids sent me condolences within a short time that morning, knowing that for me, his death would be important. How did that happen?
My mom, Dorothy the dancing queen, is probably the original impetus behind my love of movies and actors. For as long as I can remember, she regaled us kids with tales of her passion for film, especially dramas and musicals, and told us of all her favorites, women and men alike. We were told her many stories of finding a nickel, or ten cents, which led her to sneaking off to the neighborhood theaters for some dreaming, a welcome relief to her otherwise regimented life of daily cleaning after school.
Maybe she attended one of the two theaters in these photos, or maybe she went to the Vision or the Harmony, which were located right on Division Street, close to her home. She loved the big song and dance numbers, and most especially the movies with a dramatic love story twist. Fred Astaire was her ideal dance partner and she felt sure that she could easily fill the shoes of Ginger Rogers or Eleanor Powell. She was light on her feet for sure, and for the longest time, she was the go-to dance partner for me and my younger sister. In another life, maybe those dreams could have been hers. And then, there were mom’s swoonworthy choices in leading men.
I feel like I always knew who these screen idols were, like the way you know the faces of family members. Mom talked about them all, and so vividly. Accompanying those handsome faces were their background stories, all the Hollywood gossip about their personal lives and complicated acting histories. Mom’s youth was short on adventure and exciting experiences. The celluloid world provided relief and entertainment for her.
Later on, she shared all this with her kids, an abundance of tales for us kids, mom’s eager audience. I was a willing participant. Her interests became mine, at least until I grew old enough to cultivate my own. One thing about my immersion in mom’s world that stayed with me was her obvious preference for brunettes. Until Robert Redford came along, I was never attracted to blond men. He remained the one and only exception to the crew I inherited from Dorothy, and the crew I developed for myself. And the truth is, that despite the fact that physical attraction is generally an element of crushes, I found myself always wanting a bit more than the obvious. I liked artists who had something more to offer than a pretty face. Redford would meet that criteria.
I’m reasonably sure that I saw the above-referenced Alfred Hitchcock episode when I was in high school, as well as movie “The Chase.” I’ve certainly seen them since those early days. But timing is everything, including the moment you realize that some random movie guy might become important to you. My Robert Redford moment happened in my sophomore year in college, the year that I first saw “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” That year, 1969, was a big transitional time for me. My longtime high school boyfriend had broken up with me after we’d tried staying together while I was away at school. That fall, I was on my own, casting about for a different way of being me, letting go of the security blanket of being my high school self. I wasn’t exactly sure how much I actually liked that me, but I understood the rules of who I was. After years of getting there, it was time to try something else. Away from home that autumn, my mom suddenly required surgery on her thyroid gland. I knew that my dad was lying to me when he said she didn’t have cancer, in the hope that I’d still be able to concentrate on school instead of worrying about her. Earlier that year, my maternal grandfather had died. I felt like I was lurching into adult life with all these significant and decidedly grownup concerns. Still, I’d started dating random people, like I was supposed to do. Moving on, or branching out, it was called. On one of these dates, I went out with a redheaded boy, whose name I can’t recall, to see “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”
We didn’t have a car so we walked a long way to the theater. I remember having trouble being interested in anything this guy was saying and being anxious to have the movie start. And then there it was, finally, the highly entertaining film with its two gorgeous male leads, some snappy humorous dialogue and an interesting, albeit historically inaccurate adventure tale. I’d been a Paul Newman fan for a while, but by the time the show ended, I’d fallen for this golden California boy with the killer grin. On the walk home from the theater, perhaps emboldened by the sarcastic banter of the three main characters, I criticized basically everything my date said to me that night. To my surprise he called me the next day to say no one had ever spoken to him quite the way I had during the previous evening, and would I like to go out again sometime? A firm no to him and a yes to Redford.
Later that year I saw “Downhill Racer” in which Redford played an individualistic, largely unsympathetic, and troubled skier, which I thought was a brave choice for someone who could easily trade on his looks as a romantic lead. All the more reason for me to like him. Between 1969 and 1972, in real life, I fell in serious love for the first time. I met Al, with whom I had a tempestuous relationship that involved multiple painful breakups and reconciliations. In late 1970, during one of those breakups, I briefly got involved with Dennis, the closest person to a Redford lookalike I ever had in my romantic life. In 1971, I met Michael, who became my best friend and the following year, my eventual life partner and ultimately husband, until death did us part. Michael was also my movie partner. We saw “The Candidate,” together, which was released in 1972, followed by “Jeremiah Johnson,” two of our all-time favorites. In 1973, “The Way We Were” and “The Sting” were released. “The Way We Were” rang all my bells as I identified with Barbara Streisand’s activist politics, and the ultimate schism between hers and Redford’s character, which reminded me of the sad ending of my relationship with Al. That painful passage took a toll on my emotions that left a permanent scar on innocent me. I still think of those times when I re-watch that movie. “The Sting” was just sheer entertainment, reuniting Redford and Newman for a rollicking good time.
During the mid-to late ‘70’s, Redford made some of my favorite films. They were “Three Days of the Condor,” a movie about the dark missions of the CIA, “All the President’s Men,” about the Watergate expose by the Washington Post, and “The Electric Horseman,” about the callousness of the insurance industry. By that time, though, I was getting more interested and impressed by where Redford was putting his energy outside of acting. He had developed into a passionate environmentalist and joined the board of the Natural Resources Defense Council, an organization committed to protecting the planet and every life on it, and the mission of fighting climate change. He would serve on that board for decades. Also in the late ‘70’s, he started the first Utah film festival, dedicated to showcasing and supporting independent filmmakers, which eventually became the Sundance Film Festival. He developed the Sundance Institute, the umbrella organization for the festival and which continues to foster independent voices and stories outside the Hollywood system. Redford had, to his credit, grown well beyond any one-dimensional movie star role. I admired him, along with other public figures who used their celebrity to work for causes that benefited so much more than their personal fame and fortune.
As an actor, I appreciated Redford in some movies that extended all the way into 2017. “The Natural,” “Out of Africa,” “All is Lost,” and “Our Souls at Night,” feature fine, nuanced performances by Redford, newly acquired wrinkles and all. I thought his relentlessly authentic appearance was a badge of honor in these days of Botox and plastic surgeries. And I greatly admired several of his directorial efforts, especially the brilliant “Ordinary People,” “A River Runs Through It,” and “Quiz Show.” Redford stretched himself personally and professionally. An impactful example of how to live a dynamic, evolving life.
I am full on into my adult life. What I’ve carried along with me through my journey forward are a number of icons who are like silent partners in my world, in the background, emerging intermittently, sometimes for entertainment, sometimes for comfort, sometimes for enlightenment. On the day Robert Redford died, I had five of his movies on my DVR. I always have some handy for an especially dark day when real life becomes too hard to manage. My mom is one of those icons too, not a public one, but private, hovering in the back of my mind, her influences still apparent to my grownup self.
And then there’s Michael, always a great sport about my movie crushes. And why not? He had his own favorite actresses, just like lots of we movie-lovers do. Before he became a teacher, Michael owned a record store which, in addition, to vinyl, CD’s, cassette tapes and the like, often received promotional items from the record companies. These included advertising specialties like T-shirts and posters. I could never quite figure out what we were supposed to do with all the stuff he brought home. Periodically he’d have items which were autographed which I suppose he thought might have a purpose one day. Sadly, he died before he ever had a chance to do whatever he had in mind. After some time passed, I decided to go through the over 2000 posters that had made their way into my basement. I unfurled them, one by one, out in the garage, to keep the dust they’d accumulated from blowing through the house. Most of them were a standard size, the kind you could frame and hang on a wall. But suddenly, I felt one that was heavier and longer than that. As I slowly unrolled it, what emerged was a 10 feet long picture of Robert Redford’s head, his beautiful smile so big it was almost scary. I laughed and laughed. That Michael. That Redford.
