Robert Redford | Robert Redford: Almost an American Hero

A few days ago, "Indecent Proposal" with Robert Redford was on TV. A 1993 film that I'd never wanted to see before – precisely because it had been so successful. But now, for some reason, I do. A no-longer-young multimillionaire buys sex (for a million dollars, no less!) with a young woman he wants – can have, because you can buy anything in this world. And because that's undisputed, he makes his offer, which he considers fair, to the young – indebted – couple in all openness. "Am I for sale?" the young woman (Demi Moore) asks indignantly. "Never!" confirms her husband, a young, talented but unsuccessful architect. And then they lapse into a long silence. Have they never been unfaithful to each other – and now a million for one night? Close your eyes and go for it? They decide to do it – and almost break themselves because of it. Money can literally destroy human relationships overnight. Because wanting to buy things you can't buy is obscene.

Robert Redford plays the thankless role of the overly rich man, bored by the fact that no one can resist his money. But the astonishing thing is that he's playing against his own role, as it were. He watches himself with disgust as he plays his cynical game, which he—following a human instinct—finally abandons with a wave of resignation. Behind the facade, the aging man feels that the young woman he had wanted to buy but has now grown to love will always despise him.

Without Robert Redford's cleverly employed distance from the role and from himself as a successful man, it would have been a dull, one-dimensional story. It makes you doubt not only yourself, but also the rules by which this world functions. And this resonates through all of the approximately 50 more or less major film roles that Redford played from 1960 to 2018.

Where does this reserve come from when faced with what others quite naively call their career? The early death of his mother had thrown the tall, blond, and athletic boy, born in Santa Monica in 1936, off track. The 19-year-old Redford had just received a scholarship to the University of Colorado thanks to his baseball talent. Now his world is collapsing. He no longer plays along, rejecting all expectations placed on him, but in a self-destructive way. He begins to drink and is expelled from university, hitchhikes through Europe, becomes a street painter in Paris and Florence, returns to the USA, wants to become a stage designer, and then attends the American Academy of Dramatic Arts from 1959 onwards.

He acts on Broadway and also receives film offers – for seven years, he makes one film after another, but all of them are flops. At least he meets Sydney Pollack, who is also an actor, in "Behind Enemy Lines," about the Korean War.

Then, finally, in 1967, came his breakthrough. On Broadway, Redford had already played in Neil Simon's comedy "Barefoot in the Park," and now it was being made into a film starring him and the almost uncontrollable Jane Fonda. A chamber play for the cinema was a great opportunity for the minimalist Redford. A truly odd couple: the life-hungry teenager and the rational young lawyer in a New York attic apartment. Sometimes you get the feeling Redford is just amusedly watching his vivacious partner most of the time, rather than participating. This may be his last chance, but he demonstrates with confident composure: I don't depend on you. This constellation works.

Suddenly, he's no longer considered box office poison in Hollywood, but a star. He was almost cast in "The Graduate," but then director Mike Nichols had doubts: should this athletic, good-looking young man have trouble finding a girlfriend? Instead of Redford, the then-unknown Dustin Hoffman got the role of the shy college graduate with no clear goals in life. And in 1969, Redford, along with Paul Newman, made the Western parody genre a success with "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." Two hippie bandits play their cunning game with the law—until the end, when they're surrounded by an entire army of trigger-happy police officers, jump at him—and the picture freezes mid-jump. Perhaps a miracle will save them?

Robert Redford has almost become a name in the Hollywood film industry: "The Sting" from 1973 is a film about a sophisticated gambling scam that still seems surprisingly fresh today. "The Great Gatsby," based on F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel and written by Francis Ford Coppola, is as visually powerful as it is subtle. The love of a rich, semi-criminal man for a young woman he is trying to win over – that already has something of "Indecent Proposal." And here, too, amidst the outward glamour, Redford remains a deeply ambivalent, almost fatalistic figure.

Solid, well-made cinema – that's how it could have continued. But in the 1970s, Redford was looking for politically ambitious material from directors who applied a different standard than simply box office success. He met up with an old acquaintance from their times of shared failure, Sydney Pollack, who now worked mostly as a director. Together they made a series of unusual, harsh films, dismantling the American self-image as a lie. In 1972, in "Jeremiah Johnson," Redford played a trapper who fled civilization for the wild Rocky Mountains – a dropout out of bitter conviction. He and Pollack – together with his partner Barbra Streisand – would painfully demonstrate the loss, or worse, the betrayal, of former ideals in "The Way We Were."

Finally, in "Three Days of the Condor," we peer with Pollack and Redford into the demented mind of the American secret service, where an entire department disguised as a literary institute is liquidated to conceal a flaw in the system. One escapes by chance – and is mercilessly hunted down. The ending – also concerning the future of American society – remains ominously open. This also applies, again with Pollack as director, to "The Electric Horseman" (1979), in which a rodeo cowboy simply rides away one day – because his horse is in danger of breaking down in the garish entertainment circus.

Redford's political stance is clear: He opposes all authoritarian tendencies in the United States, now in a film alongside Dustin Hoffman, who once robbed him of the coveted role in "The Graduate." "All the President's Men" by Alan J. Pakula is a very special kind of graduation. The film reconstructs the investigation of two Washington Post journalists who were able to prove the 1972 break-in at the Democratic campaign headquarters, commissioned by President Nixon—the Watergate scandal ultimately forced Nixon's resignation.

Redford now successfully directed a number of films himself, including "The Horse Whisperer" in 1998. He founded his own film production company and initiated the annual Sundance Festival to promote independent film. People believed in his commitment to auteur cinema, as well as to nature conservation, especially ocean protection, about which he produced his own documentary series.

His last major film was a small one, more of an auteur film of a special kind. Already in his late 70s, he played a sailor in JC Chandor's "All Is Lost" in 2013. A man alone in a wrecked sailboat at sea. What a chamber play, with full physical and psychological commitment, on a large stage – but without any audience. Because he is all alone out here. If he doesn't help himself, no one will. A film without dialogue, but with all the more existential sounds. For a full 106 minutes, the old man on the sinking boat struggles – like in Hemingway – with himself and the elemental power of the sea.

What a farewell performance from a once-in-a-century actor who was also an impressive personality. On September 16, Robert Redford died in his sleep at the age of 89 in Sundance, Utah.