By Dr Rahim Said
The first time I became aware of Robert Redford was in 1969, not in a cinema, but in a friend’s living room on Long Island, New York.
We were watching the Academy Awards. My college friend, with his sandy hair and charm, could have passed off as a junior Redford on campus. But the man on the screen—bright smile, golden presence—was something else. From that night, he became my hero.
Today, I mourn his passing with deep sorrow.
Robert Redford, Hollywood’s golden boy, has died at 89. According to his publicist, he left this world peacefully in his Utah home, surrounded by family. That feels fitting: a man whose screen presence was boundless, yet who sought refuge in solitude and nature.
To me, he was always the Sundance Kid. The 1969 film opposite Paul Newman defined my generation’s cinema—outlaws, charmers, men caught between freedom and fate. Redford followed it with The Sting, The Candidate, and All the President’s Men, embodying the restless energy of an America in flux. His characters were handsome, flawed, and human. And he carried that off-screen too.
But Redford was never content with being just a movie idol. His directorial debut, Ordinary People, stunned the world and won him an Academy Award. Later, with A River Runs Through It and Quiz Show, he proved his eye for detail and empathy.
He created Sundance not as a vanity project but as a sanctuary for independent filmmakers—an entire movement that owes him its voice.
What I admired most, though, was his courage to step away. Redford retreated to the mountains of Utah, where he raised his family, found love, and connected with nature.
He became a steadfast activist, warning of climate change decades before it was fashionable. He used fame not to chase excess but to fight for clean energy, wildlife, and the fragile earth he loved.
In 2018, with The Old Man & The Gun, he signed off from acting, saying: “I’ve been doing it since I was 21. That’s enough.” The role—a charming rogue, full of life—was the perfect goodbye.
Yes, he was a sex symbol. Yes, women swooned and men wanted to be him. But for me, he was always more than that. He was the artist who sought authenticity, the activist who listened to scientists, the father who endured tragedy yet pressed on with quiet dignity.
With his passing, a golden era feels dimmer. For me, it feels like losing a companion from my youth, a reminder of nights when movies promised magic.
The Sundance Kid has finally ridden into the sunset. And we who loved him are left standing, grateful for the trail he blazed.