Robert Redford - Michael Feeney Callan [165]
The man Rosenberg remembered from The Defenders was much changed. Redford was, said Rosenberg, “a mess of contradictions, both calm and convulsive”—which was unsurprising, given the disarray of his personal life. “I can’t say a word against him as an artist,” says Rosenberg. “To me, he was very like Paul in his approach. He did not openly intellectualize as he went along, as Paul often didn’t. It was all done in private, beforehand. He carefully prepared every movement, every line, its meaning and the play-out. He invented a lot himself, as all good actors do, which means he takes responsibility for what happens up on the screen, just like Paul did. And the director’s contribution? I would say to him, ‘Bob, this isn’t working because the rhythm seems wrong.’ Just that. And he, like Paul, would take it on himself to go back out on the floor and find this elusive rhythm, without any big, heart-wrenching analysis. That, and simply that, is what makes a good actor. I experienced the same with Myrna Loy, Barbara Stanwyck and Charles Boyer. They were all good actors. Over the years, in all the movies I directed, I learned one thing: that stardom is defined by intuition. Stars are not ‘directed.’ They possess an intuition for the audience response that is beyond the likes of me, or anyone else who calls themselves a director. They have some hotline to a greater intelligence, however you attribute that. I observed that neither Barbara Stanwyck nor Robert Redford really thought things through. Their gift was their intuition.”
Miraculously, Rosenberg brought Brubaker in just three weeks over time, though the overrun meant the budget was shot. Redford liked what he saw of the rushes, but he was distracted. Even as he wrapped the last days in Ohio, he had Alvin Sargent’s finished script for Ordinary People, the movie he would at last direct, in his hand. “I offered to help him with it,” said Rosenberg, “but he said no thanks. He was in a rush to move on.”
On a bright winter’s afternoon, Stan and Mary Alice Collins waited at the bottom of the black run of Grizzly Bowl at Sundance, the snowy canyon winds whipping at their faces. Redford and Lola were up top, ready to go. As ever, Bob was first off the mark, slaloming off dramatically. Jerry Hill, the Sundance mountain manager, watched him go. Redford had learned to ski for Downhill Racer and never gave up the sport. “He was more showy than expert,” says Hill, who has watched thousands of skiers over fifty years. But the appeal for Redford was more than spartan exercise. It was the love for the mountain that had him out all summer carefully cutting back the weed aspens and preparing the runs with Jamie, so that they could ski on a pristine surface at the start of every season.
This morning, Stan Collins was reveling in Redford’s relaxation. “I missed the old Bob,” says Collins. “In New York in the old days we played tennis in Central Park a couple of times a week and talked away the worries of the world. When he got his own court at Sundance, we played a lot. Then it became sporadic. There were always flights to catch and movie locations.”
Stan watched the Redfords reach the end of the ski run. A table had been reserved at the Grill Room for dinner. Soft-shell crabs had been flown in, and he was looking forward to catching up. “But then someone came and said there was an urgent call for Bob. Hendler was calling from L.A., Hollywood business. Bob told Lola and the rest of us to go ahead for dinner, that he’d catch up later.” Collins remembers the shadow crossing Lola’s eyes. “She just looked at him and said, ‘You know, Bob.