Robert Redford Part 5

Redford headed west when Barefoot Barefoot wrapped, resuming the ProvoLos Angeles circuit, driving his new stripped-down 904 racing Porsche like a maniac, disappearing for days on end. Peer Oppenheimer, a journalist he'd met in Spain, reported a gathering storm in a piece written for wrapped, resuming the ProvoLos Angeles circuit, driving his new stripped-down 904 racing Porsche like a maniac, disappearing for days on end. Peer Oppenheimer, a journalist he'd met in Spain, reported a gathering storm in a piece written for Family Weekly Family Weekly t.i.tled "The Hide-and-Seek Life of Robert Redford." "The danger of success," Redford told Oppenheimer, "is that it forces you into a mold. I prefer independence." In fact, what he was seeking was a purpose beyond movies. "I was aware that all this spiritual s.h.i.+t was a nightmare for the family," Redford now says. "I had anger management issues; there were a lot of unresolved conflicts." For succor he turned to Utah, to Mormon conviviality and the mountains. In a copartners.h.i.+p with Stan Collins, he put up $8,000 to purchase Hoover's Clothing Store, a fifteen-thousand-square-foot property in Provo that specialized in ski gear. The venture failed, with only the ladies' fas.h.i.+on bas.e.m.e.nt, which Lola managed, showing a profit. "I thought it would be a lark, but it was a burden. At the end of the day, it was just a store, just money. It meant nothing." t.i.tled "The Hide-and-Seek Life of Robert Redford." "The danger of success," Redford told Oppenheimer, "is that it forces you into a mold. I prefer independence." In fact, what he was seeking was a purpose beyond movies. "I was aware that all this spiritual s.h.i.+t was a nightmare for the family," Redford now says. "I had anger management issues; there were a lot of unresolved conflicts." For succor he turned to Utah, to Mormon conviviality and the mountains. In a copartners.h.i.+p with Stan Collins, he put up $8,000 to purchase Hoover's Clothing Store, a fifteen-thousand-square-foot property in Provo that specialized in ski gear. The venture failed, with only the ladies' fas.h.i.+on bas.e.m.e.nt, which Lola managed, showing a profit. "I thought it would be a lark, but it was a burden. At the end of the day, it was just a store, just money. It meant nothing."

What he was really searching for, Redford says, was peace of mind. Nothing could calm him. "I'd replaced the booze with pills. Stan introduced me to a diet pill that was supposed to keep me in shape, but it fried my brains. I took Seconal for sleep, but I was wired and yet tired all the time."

Talk of westerns filled his evenings. He had, he told Pollack, a new regard for them. Gene Saks had observed that, during Barefoot, Barefoot, whenever he was relaxing, Redford would "strip off Bratter's suit and opt to wear a Stetson and boots to let us know who he really was." whenever he was relaxing, Redford would "strip off Bratter's suit and opt to wear a Stetson and boots to let us know who he really was." The Virginian, The Virginian, Redford told Pollack, was one of his best experiences, "because of the story values and the character authenticity." Pollack was at work on a gritty western for Burt Lancaster, United Artists' Redford told Pollack, was one of his best experiences, "because of the story values and the character authenticity." Pollack was at work on a gritty western for Burt Lancaster, United Artists' The Scalphunters, The Scalphunters, about a trapper at war with the Indians who steal his hides. Pollack had come to it excitedly, having learned the western ropes from his TV years. "Like most Americans, Bob and I shared the experience of growing up on a diet of John Ford and John Sturges," said Pollack. "It was a secondary education, this western thing, a birthright information source. We were also equally irritated by the phoniness of it. For about a trapper at war with the Indians who steal his hides. Pollack had come to it excitedly, having learned the western ropes from his TV years. "Like most Americans, Bob and I shared the experience of growing up on a diet of John Ford and John Sturges," said Pollack. "It was a secondary education, this western thing, a birthright information source. We were also equally irritated by the phoniness of it. For The Scalphunters, The Scalphunters, I discussed it with Burt and we made a conscious decision to deglamorize it. Same with Bob. We started talking about creating a movie like I discussed it with Burt and we made a conscious decision to deglamorize it. Same with Bob. We started talking about creating a movie like My Darling Clementine. My Darling Clementine. We'd say, 'If we get the chance, we'll break some ground, we'll do it different.'" We'd say, 'If we get the chance, we'll break some ground, we'll do it different.'"

Now, as the third movie in Redford's three-picture contract, Paramount offered him Blue, Blue, a script by television writer Ronald Cohen set in the disputed no-man's-land between Mexico and Texas in the 1850s. The story was a gritty romance about a Mexican bandit who falls for a Texan, to the chagrin of his family. Redford felt an immediate attachment: here was the borderland, Tot's territory. For a few weeks he researched the background enthusiastically. Then, in a planning meeting, the executive overseeing his contract at Paramount, Bob Evans, casually informed him he'd also signed Silvio Narizzano, the Canadian director riding high on the current British pop hit a script by television writer Ronald Cohen set in the disputed no-man's-land between Mexico and Texas in the 1850s. The story was a gritty romance about a Mexican bandit who falls for a Texan, to the chagrin of his family. Redford felt an immediate attachment: here was the borderland, Tot's territory. For a few weeks he researched the background enthusiastically. Then, in a planning meeting, the executive overseeing his contract at Paramount, Bob Evans, casually informed him he'd also signed Silvio Narizzano, the Canadian director riding high on the current British pop hit Georgy Girl. Georgy Girl. Redford winced. "I thought this was wrong. In my view, Redford winced. "I thought this was wrong. In my view, Blue Blue would only work as a movie of historical reverence, never as a pop film." would only work as a movie of historical reverence, never as a pop film."

During the early discussions about Blue, Blue, Redford experienced a clear understanding of the limitations of defining himself solely, or even princ.i.p.ally, in movie terms. "Movie stardom was never going to do it for me. Neither was Hoover's retail store, or diet pills," he says. "Many of my Mormon friends, like Stan, saw my struggle as a religious crisis. And then the pressures for conversion came on, very kindly, very committed, very determined. I was courted, I was given Mormon literature, and though they tried, I was not blessed. The more they pushed me to commit to the Church, the more I pulled away." Redford experienced a clear understanding of the limitations of defining himself solely, or even princ.i.p.ally, in movie terms. "Movie stardom was never going to do it for me. Neither was Hoover's retail store, or diet pills," he says. "Many of my Mormon friends, like Stan, saw my struggle as a religious crisis. And then the pressures for conversion came on, very kindly, very committed, very determined. I was courted, I was given Mormon literature, and though they tried, I was not blessed. The more they pushed me to commit to the Church, the more I pulled away."

After Christmas, Stan Collins and his wife, Mary Alice, invited the Redfords on a driving trip to Lake Powell, one of the country's biggest man-made reservoirs, in southern Utah. The couples stopped at Gallup, New Mexico, and Redford rambled around on the Navajo reservation. It was five years since his Pacific-bound train had stopped for water at Gallup and the face at the window incited a healing Zen moment. "This time around I took my time. I explored and really lost myself in the culture," he says. "It blew me away. I felt at peace and at home, with the faces, the postures, everything." Redford talked to the traders, sat in the dirt to play with face-painted kids. "Some drunken Navajo called me Bonfaccio, and it stuck. From then on, to myself, I was Bonfaccio, the white interloper. Bonfaccio became a moniker and it was the name I wrote on the clapper slate when I first signed myself as director of Ordinary People. Ordinary People."

Since his preteens he'd been reaching for a bridge of understanding between the two contrasting Americas of his parental origins: the frontier Texas of Tot and the urban East Coast world of Tiger. During The Chase, The Chase, the activism of Brando, Penn and CORE had teased his awareness of Native American and minority issues, and in November, as he finished the activism of Brando, Penn and CORE had teased his awareness of Native American and minority issues, and in November, as he finished Barefoot, Barefoot, the eruption of youth politics in the Sunset Strip riots, where a coalition of liberals protested the overdevelopment of L.A., further focused him. At Lake Powell, contemplating the eruption of youth politics in the Sunset Strip riots, where a coalition of liberals protested the overdevelopment of L.A., further focused him. At Lake Powell, contemplating Blue, Blue, he believed he had achieved some liberating clarity. he believed he had achieved some liberating clarity.

Purchasing Timp, he reflected, was about reconciliation. It seemed fated, even, for it was close by in 1869 that the golden spike was driven into the ground at Promontory Summit, to mark the joining of railroads from east and west. He was attracted to Indian culture, he decided, because it was the root of all all Americas. Redford calls this the moment of awareness that presaged his sense of stewards.h.i.+p about the canyon and also his commitment to explore the diversity of American culture, which would later be foundational in his creation of the Sundance Inst.i.tute. "There's always a key moment," he says. "That was mine." Americas. Redford calls this the moment of awareness that presaged his sense of stewards.h.i.+p about the canyon and also his commitment to explore the diversity of American culture, which would later be foundational in his creation of the Sundance Inst.i.tute. "There's always a key moment," he says. "That was mine."

Soon afterward, a silversmith Hopi called Fred Kapote made Redford the ring he still wears today. It depicts a turtle, representing patience and endurance-two staples that would be well tested in the days ahead. In the spring, he was ready to face Bob Evans and the fight for a role beyond stardom.

11.

Toward Concord Barefoot in the Park opened at Radio City Music Hall in the summer of 1967. It earned $9 million, five times its budget, in the first six weeks, a resounding success. But Redford had an appet.i.te for change, and change was in the air. America was agitated. Disillusioned by the Bay of Pigs fiasco, anxious because of the missile crisis, the death of Kennedy and the war in Vietnam, Americans everywhere were reappraising core values. This was the year Brian Wilson retired the Beach Boys' California Dream and the Beatles metamorphosed from mop-topped innocents to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. It was also the year Andy Warhol brought his avant-garde movies to the marketplace at Cannes. Change was everywhere. opened at Radio City Music Hall in the summer of 1967. It earned $9 million, five times its budget, in the first six weeks, a resounding success. But Redford had an appet.i.te for change, and change was in the air. America was agitated. Disillusioned by the Bay of Pigs fiasco, anxious because of the missile crisis, the death of Kennedy and the war in Vietnam, Americans everywhere were reappraising core values. This was the year Brian Wilson retired the Beach Boys' California Dream and the Beatles metamorphosed from mop-topped innocents to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. It was also the year Andy Warhol brought his avant-garde movies to the marketplace at Cannes. Change was everywhere.

Redford listened to Sgt. Pepper's, Sgt. Pepper's, grew his hair, explored magic mushrooms as an alternative to hash. "There's no question that a fresh wind was blowing," he says. "People were impatient for answers, for newness. But new and good don't necessarily correspond. This was at the center of my thinking when I saw what Paramount was attempting with grew his hair, explored magic mushrooms as an alternative to hash. "There's no question that a fresh wind was blowing," he says. "People were impatient for answers, for newness. But new and good don't necessarily correspond. This was at the center of my thinking when I saw what Paramount was attempting with Blue. Blue."

After several contentious script meetings at which Redford felt "the wrong sensibilities entirely" were being imposed on a western story, a date was finally agreed for production of Blue Blue to commence. Redford was troubled because he had found Narizzano evasive and he didn't trust Evans in his promise of a new script. He set out, however, by train from New York to join the production. "Halfway to Arizona," he says, "I got off and rang Meta. I told her it wasn't going to happen. I'd been promised sight of a final draft of the script but it was withheld from me. I said, 'I'm sorry. I think this is going to be a very different movie from the one I signed up for. So I'm out.'" to commence. Redford was troubled because he had found Narizzano evasive and he didn't trust Evans in his promise of a new script. He set out, however, by train from New York to join the production. "Halfway to Arizona," he says, "I got off and rang Meta. I told her it wasn't going to happen. I'd been promised sight of a final draft of the script but it was withheld from me. I said, 'I'm sorry. I think this is going to be a very different movie from the one I signed up for. So I'm out.'"

Paramount's wrath seemed inevitable. The company had just come through a corporate takeover and the biggest reshuffle in its fifty-year existence. The previous October, Gulf + Western Industries, a conglomerate encompa.s.sing mining, manufacturing and finance companies and founded by entrepreneur Charles Bluhdorn in 1957, offered Paramount's embattled shareholders an acquisition deal for 10 percent more than the market price. Since its creation by Adolph Zukor, Paramount's fortunes had risen and fallen. It was, of course, one of the Big Five that dominated Hollywood, and its star roster was unmatched. Valentino, William S. Hart, Mae West, the Marx Brothers, Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly had all been contract players, and the studio had made cla.s.sic works like Sunset Boulevard Sunset Boulevard and and The Ten Commandments The Ten Commandments. But in the forties an ant.i.trust initiative required that Zukor sell off his theaters. Then television began making its mark. The record profits of $20 million in 1949 fell to $6 million in 1950. But Bluhdorn envisioned a fusion with other entertainment media and decided to take a chance. His area of specialization was the Caribbean sugar industry, but he was hot for Hollywood. Bluhdorn's bid for Paramount was accepted by the shareholders, and he quickly proved his worth by establis.h.i.+ng the Leisure Time umbrella, comprising Paramount, the publisher Simon and Schuster and New York's Madison Square Garden. As movie ticket sales, in decline since the mid-fifties, started an upswing in the late sixties, there were those who regarded Bluhdorn as a visionary as well as a good businessman. His pa.s.sion, he told everyone, was making Paramount the industry leader.

To Redford, Bluhdorn, who was just seven years older than he was, at first seemed fatherly. "He was this nice, silver-haired, big-smile guy who just shook my hand with enthusiasm and said, 'Gee, this is a great moment for me. You're the first movie star I've ever met.'" Three months later, after Redford had balked at Blue, Blue, Bluhdorn was launching a $250,000 lawsuit against him. Bluhdorn was launching a $250,000 lawsuit against him.

Redford's a.s.sets amounted to not much more than $100,000, and his personal debts topped $50,000. He had no contracts in hand, and no clear picture of the direction of his acting career. On top of this, Paramount was enjoining him from working until a settlement was reached. Redford's response was knee-jerk. He changed agents, lawyers and business partners. Meta Rosenberg, who challenged his reasoning on Blue, Blue, was replaced by Natalie Wood's new boyfriend, the former London International Artists' agent Richard Gregson, who had come to Los Angeles to find talent for new British films. Gregson moved quickly from agent to production partner. The priority, though, was legal advice. Redford felt he had been badly served: "One of the great lessons of the movies in the sixties was the need for was replaced by Natalie Wood's new boyfriend, the former London International Artists' agent Richard Gregson, who had come to Los Angeles to find talent for new British films. Gregson moved quickly from agent to production partner. The priority, though, was legal advice. Redford felt he had been badly served: "One of the great lessons of the movies in the sixties was the need for inventive inventive legal support. The situation might be likened to environmental law, which didn't exist in the sixties. In movies, the studios had been so all-controlling that personal lawyers were weaklings. Now it was the new era, and I needed someone more imaginative than lawyers who were old-school studio-serving guys." At the Dalton School, Shauna and Jamie were friends with the Frankfurt kids, whose father, Steve, was Redford's age and the youngest president ever of Young and Rubicam, the global ad agency. During social evenings, Steve introduced Redford to his brother Mike, a partner in a small law firm. The trio bonded. "Their whole family att.i.tude was can-do," says Redford. "It was amazingly refres.h.i.+ng after the narrowness of L.A. movie lawyers." Bronx-born, the Frankfurts had humble beginnings but saw their father claw his way to prosperity. "Our father was an original," says Mike Frankfurt, "a small-time lawyer who made a great life for his family by high-risk rolling. His motto was, 'If we go to the poorhouse, we take a cab,' and that was the principle I built my own legal practice on, and the one that attracted Bob." legal support. The situation might be likened to environmental law, which didn't exist in the sixties. In movies, the studios had been so all-controlling that personal lawyers were weaklings. Now it was the new era, and I needed someone more imaginative than lawyers who were old-school studio-serving guys." At the Dalton School, Shauna and Jamie were friends with the Frankfurt kids, whose father, Steve, was Redford's age and the youngest president ever of Young and Rubicam, the global ad agency. During social evenings, Steve introduced Redford to his brother Mike, a partner in a small law firm. The trio bonded. "Their whole family att.i.tude was can-do," says Redford. "It was amazingly refres.h.i.+ng after the narrowness of L.A. movie lawyers." Bronx-born, the Frankfurts had humble beginnings but saw their father claw his way to prosperity. "Our father was an original," says Mike Frankfurt, "a small-time lawyer who made a great life for his family by high-risk rolling. His motto was, 'If we go to the poorhouse, we take a cab,' and that was the principle I built my own legal practice on, and the one that attracted Bob."

Mike Frankfurt was a pragmatist who immediately saw that Redford's great a.s.set was the popularity engendered by Barefoot. Barefoot. "I saw that he had a lot going for him," says Frankfurt, "but I also saw how the dice were loaded. Paramount had a good case. The fact that Bob's concerns about "I saw that he had a lot going for him," says Frankfurt, "but I also saw how the dice were loaded. Paramount had a good case. The fact that Bob's concerns about Blue Blue weren't game playing but genuine creative concerns was almost incidental. One sympathized with Bluhdorn, who was looking for good news for the Paramount shareholders. He didn't need troublemakers. From my perspective, it was a simple issue of utilizing Bob's popularity and going in hard to meet in the middle. There was nothing to be gained for anyone by standing their ground and calling each other names. We needed them, and they needed us. So we must compromise, forgive, deal and move on." weren't game playing but genuine creative concerns was almost incidental. One sympathized with Bluhdorn, who was looking for good news for the Paramount shareholders. He didn't need troublemakers. From my perspective, it was a simple issue of utilizing Bob's popularity and going in hard to meet in the middle. There was nothing to be gained for anyone by standing their ground and calling each other names. We needed them, and they needed us. So we must compromise, forgive, deal and move on."

In the end, Paramount dropped the injunction in return for Redford's agreement to make two movies for a combined fee of $65,000, followed by three further films. Redford was not happy about the arrangement but was mollified by Mike Frankfurt's creation of a far better boilerplate for all future contracts. "I worked closely with Gregson," says Frankfurt. "Richard would use his European contacts to drum up some business. Contractually, from now on, we'd market Bob on the a.s.sumption that he had broken through. We needed to rewrite the rule book. Henceforth, we would require a percentage of the gross, and Bob would have script approval and casting approval written into all deals, like Natalie Wood and every other big star."

Early on it seemed the two films Redford would make to fulfill his initial commitment would be Abraham Polonsky's Tell Them Willie Boy Is Here, Tell Them Willie Boy Is Here, a Universal western based on true events that Paramount was happy to loan him out for, and an adaptation of Oakley Hall's novel a Universal western based on true events that Paramount was happy to loan him out for, and an adaptation of Oakley Hall's novel The Downhill Racers, The Downhill Racers, to be directed by Roman Polanski. Robert Evans, now studio vice president, had brought Polanski over from Europe specifically to make a movie about skiing, which was the director's favorite pastime, though to be directed by Roman Polanski. Robert Evans, now studio vice president, had brought Polanski over from Europe specifically to make a movie about skiing, which was the director's favorite pastime, though Rosemary's Baby, Rosemary's Baby, another pet project, had taken precedence. Earlier, in the planning stages of another pet project, had taken precedence. Earlier, in the planning stages of Rosemary's Baby, Rosemary's Baby, Redford had met with Polanski. In his memoirs, Polanski wrote that he wanted Redford for the lead in his horror movie, but the meeting went awry when Redford arrived in a wig and a false beard to deflect legal servers, only to be cornered by a lawyer. Polanski claimed, somewhat bizarrely, that the information had been leaked by Evans, who wanted to dampen a Redford-Polanski friends.h.i.+p. The legal papers, Redford explains, arose from an incident at a restaurant where he had punched a paparazzo. "I don't believe Evans was opposed to me working with Roman," he says. Redford had met with Polanski. In his memoirs, Polanski wrote that he wanted Redford for the lead in his horror movie, but the meeting went awry when Redford arrived in a wig and a false beard to deflect legal servers, only to be cornered by a lawyer. Polanski claimed, somewhat bizarrely, that the information had been leaked by Evans, who wanted to dampen a Redford-Polanski friends.h.i.+p. The legal papers, Redford explains, arose from an incident at a restaurant where he had punched a paparazzo. "I don't believe Evans was opposed to me working with Roman," he says.

Soon after, Polanski was in trouble with Evans because he was running late on Rosemary's Baby Rosemary's Baby and incurring heavy costs. Rumor had it that Evans was on the point of dumping the ski project. Redford saw an opportunity. "I believe that I was screwed by Evans and the makers of and incurring heavy costs. Rumor had it that Evans was on the point of dumping the ski project. Redford saw an opportunity. "I believe that I was screwed by Evans and the makers of Blue, Blue," says Redford, "and I wanted Bluhdorn to know what really occurred. I bided my time. I knew I had to wait till the lawsuit was settled, but then I went to him and told him in detail the promises that were made, and how I was let down. He was most understanding. He said, 'That's bad. I had no idea. I hope Paramount can make it up to you.'" Redford made his proposal there and then to Bluhdorn. If Evans ditched Polanski, Redford wanted to step in and take over the ski movie, maybe set it up as a flags.h.i.+p project for the production company he was in talks with Gregson and Frankfurt about. "Charlie was very decent," says Redford. "He didn't mess around. 'Okay,' he said. 'Here's the deal. If you can make this skiing movie for less than $2 million, it's yours to do.'"

It was an exhilarating moment-for Frankfurt, Gregson and Redford. "We knew we had an opportunity par excellence," says Frankfurt. "The way I saw it, Bob had managed to turn a terrible, career-compromising lawsuit into a production company!"

Redford had only just begun to ski. He also lacked production experience, as did Gregson and Frankfurt. "But I knew it was my best option," says Redford. "Firstly, it represented autonomy. If I could crack it with my own production company, I had choices beyond the studio or the agent. Secondly, I would in principle be in a situation where I could control the integrity of a production. As a producer, I could have my say in what appeared on-screen, like Spiegel did." Indeed, Redford's first decision was that the skiing movie would be shot in Europe. "For me, Europe was still the big tease. I'd seen the mountains of Italy and Switzerland. I knew it would all be extraordinary on film. But I also knew the cost would be twice what Charlie was offering if we went the Europe route. It didn't worry me. It was a chance to build my own film for the first time."

Redford's team named their production company Wildwood, after a fork in the road leading to Timp Haven. It was to operate out of the West Los Angeles office of Richard Gregson. "Bob's confrontation with Bluhdorn took b.a.l.l.s," says Frankfurt. "But this was the sixties, remember, and we took chances. It wasn't just Bob, it was everyone." Redford's courage was fed, says Frankfurt, by the new social circles in which he was moving: "New York was his power pack. He'd begun to hang around with some smart, motivated people. And it struck me that he was quite tactical about these friends.h.i.+ps." Among the Redfords' new friends were Ilene Goldman and her husband, Bill, a novelist and recent screenwriter, who was just finis.h.i.+ng a big speculative script called "The Sundance Kid and Butch Ca.s.sidy," based on folklore surrounding two of the Wild West's most controversial bandits. Redford also befriended the new liberal mayor of New York, John Lindsay, a friend of Steve Frankfurt's. "Those were dynamic days," says Frankfurt. "So much was happening with youth culture, the Brit invasion, black actors like Sidney Poitier finally making the mainstream, Bobby Kennedy championing the poor. There was a feeling of real cultural rebirth, and all our conversations were filled with ma.s.sive ideas of all the great changes that could be. could be. Bob was at the head of the pack, thinking Bob was at the head of the pack, thinking big. big."

Before the ink was dry on the Wildwood shareholding papers, Redford astonished Frankfurt with the audacity of another, grander scheme. Timp had begun to obsess him. It was more than a family hideaway. It was a place of history. Redford told Frankfurt he had become "soul-bound" to the canyon, which to him was "a slice of John Muir's America." Lola and the kids used the A-frame during summers and through the holidays. "But for Bob," says Frankfurt, "it was much more than a vacation home." The bordering lands were all owned by the Scottish Stewarts, who had staked their claim in 1900 under the terms of the Desert Land Act and displaced the remnants of the roving Ute Indian tribe. The Stewarts first started a sheep farm, then in the fifties the brothers Ray and Paul Stewart developed the mountainside opposite into a Tyrol-styled ski resort that attracted hundreds of locals all through the winter. Timp Haven, as the resort was called, was on its last legs when Redford started buying acreage around the old sheep pasture. What remained was a Polynesian-themed timber refreshment hut called Ki-Te-Kai ("Come and get it" in Maori), an old T-bar lift and a gra.s.sy slope. Redford loved visiting. The winter skiing had become a social highlight of his year, and the Lindsays, the Schickels, the Goldmans and the Frankfurts joined in for seasonal weekends on the slopes.

Sitting on the perimeter fence of the homestead one day, admiring Timpanogos with Frankfurt, Redford said, "I'd like to own it all, Mike."

Frankfurt smiled. "What? A mountain? You'd like to own the entire canyon?"

"Yep. I'd like to make sure no one screws it up. I mean it. Could we afford it?"

Frankfurt remembers thinking, He doesn't have the cash to own it, but he'd make the perfect custodian. Redford explained that a few days earlier Stan Collins had informed him that the Stewarts were negotiating a sale to two rival property developers. "Their plan was for tract housing," says Frankfurt. "Clear the screw pines, dig into the ski slopes, build, build, build." Frankfurt recalls that Redford was upset by the plan. "He said, 'Can you imagine why anyone would just ditch this beautiful place for money?' It was so heartfelt that I was moved. I told him, 'Okay, you want the whole canyon? The answer is no-you cannot afford it. But let's give it a shot anyway. There are tax breaks for second properties. We can leverage. We can be inventive. It might work.'"

At that moment, says Redford, the notion of an arts sanctuary was not in his thoughts: "I wanted to preserve the land, that was all." Stephanie Phillips, an agent who had begun working with Redford, recalls it differently: "I know Bob says that, but in my memory he already had more than a hunch about what this property could eventually be used for. We were in the middle of a cultural revolution in America. So much was changing, with the counterculture, with entertainment. Bob was onto it. Even then, at the very start of his expansion in the canyon, the idea was fermenting. Here, he thought, can be a haven for the arts, an experimental place. New York and Los Angeles were the centers, of course, but he was pondering how he could bring this virgin hinterland into the equation."

Frankfurt turned to a friend, the Los Angeles lawyer Gary Hendler, for advice on acquiring a substantial acreage from the Stewarts. Hendler's advice was to use the 1966 tax break for second-home purchases to obtain credit. He agreed with Frankfurt that the lands could then be sustained by expanding the recreation facilities, while holding development in check. Accordingly, two separate plots were purchased that defined a large family estate for the Redfords north of the ski area and, on the opposite side of the Alpine Loop road, the nascent resort itself. The family estate amounted to 1,179 acres; the resort, 2,200 acres. The cost, almost entirely leveraged, including the resort's a.s.sets, was $1.6 million.

On August 5, 1968, in a press conference at the Utah Travel Council in Salt Lake City, the deal was announced. Wildwood Developments, a company composed of Redford, Frankfurt, Bob Gottschalk (Frankfurt's business partner), Boston banker Hans Estin and Stan Collins, would relaunch Timp Haven as a year-round public recreation venue. From the podium, Frankfurt said the business objective was to double current facilities "while still maintaining the present beauty of the area." To ensure year-round business, there would be a snowmaker installed and a lodge built to draw the vacationers who usually gravitated to Colorado. Eventually, said Frankfurt, a Swiss-type village would be erected, "with architecture strictly controlled to maintain uniformity and harmony with the natural surroundings." Redford then took center stage, emphasizing that "the new enterprise will be geared toward family recreation," emphasizing camping, fis.h.i.+ng and riding. "As a business plan it looked okay," Frankfurt remembers. "But there were disadvantages, the biggest being Bob. Yes, he wanted to preserve the canyon and he was prepared to operate a ski resort to fund it all. But truly, he wanted it all for himself. He didn't want snowmakers and hospitality lodges. He wanted a fiefdom that he would invest himself himself in. And he wanted to personalize it with a name that was dear to him." in. And he wanted to personalize it with a name that was dear to him."

Frankfurt was about to turn in late one night in New York when Redford called from Utah. "I got the magic name," he said. "I want to call it Bougainvillea."

Frankfurt said, "Forget it, Bob. Not only will no one remember the name, they'll never be able to spell it. Think of something else."

Ever since Lewis and Clark ventured west, settlers had struggled with the parallel joys and dangers of the New World. James Fenimore Cooper's Leatherstocking Tales condensed the experience, introducing Natty b.u.mppo, the adventurer, and his alter ego, the native Chingachgook, each inhabiting a wilderness of extraordinary contradictions. The dime novels published by Beadle and Adams half a century later brought the scout, the cowboy and the outlaw into American life. Thereafter, actors like William S. Hart and movies like The Great Train Robbery The Great Train Robbery in 1903 rounded off a stratified universe where Indian attacks, cattle rustling and mail robberies defined survival. By 1940, of the 477 movies released that year, 30 percent were westerns. Of the 178 movies produced in 1967, just 11 percent were westerns. What remained of the western fantasy was a bloodbath in the hands of Sam Peckinpah and Sergio Leone. Ch.o.r.eographed violence dominated; nuance of cultural or historical exploration was rare. in 1903 rounded off a stratified universe where Indian attacks, cattle rustling and mail robberies defined survival. By 1940, of the 477 movies released that year, 30 percent were westerns. Of the 178 movies produced in 1967, just 11 percent were westerns. What remained of the western fantasy was a bloodbath in the hands of Sam Peckinpah and Sergio Leone. Ch.o.r.eographed violence dominated; nuance of cultural or historical exploration was rare.

Still, Redford's interest was historical investigation: "I knew I was ignorant. I had a clear picture of myself as an undereducated American. What I'd learned from Tot was the tradition of the mountain man, of self-sufficiency. What I'd educated myself about was the arrogance of easterners settling the West. As the years went on, I developed a need to understand the Native American dispossession. Curiosity drove me to seek out ethnic projects at that time, and I narrated the Blue Lake Blue Lake doc.u.mentary about developer exploitation of Navajo resources. But I wasn't an activist. I felt maybe I could contribute something by trying to find western movies of insight." doc.u.mentary about developer exploitation of Navajo resources. But I wasn't an activist. I felt maybe I could contribute something by trying to find western movies of insight."

Tell Them Willie Boy Is Here was promising. It was based on Harry Lawton's carefully doc.u.mented 1960 novel, was promising. It was based on Harry Lawton's carefully doc.u.mented 1960 novel, Willie Boy: A Desert Manhunt, Willie Boy: A Desert Manhunt, the theme of which was the victimization of the Native American, explored in the true story of a Las Vegas Paiute, Willie Boy, who "captures" for marriage a Chemehuevi girl. In 1909 the real-life tribal dispute became a national scandal when Willie Boy shot dead the father of his bride-to-be and went on the run, pursued by Sheriff Wilson, Constable Ben de Crevecoeur and a posse dedicated to the idea, prevalent at the time, that "a good Indian is a dead Indian." The story's significance, as Harry Lawton wrote, was "not just in the fact that this was the last great manhunt in the Western tradition, but in the nature of the Paiute, who was the protagonist of the hunt." The Paiute tribe's problem, Lawton stated, was its refusal to conform to modern American life. the theme of which was the victimization of the Native American, explored in the true story of a Las Vegas Paiute, Willie Boy, who "captures" for marriage a Chemehuevi girl. In 1909 the real-life tribal dispute became a national scandal when Willie Boy shot dead the father of his bride-to-be and went on the run, pursued by Sheriff Wilson, Constable Ben de Crevecoeur and a posse dedicated to the idea, prevalent at the time, that "a good Indian is a dead Indian." The story's significance, as Harry Lawton wrote, was "not just in the fact that this was the last great manhunt in the Western tradition, but in the nature of the Paiute, who was the protagonist of the hunt." The Paiute tribe's problem, Lawton stated, was its refusal to conform to modern American life.

Writer-director Abe Polonsky, like Carol Rossen's father, had suffered badly at the hands of McCarthyism. A committed Socialist hara.s.sed into exile, he continued to ghostwrite Hollywood scripts, none of which matched his 1947 masterpiece for John Garfield, the boxing story Body and Soul. Body and Soul. During the sixties he lived in France, spending almost five years developing During the sixties he lived in France, spending almost five years developing Willie Boy. Willie Boy. In the mid-sixties a liberal-minded executive at Universal, the former agent Jennings Lang, was intent on green-lighting blacklistees' projects. Polonsky's Native American drama accordingly became a personal mission that finally took wing with the Paramount loan-out. In the mid-sixties a liberal-minded executive at Universal, the former agent Jennings Lang, was intent on green-lighting blacklistees' projects. Polonsky's Native American drama accordingly became a personal mission that finally took wing with the Paramount loan-out.

Polonsky's original plan was to faithfully reenact the 1909 incident with Native Americans. Universal management flatly refused. Later Polonsky said in interviews that he got what he wanted, casting Redford as Coop (a fictionalized composite deputy sheriff, named in tribute to Gary Cooper), Robert Blake as Willie Boy and Katharine Ross as the girl. Redford recalls it differently: "Universal would not support authenticity. In fact, they ignored Abe completely and offered me the role of Willie Boy. I thought that was absurd. Since the studio wouldn't even entertain the notion of casting honestly, I recommended a friend, Bobby Blake, whom I'd admired in This Property Is Condemned. This Property Is Condemned. I said I would play the sheriff." I said I would play the sheriff."

Redford liked Polonsky, but he believed the years in the wilderness had ground down his confidence. An article in Variety Variety criticized Polonsky's approach to movies: "He is not a director who works through his actors. Thesps are simple tools to his vision...their presences more than their abilities are used." Redford agreed: "There was plenty of interchange of ideas but there was no improvisation. Connie Hall, who was Katharine Ross's husband, was a very experienced cinematographer, but he was also an artist with a heavy authorial viewpoint. He saw Abe stumbling and he stole the movie from under him. I loved the script. I loved what the movie aspired to, but it evolved outside [Abe's] control into something else." criticized Polonsky's approach to movies: "He is not a director who works through his actors. Thesps are simple tools to his vision...their presences more than their abilities are used." Redford agreed: "There was plenty of interchange of ideas but there was no improvisation. Connie Hall, who was Katharine Ross's husband, was a very experienced cinematographer, but he was also an artist with a heavy authorial viewpoint. He saw Abe stumbling and he stole the movie from under him. I loved the script. I loved what the movie aspired to, but it evolved outside [Abe's] control into something else."

It was a pity, because so much of the movie was earnest and ambitious. Setting it on the real-life Morongo Indian Reservation, Polonsky clearly portrayed the separate, competing communities ravaged by prejudice. Coop, the law enforcer played by Redford, courts the compliant government superintendent Dr. Elizabeth Arnold, played by Susan Clark. This affair parallels Willie Boy's forbidden courts.h.i.+p till Willie Boy kills his girl's father. Coop is then swept into a crazed posse hunt and, in the end, is obliged to go alone after Willie Boy in hopes of saving him.

The similarities to The Chase The Chase drove Redford's enthusiasm. "The last forty minutes were drove Redford's enthusiasm. "The last forty minutes were the reason the reason I chose to do the movie," says Redford. "There were only a few lines of dialogue in that last act, because it was all about I chose to do the movie," says Redford. "There were only a few lines of dialogue in that last act, because it was all about the hunt. the hunt. It had real tension, like [Fred] Zinnemann's final showdown between Gary Cooper's marshal and the villain Frank Miller in It had real tension, like [Fred] Zinnemann's final showdown between Gary Cooper's marshal and the villain Frank Miller in High Noon. High Noon. It was totally original. Then Universal panicked: Who would watch forty minutes of mime? So, exactly as happened with Arthur Penn and Spiegel, they took the edit away from Abe and pared down the final act to eight minutes and redid the ending. In the screenplay, the tension resolved in the exhaustion of the protagonist and antagonist: they have hit the wall; they are burned out. Coop finally respects Willie Boy's tenacity and won't kill him. Willie Boy fatalistically accepts Coop's right to kill him. It was a powerful impa.s.se, a brilliant ending, but the studio wanted a Jeff Chandler black-and-white shoot-out, so that's the way it was done. When I saw it, I was shattered. It was spoiled. I just had to let it go." It was totally original. Then Universal panicked: Who would watch forty minutes of mime? So, exactly as happened with Arthur Penn and Spiegel, they took the edit away from Abe and pared down the final act to eight minutes and redid the ending. In the screenplay, the tension resolved in the exhaustion of the protagonist and antagonist: they have hit the wall; they are burned out. Coop finally respects Willie Boy's tenacity and won't kill him. Willie Boy fatalistically accepts Coop's right to kill him. It was a powerful impa.s.se, a brilliant ending, but the studio wanted a Jeff Chandler black-and-white shoot-out, so that's the way it was done. When I saw it, I was shattered. It was spoiled. I just had to let it go."

In the run-up to Willie Boy, Willie Boy, Redford started preparing his skiing movie, which was now called Redford started preparing his skiing movie, which was now called Downhill Racer. Downhill Racer. "What I hoped for with "What I hoped for with Willie Boy Willie Boy and and Downhill Downhill were movies that illuminated the human condition. For were movies that illuminated the human condition. For Downhill, Downhill, the first thing was to get rid of Oakley Hall's source novel, which was apres-ski stuff. I decided I wanted to examine the illusion of greatness in winning at all costs. I like the gray area, the bit where the duality of human nature shows through." At Wildwood, a series of long, late-night script meetings addressed every aspect of the movie-to-be. Redford deliberated awhile before choosing writer James Salter, whose short fiction he admired, to develop his concept. "It became a grand-scale thing in increments. I decided it would be a social commentary about compet.i.tive sports. Then I decided it would be part of a trilogy that looked at American life. After the skiing movie, we would make a movie about political life, and then a movie about big business. All with the same theme: the Pyrrhic victory of winning." the first thing was to get rid of Oakley Hall's source novel, which was apres-ski stuff. I decided I wanted to examine the illusion of greatness in winning at all costs. I like the gray area, the bit where the duality of human nature shows through." At Wildwood, a series of long, late-night script meetings addressed every aspect of the movie-to-be. Redford deliberated awhile before choosing writer James Salter, whose short fiction he admired, to develop his concept. "It became a grand-scale thing in increments. I decided it would be a social commentary about compet.i.tive sports. Then I decided it would be part of a trilogy that looked at American life. After the skiing movie, we would make a movie about political life, and then a movie about big business. All with the same theme: the Pyrrhic victory of winning."

The trickiest part of getting Downhill Downhill going was outmaneuvering Bluhdorn, who was determined to see his golden boy back as a romantic pinup. In February, as Redford prepared to go to France on a $20,000 Paramount budget to secure footage from the 1967 Winter Olympics, Bluhdorn confronted him with the suggestion of a musical remake of the Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn cla.s.sic, going was outmaneuvering Bluhdorn, who was determined to see his golden boy back as a romantic pinup. In February, as Redford prepared to go to France on a $20,000 Paramount budget to secure footage from the 1967 Winter Olympics, Bluhdorn confronted him with the suggestion of a musical remake of the Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn cla.s.sic, Roman Holiday. Roman Holiday. "My att.i.tude was, Oh, please! But I couldn't say a word. I went along with him." Franco Zeffirelli and Dino De Laurentiis were in partners.h.i.+p for the "My att.i.tude was, Oh, please! But I couldn't say a word. I went along with him." Franco Zeffirelli and Dino De Laurentiis were in partners.h.i.+p for the Roman Holiday Roman Holiday remake, so Bluhdorn arranged a first-cla.s.s ticket to Rome to meet with them. Redford took the ticket, then traded it for economy tickets for the Wildwood team to Gren.o.ble, France. "I thought, It'll serve the same end: Paramount will get a great movie out of this." remake, so Bluhdorn arranged a first-cla.s.s ticket to Rome to meet with them. Redford took the ticket, then traded it for economy tickets for the Wildwood team to Gren.o.ble, France. "I thought, It'll serve the same end: Paramount will get a great movie out of this."

For background research, Salter moved to Gra.s.se, not far from Gren.o.ble in southern France, where the Olympic teams were based. Redford gave d.i.c.k Barrymore, a young ski photographer, the job of shooting the crucially important Olympic footage. Then he asked sportswriter Dan Jenkins, a neighbor in the Redfords' Manhattan apartment building, for a.s.sistance in soliciting the support of the American Olympic skiing team. Jenkins persuaded the national skiing coach, Bob Beattie, to allow inside access at the off-limits areas of the Olympic Village. "This footage was, in reality, 'test footage,' to show Bluhdorn we could do it," says Redford. "So it had to be excellent. We gave $18,000 to Barrymore and $2,000 to Salter."

It started well. Beattie was a gentleman; the Olympic team was generous with time and advice. But then, three-quarters of the way through filming, Barrymore left for other projects, presenting Redford and Gregson with twenty thousand feet of 16 mm film. "Suddenly it was chaos," says Redford. "In order to get the movie green-lighted for the fall, we had to present our footage to Bluhdorn urgently." Redford reorganized his schedule, taking time out from Willie Boy Willie Boy and editing the footage himself. "Then I saw a problem. We had lots of shots of slopes and snow and skiers. But we had no shots of me in this show reel. By now it was high summer in L.A. and suddenly I was obliged to create a winter ski scene. That became the first directorial challenge of my life." and editing the footage himself. "Then I saw a problem. We had lots of shots of slopes and snow and skiers. But we had no shots of me in this show reel. By now it was high summer in L.A. and suddenly I was obliged to create a winter ski scene. That became the first directorial challenge of my life."

Redford went to Shelby's Sporting Goods store in Westwood, where he'd worked briefly in his teens, and borrowed a motorcycle helmet, silver duct tape, a Windbreaker and goggles. A replacement cameraman, John Bailey, was summoned. Bailey was twenty-three, a recent college graduate whose ambition was to make big movies. Together they drove to Mulholland Drive, with a couple of wooden boxes as props. Mulholland is in the hills, with a high skyline that overlooks Los Angeles. Bailey set up his camera while Redford pulled on the phony ski gear. "We'd painted stars and stripes on the helmet, and that was all we needed. John lay down in the gra.s.s to shoot skyward, like I was the skier in action. I kept taking drags of a cigarette, the smoke of which replicated my breathing in icy weather. It worked. Cut into the Gren.o.ble stuff, it looked authentic."

In July, Redford showed Bluhdorn eighteen minutes of tightly edited film. "It was all straightforward after that. He liked it. He trusted me. We had our green light to start shooting after Willie Boy. Willie Boy."

Redford found a newcomer, Michael Ritchie, to direct on the strength of an NBC television pilot, The Outsider. The Outsider. It starred Darren McGavin in a Das.h.i.+ell Hammett takeoff, full of moody grayness and long silences. "I wanted an iconoclast, so I called him. We met. We had a meeting of minds, and I said, 'Let's go!'" It starred Darren McGavin in a Das.h.i.+ell Hammett takeoff, full of moody grayness and long silences. "I wanted an iconoclast, so I called him. We met. We had a meeting of minds, and I said, 'Let's go!'"

Tying down the script became the central focus. Revisions at Wildwood were daily affairs. Everyone contributed, even Natalie Wood, who was now Richard Gregson's constant companion. The main problem was establis.h.i.+ng the nature of the central character, the jock David Chappellet. Redford emphatically did not want an old-style hero. Salter had thought the American ski champion Billy Kidd would be the perfect template. "He was tough-from a poor part of town, I imagined, honed by years on the icy runs of the East," Salter later explained in his memoirs.

One night over dinner in Gren.o.ble, surrounded by the ski team, Redford pointed across the room. "The racer he was interested in was at another table," wrote Salter. "I looked. Golden, unimpressible, a bit like Redford himself-which of course should have marked him from the first-sat a little-known team member named Spider Sab.i.+.c.h. What there was of his reputation seemed to be based on his having broken his leg six or seven times. 'Him?' I said. 'Sab.i.+.c.h?' Yes, said Redford; when he was that age he had been just like him-vain, rough edged, with a bit of arrogance, and a daredevil."

Salter's treatment, dated September 1967, proposed the protagonist as a twenty-one-year-old Vermonter, "like the young Dempsey, hard and not as big as one would expect." The best of it was the acerbic coach-jock relations.h.i.+p, deftly lifted from Oakley Hall's novel. And, beyond that, Salter's poetry: "And now over a sequence that is almost entirely close shots, shots like yesterday's newspapers, last week's, last year's shots that are like Lorca's Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias, Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias, like the white Madrid infirmaries of like the white Madrid infirmaries of Death in the Afternoon, Death in the Afternoon, a virtually silent sequence of a badly injured man being carried into x-ray, his clothing cut away...." a virtually silent sequence of a badly injured man being carried into x-ray, his clothing cut away...."

"I thought, If we can blend Salter's eloquence with Ritchie's quirkiness, we're really onto something," says Redford. "It seemed a good process: Salter, Ritchie, then me, all contributing differing elements. What we all decided we wanted was something that had a semidoc.u.mentary feel, that seemed real."

Money was a problem. And though foreign location work was more expensive, Redford was adamant that only Europe would do for the location. Gregson flew back to Europe and found the perfect locale at Wengen, alongside the Jungfrau, the highest mountain in Switzerland. The choice was dictated by the Federation Internationale de Ski races, which were staged on the nearby Lauberhorn and which would form the background of the action. The cost projections soared beyond the allotted $1.6 million.

"On the face of it," says Mike Frankfurt, "Bob was in clover. It had taken a year, but he had overcome the animosity with Bluhdorn. He had formed his own production company. He had a major movie in Willie Boy. Willie Boy. We had even managed to buy the Stewart lands at Timp and set in motion a little recreation industry. But those were the surface realities. In truth, he hadn't consolidated. The self-produced Paramount picture was potentially an unaffordable juggernaut. Whether he and Ritchie could actually pull off an independent movie-because that's what it really was-was up in the air. And, also, Universal was not happy with We had even managed to buy the Stewart lands at Timp and set in motion a little recreation industry. But those were the surface realities. In truth, he hadn't consolidated. The self-produced Paramount picture was potentially an unaffordable juggernaut. Whether he and Ritchie could actually pull off an independent movie-because that's what it really was-was up in the air. And, also, Universal was not happy with Willie Boy. Willie Boy. It was done, but it was languis.h.i.+ng on a shelf. He was in clover, but he had a lot to prove." It was done, but it was languis.h.i.+ng on a shelf. He was in clover, but he had a lot to prove."

His frame of mind was changing, too. In April, Martin Luther King Jr. was a.s.sa.s.sinated. In June, Bobby Kennedy was killed. By August, when the Democrats' presidential convention in Chicago turned into a bloodbath, America seemed an alien place. "If you had any moral sensibilities," says Redford, "you were reeling. Personally, as I'm sure for most Americans, it was a time of utter confusion. There was a frantic feeling of, What to do?" Absorption in work seemed the best medicine, and he pushed himself to perfect his skiing on the longest pro skis, 220 downhills. At the same time, in the spirit of a new commitment to social involvement, he raised funds for the Salt Lake Native Culture Center.

"In New York, Bob and Lola attracted influential people," says Mike Frankfurt, "and they utilized this as a political tool. Both had a clear picture of the divisions in American life, the rich and poor, black and white. They also had a clear picture of the Republican silent majority, and the divisions in the Democrats between the supporters of Eugene McCarthy and McGovern and Humphrey. More than that, they also had a clear understanding of the power of celebrity. They understood there was a direct correlation between the size of the media profile and the audience that could be commanded. They weren't charging at political life, but there was an impulse. The initial activism came in fits and starts. But the tone of it changed around the time Nixon got elected [in 1968]."

Redford had actively supported McCarthy until his landslide loss to Humphrey during the 1968 convention. "Maybe I was naive to think he could pull it off," says Redford. "But he was a lot better, in prospect, than Nixon's gang." In Frankfurt's view, Nixon's dramatic election victory that year sharpened Redford's focus. "He wanted to engage debate. He had no vision of himself as a frontline politician, but the events of 1968 made Downhill Racer Downhill Racer and commentary on American life more important to him. He wanted to make movies that got people talking. And he knew, of course, that he also needed to nurture the stardom that would give him the power." and commentary on American life more important to him. He wanted to make movies that got people talking. And he knew, of course, that he also needed to nurture the stardom that would give him the power."

As Downhill Racer Downhill Racer slowly brewed, Redford engaged Creative Management a.s.sociates to find him those new starring roles. It should have been Gregson's job, but he was preoccupied in Europe. CMA was an outgrowth of MCA headed by Freddie Fields and David Begelman. Fields took over Redford's management but a.s.signed day-to-day business to his a.s.sistant, Stephanie Phillips. Phillips had established herself molding careers for character actresses, including Joan Hackett. She had also worked closely with Begelman in the management of Henry Fonda, Peter Sellers and director George Roy Hill. In fact, it had been Phillips who was responsible for Redford's joining with MCA to begin with. She became a fan after having seen him onstage in slowly brewed, Redford engaged Creative Management a.s.sociates to find him those new starring roles. It should have been Gregson's job, but he was preoccupied in Europe. CMA was an outgrowth of MCA headed by Freddie Fields and David Begelman. Fields took over Redford's management but a.s.signed day-to-day business to his a.s.sistant, Stephanie Phillips. Phillips had established herself molding careers for character actresses, including Joan Hackett. She had also worked closely with Begelman in the management of Henry Fonda, Peter Sellers and director George Roy Hill. In fact, it had been Phillips who was responsible for Redford's joining with MCA to begin with. She became a fan after having seen him onstage in Barefoot. Barefoot. "Joan Hackett introduced us," says Phillips. "And from then on I just kept whispering in his ear. I thought he was exceptional, for his looks, his swagger, his wit. I wanted to represent him from the start." Her wish come true, Phillips immediately looked at the roster of available films and singled out Hill's production in planning for Fox, called "The Sundance Kid and Butch Ca.s.sidy." "I had a particularly good rapport with George since he did "Joan Hackett introduced us," says Phillips. "And from then on I just kept whispering in his ear. I thought he was exceptional, for his looks, his swagger, his wit. I wanted to represent him from the start." Her wish come true, Phillips immediately looked at the roster of available films and singled out Hill's production in planning for Fox, called "The Sundance Kid and Butch Ca.s.sidy." "I had a particularly good rapport with George since he did The World of Henry Orient The World of Henry Orient in 1964," says Phillips, "so I pressed Bob on him, and he was receptive. But we had obstacles. Paul Newman, we knew, was Fox's first choice to star. So we had to knock Brando, Beatty and James Coburn out of the picture to get the role for Bob, which I felt we could do." in 1964," says Phillips, "so I pressed Bob on him, and he was receptive. But we had obstacles. Paul Newman, we knew, was Fox's first choice to star. So we had to knock Brando, Beatty and James Coburn out of the picture to get the role for Bob, which I felt we could do."

Richard Zanuck, Darryl's son and recent head of Twentieth CenturyFox, wasn't amenable. Fox's fortunes had waned in the fifties, until Darryl Zanuck overthrew his former a.s.sociate Spyros Skouras. Now they were riding high on the enormous success of The Sound of Music The Sound of Music and, in the spirit of Darryl's philosophy of three-ring entertainments, were keen on a glamorous western. Big stars were needed for the roles of Sundance and Butch. And in Zanuck's view, the jury was still out on Robert Redford. Phillips pushed, but Zanuck preferred Warren Beatty by far. and, in the spirit of Darryl's philosophy of three-ring entertainments, were keen on a glamorous western. Big stars were needed for the roles of Sundance and Butch. And in Zanuck's view, the jury was still out on Robert Redford. Phillips pushed, but Zanuck preferred Warren Beatty by far.

The dilemma fell in the lap of George Roy Hill. A graduate of Yale in 1944, Hill had served as a marine pilot in World War II and pursued graduate studies at Trinity College in Dublin before working in the Gate and Abbey theaters. He was an Emmy winner for television writing and directing in New York in the mid-fifties and moved into movies with adaptations of Tennessee Williams's Period of Adjustment Period of Adjustment and Lillian h.e.l.lman's and Lillian h.e.l.lman's Toys in the Attic Toys in the Attic in the sixties. Hill was forty when he started in movies and always contended that it was maturity that impressed on him the centrality of the actor. Paul Newman, in his view, was the epitome of film art. "I knew Newman's genius, which was a genius of understatement," said Hill. "No matter how good the story, no matter how dexterous the cameraman, no matter how smart the director, you simply cannot achieve an effective motion picture without an immensely skilled screen actor." Newman's commitment to the Fox western was, said Hill, half the battle. "And then when Steffie pushed for Redford, I thought, Yes, that might be interesting. Only that." in the sixties. Hill was forty when he started in movies and always contended that it was maturity that impressed on him the centrality of the actor. Paul Newman, in his view, was the epitome of film art. "I knew Newman's genius, which was a genius of understatement," said Hill. "No matter how good the story, no matter how dexterous the cameraman, no matter how smart the director, you simply cannot achieve an effective motion picture without an immensely skilled screen actor." Newman's commitment to the Fox western was, said Hill, half the battle. "And then when Steffie pushed for Redford, I thought, Yes, that might be interesting. Only that."

Hill met Redford for a drink at Joe Allen's bar on Forty-sixth Street. "Since I liked the script," says Redford, "I really wanted to get in. But the understanding was that Paul would be Sundance, since the t.i.tle led off with that name, and Butch was the costar. George a.s.sumed I wanted to be Butch Ca.s.sidy, but I said, 'To be honest, I've read it and I think I'd be better as Sundance. It's the part that interests me.' And from there the talk progressed, and George became intrigued by this notion. I learned that he felt Paul was really more like Butch anyway. George said that the role Paul played in Hud Hud was really not him. Paul was full of nervous energy, and funny. And the more we talked, the more George came around to the idea that I should be the Sundance Kid." was really not him. Paul was full of nervous energy, and funny. And the more we talked, the more George came around to the idea that I should be the Sundance Kid."

"After that I decided I wanted him for Sundance," Hill recalled. "It was that simple. You'll read press pieces about me wanting Marlon and all the rest, but it's garbage. Fox wanted Beatty. Paul wanted Jack Lemmon. But I wanted Bob. Then I had to go to Paul's apartment and set about winning him over."

Newman had little or no interest in Redford's progress: "I'd seen him onstage in Barefoot, Barefoot, and I'd seen and I'd seen Inside Daisy Clover, Inside Daisy Clover, but I had yet to be convinced." Personally, Newman said, he felt a sense of "owners.h.i.+p" with the Butch Ca.s.sidy film, since it had first been proposed to him in the fall of 1966, ironically, by Redford's friend and neighbor, Bill Goldman. "He flew all the way down to Tucson, where I was filming, and dished it all to me, this marvelous story about the real Wild Bunch gang he was developing on spec. He said, 'This is going to be the best cowboy picture ever made.' Then he disappeared, and the next I knew, [Steve] McQueen called me and said we should make this thing called 'The Sundance Kid and Butch Ca.s.sidy' that somebody had shown him. I collected the script from McQueen's house and read it overnight, and the next day I called Steve and suggested that the two of us should buy it outright from Goldman. He said no deal was available because Goldman's agent was playing the auction game. So that was the end of it for McQueen and me. I forgot about it. Then, out of the blue, d.i.c.k Zanuck had it and Hill was offering it to me, with no Steve attached." but I had yet to be con