Robert Redford Part 6

Fame.

In January, while Butch Ca.s.sidy Butch Ca.s.sidy was in postproduction, was in postproduction, Downhill Racer Downhill Racer started shooting. Briefly, it felt cursed. Redford was tired, after twelve weeks in the saddle on started shooting. Briefly, it felt cursed. Redford was tired, after twelve weeks in the saddle on Butch, Butch, and unfocused. While attempting a shortcut at the resort, riding over a ridge on a snowmobile, he crashed. His knee went into the motor and was sliced up. He was hospitalized, and it suddenly looked like he wouldn't be able to do the ski sequences in Switzerland. "In the movie I look uncomfortable in those early scenes because I was in agony," he recalls. "But I had no time for recovery. It had come to a point where there was no turning back." and unfocused. While attempting a shortcut at the resort, riding over a ridge on a snowmobile, he crashed. His knee went into the motor and was sliced up. He was hospitalized, and it suddenly looked like he wouldn't be able to do the ski sequences in Switzerland. "In the movie I look uncomfortable in those early scenes because I was in agony," he recalls. "But I had no time for recovery. It had come to a point where there was no turning back."

Michael Ritchie, who felt he was just getting to know Redford, carefully watched him work. Ritchie, Harvard educated and a magpie for literature, found a friend in Redford. "But the intellectual rationalizations peter out," said Ritchie. "We were at the point where I had to step up with the proverbial bullhorn and say, 'Act!' And when that happened, I was surprised. I'd seen Bob's work on TV and film. I felt I knew his technique. But I saw that he had changed postButch Ca.s.sidy. He was a different actor." He was a different actor."

It was true. Prior to Willie Boy, Willie Boy, a rhythmic theatricality informed Redford's performances; playing Coop he introduced laconic understatement, and playing Sundance refined it. "Bob rolled that on into a rhythmic theatricality informed Redford's performances; playing Coop he introduced laconic understatement, and playing Sundance refined it. "Bob rolled that on into Downhill Racer, Downhill Racer," said Ritchie. "He found something in the spatial power of silence, and that became his reference point for Chappellet. I'd take something Salter had written and say, 'Hey, Bob, you know what we could do here?' And Bob would say, 'We do nothing.' I'd say, 'Maybe we could use some effects or music,' and he'd say, 'No, nothing.' The end result, with Chappellet as with the Sundance Kid, was that audiences had to reach out reach out to find Bob." to find Bob."

Redford's theory about Chappellet, honed with Salter, was that he was a team team skier in name only; in fact, dazed by the hunger for personal victory, Chappellet is disconnected from the world, from his father, his coach, his life. Ritchie thought this brave, that Redford was disdainfully anatomizing the sacred place of the jock in society. Redford felt impelled: "I'd been sold on the wondrous jock since childhood. Sports was skier in name only; in fact, dazed by the hunger for personal victory, Chappellet is disconnected from the world, from his father, his coach, his life. Ritchie thought this brave, that Redford was disdainfully anatomizing the sacred place of the jock in society. Redford felt impelled: "I'd been sold on the wondrous jock since childhood. Sports was the the glory business. But in my lifetime it changed. The way the old guys conducted themselves-Jack Dempsey, Joe DiMaggio-was a whole lot different from the guys of the sixties. The outspokenness started with Muhammad Ali. And by the seventies, the bad behavior of guys like [Olympic swimming gold medalist] Mark Spitz became de rigueur. It was cool to be a jerk. Winning was everything, bad behavior now excused. That was what I wanted to plumb: Chappellet the a.s.shole. He isn't nice to the coach because he doesn't have to be. That's the privilege of the sportsman now, good or bad: he can conduct himself however he feels. I thought, This is not a good role model marker for the way we, as a society, are going." glory business. But in my lifetime it changed. The way the old guys conducted themselves-Jack Dempsey, Joe DiMaggio-was a whole lot different from the guys of the sixties. The outspokenness started with Muhammad Ali. And by the seventies, the bad behavior of guys like [Olympic swimming gold medalist] Mark Spitz became de rigueur. It was cool to be a jerk. Winning was everything, bad behavior now excused. That was what I wanted to plumb: Chappellet the a.s.shole. He isn't nice to the coach because he doesn't have to be. That's the privilege of the sportsman now, good or bad: he can conduct himself however he feels. I thought, This is not a good role model marker for the way we, as a society, are going."

Frankfurt, Gregson, Lola and the kids moved to Wengen for the duration of the shoot, which lent it a pleasant air of a family vacation. Redford continued to work the script. "But we were under the gun," said Ritchie. "Time was always the enemy. When I'd first met with Gregson and Bob at the Hotel Bel-Air, I was offered the deal of $30,000 in hand, no perks, which I accepted. But that meeting was it in terms of planning. There was hard work from Bob and Salter on the script, but the rest-the structuring of a production-was left to me." Gregson's preparation, said Ritchie, left something to be desired. The main race scenes were scheduled to be shot around the Lauberhorn, but no one mentioned that a James Bond extravaganza, On Her Majesty's Secret Service, On Her Majesty's Secret Service, was being filmed on the Schilthorn, the mountain opposite. Ritchie now realized getting a first-rate crew would be impossible. "The Bond people paid better; they were a big boom-time production," said Ritchie. "So we got the leftovers." Moreover, Redford had a.s.sumed the availability of w.i.l.l.y Bogner Jr., the Olympic contender turned cameraman and the only accomplished ski photographer working in film; his 1965 doc.u.mentary, was being filmed on the Schilthorn, the mountain opposite. Ritchie now realized getting a first-rate crew would be impossible. "The Bond people paid better; they were a big boom-time production," said Ritchie. "So we got the leftovers." Moreover, Redford had a.s.sumed the availability of w.i.l.l.y Bogner Jr., the Olympic contender turned cameraman and the only accomplished ski photographer working in film; his 1965 doc.u.mentary, Fascination with Skiing, Fascination with Skiing, had won prizes and he knew the European slopes intimately. But Bogner had signed for the Bond picture. At the last minute, Joe Jay Jalbert, a skier from Washington University who worked on the Olympic B team contenders, signed up to shoot the ski action. "We had to train him to use the camera real fast," said Ritchie. "It sounds simple, but this wasn't vacation snaps. Joe Jay had to learn to handle a fifteen-pound Arriflex while skiing downhill at full speed. It took forever to get a single, steady, usable shot." had won prizes and he knew the European slopes intimately. But Bogner had signed for the Bond picture. At the last minute, Joe Jay Jalbert, a skier from Washington University who worked on the Olympic B team contenders, signed up to shoot the ski action. "We had to train him to use the camera real fast," said Ritchie. "It sounds simple, but this wasn't vacation snaps. Joe Jay had to learn to handle a fifteen-pound Arriflex while skiing downhill at full speed. It took forever to get a single, steady, usable shot."

Gene Hackman and Camilla Sparv were cast in the prominent roles of the team coach and the object of Redford's affection. "That casting was critical," said Ritchie, "because, firstly, Gene has no star ego and doesn't care how you photograph him. And Camilla, like Bob, has cla.s.sic beauty that you simply couldn't shoot badly. It was so important because, with the budget we had and the style I wanted, there would be no time for complicated lighting setups. My att.i.tude was, We are making a doc.u.mentary; we are cutting for reality. There were no read-throughs, and what we were doing every day was a kind of cinema verite."

The film followed Olympic downhill races over three seasons, as America closes in on its first big ski medals. Chappellet is seeded eighty-eighth at the start, progresses to twentieth and finally, in the third season, wins. But he is undisciplined. "Bob's way of playing Chappellet was to push up his own nature," said Ritchie. "Everything he'd been as a kid, the uncompromising flunk out, the reluctant jock-all of it went into Chappellet. Dialogue disappeared all over the place. Several times I asked him, 'Where's the G.o.dd.a.m.n line?' And his answer was a shrug. His constant nervous mannerism of chewing gum drove me insane. I'd call a cut just to get him to spit out the gum. And then I understood this was Chappellet being Bob. This was Chappellet telling Hackman the coach to f.u.c.k off."

Despite a directive from Paramount's legal department to the contrary, Redford insisted on doing most of his own skiing, to Hackman's dismay. "Gene liked Redford," said Ritchie. "But he was appalled by the skiing. He said, 'Does that idiot know about insurance liabilities? If he falls, we're all on our way home.'" Walter Coblenz, Ritchie's production manager, was given the unenviable task of monitoring Redford's excesses, a nightmare task, says Coblenz, "because you really don't tell Bob what to do. You politely request, and then hope."

By the summer, everyone was optimistic. Side by side in separate studios, Butch Ca.s.sidy Butch Ca.s.sidy and and Downhill Racer Downhill Racer were in editing and progressing well. "From Bob's point of view," said Ritchie, "it was a fantastic prospect. There was a lot of buzz and expectation about George's picture, and a lot of curiosity, more than anything, about ours. So Bob, as an actor dependent on the limelight, was well placed. Nervous, but well placed." were in editing and progressing well. "From Bob's point of view," said Ritchie, "it was a fantastic prospect. There was a lot of buzz and expectation about George's picture, and a lot of curiosity, more than anything, about ours. So Bob, as an actor dependent on the limelight, was well placed. Nervous, but well placed."

In September, Downhill Racer Downhill Racer previewed first. Redford and Ritchie were horrified. Paramount's marketing people had promised Gregson that the unheralded movie would not be shown after a major feature. They reneged, screening the movie after previewed first. Redford and Ritchie were horrified. Paramount's marketing people had promised Gregson that the unheralded movie would not be shown after a major feature. They reneged, screening the movie after Midnight Cowboy Midnight Cowboy at a Santa Barbara cinema. "How wrong can you get?" says Redford. "Santa Barbara is a sunshine retirement haven for easterners and the U.S. military. People come to get away from snow. In ten minutes I saw the audience wanted out. People began leaving." Ali MacGraw, who was attending with her husband, Robert Evans, comforted Ritchie: "She told me it was a great movie, an innovative movie, so f.u.c.k 'em all. I took heart from her, because she was a lady of discernment." Evans, representing Paramount, slapped Redford's shoulder and told him, "I thought it played very well." Redford found no comfort in this, since three-quarters of the audience had already bolted the theater. A half hour later, in the restaurant next door, Evans brought in the audience response cards. He was frowning. at a Santa Barbara cinema. "How wrong can you get?" says Redford. "Santa Barbara is a sunshine retirement haven for easterners and the U.S. military. People come to get away from snow. In ten minutes I saw the audience wanted out. People began leaving." Ali MacGraw, who was attending with her husband, Robert Evans, comforted Ritchie: "She told me it was a great movie, an innovative movie, so f.u.c.k 'em all. I took heart from her, because she was a lady of discernment." Evans, representing Paramount, slapped Redford's shoulder and told him, "I thought it played very well." Redford found no comfort in this, since three-quarters of the audience had already bolted the theater. A half hour later, in the restaurant next door, Evans brought in the audience response cards. He was frowning.

"All right. They're bad."

"How bad?" Redford asked.

"You can take a look if you want, but they're all bad."

Ritchie and Redford set about reediting the film from scratch, taking out the music track and liberally reinstating a "wild track" of natural ambient sounds to enhance the doc.u.mentary atmosphere. The movie was, says Redford, vastly improved, but the distribution delay suggested a failure from which, receiptswise, the film would never recover.

Meanwhile, the journey to completing Butch Ca.s.sidy Butch Ca.s.sidy had been b.u.mpy. The back injury at the end of filming had laid Hill low, and he was forced to edit lying down. But he persevered, delivering a quirky, original movie, laced with sepia-tinged stop frames and stand-apart pop music. The music, all twelve minutes of it, which seemed to amplify the humor, had been an afterthought. At the first rough cut screening in April, the music was a utility sound track, borrowed from existing movies. John Foreman, Paul Newman's producing partner, had suggested the pop song interlude that accompanies the bicycle montage in which Butch befriends Sundance's girl, Etta. In April, Simon and Garfunkel's "59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy)" decorated the scene. After the rough cut, Burt Bacharach was summoned and he came up with "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head," which bewildered Redford: "I did not know what it was doing there. I knew George wanted to beef up the relationship between Butch and Etta but...a song like that? First of all, it wasn't raining in the scene. And then, what had any of it to do with their relationship?" Zanuck suggested the song be dropped. Hill refused. The whole editing phase, said Hill, was a firefight. had been b.u.mpy. The back injury at the end of filming had laid Hill low, and he was forced to edit lying down. But he persevered, delivering a quirky, original movie, laced with sepia-tinged stop frames and stand-apart pop music. The music, all twelve minutes of it, which seemed to amplify the humor, had been an afterthought. At the first rough cut screening in April, the music was a utility sound track, borrowed from existing movies. John Foreman, Paul Newman's producing partner, had suggested the pop song interlude that accompanies the bicycle montage in which Butch befriends Sundance's girl, Etta. In April, Simon and Garfunkel's "59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy)" decorated the scene. After the rough cut, Burt Bacharach was summoned and he came up with "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head," which bewildered Redford: "I did not know what it was doing there. I knew George wanted to beef up the relationship between Butch and Etta but...a song like that? First of all, it wasn't raining in the scene. And then, what had any of it to do with their relationship?" Zanuck suggested the song be dropped. Hill refused. The whole editing phase, said Hill, was a firefight.

A pre-premiere screening was held under the auspices of the film society at Yale, Hill and Newman's alma mater. Redford attended with low expectations. "I wasn't focused on it. George was, because it was his baby. Bill Goldman was the most excited, because he was obsessed with all the promotional aspects of the business as much as filmmaking itself." Among the guests was Barbra Streisand, meeting Redford for the first time. "We drove up in a limo with George and there was this milling crowd," says Redford. "I a.s.sumed they were students doing the studenty thing. But when we got out, it was terrifying. Pushing, shoving, screaming. The bleachers were overturned. Joanne [Woodward] was knocked to the ground, and Paul was seriously p.i.s.sed. Barbra's dress was almost torn off her body, and I had the feeling we could have been hurt. It was the first time I'd been scared by a crowd. But I also thought it might be a good omen."

The "star power" of the opening night, with Newman, especially, in attendance, was the intoxicant. But after the screening, when the students voiced their response, the enthusiasm was even wilder. Hill, the veteran, was shocked. "I got to thinking that maybe it was was remarkable," he said, "so I began to look forward to the reviews." remarkable," he said, "so I began to look forward to the reviews."

The first media preview in San Francisco, as Goldman described in his memoirs, was "disastrous." Then came the nationwide opening later in September. "It was the strangest opening I ever experienced," said Hill, "because it started really 'up' at Yale, and then it plunged down. It didn't go to plan. Goldman and I went to a midtown Manhattan theater to watch, and the audience yawned. I told Bill, 'Well, we tried.' And I did my best to forget it, which was tough, because I had thrown everything into it."

The print reviews mostly were poor. In The New Yorker, The New Yorker, Pauline Kael's lambasting review was t.i.tled, "The Bottom of the Pit." Hill was deeply offended and wrote personally to her, in a letter that began, "Listen, you f.u.c.king c.u.n.t." "I thought she was unkind," said Hill. "Her way was to be snide when she personally disliked you, and it's unfortunate, but a lot of very smart people get away with appalling crudity because they're articulate and witty. I especially hated self-serving wit, so I answered her with the crudity and tastelessness she commanded." Pauline Kael's lambasting review was t.i.tled, "The Bottom of the Pit." Hill was deeply offended and wrote personally to her, in a letter that began, "Listen, you f.u.c.king c.u.n.t." "I thought she was unkind," said Hill. "Her way was to be snide when she personally disliked you, and it's unfortunate, but a lot of very smart people get away with appalling crudity because they're articulate and witty. I especially hated self-serving wit, so I answered her with the crudity and tastelessness she commanded."

Audiences nationwide rejected the critics' consensus. Within months box office receipts exceeded $40 million. The movie had cost just $6.5 million. "It moved by great word of mouth," says Redford. "People saw it and told their friends. It was an instance where the critics meant little. The audiences made up their own minds." Hill was stunned, "because I'd decided, Okay, it didn't work." Newman was more phlegmatic. "Movies are like kids. They're always surprising. Butch Ca.s.sidy Butch Ca.s.sidy was just one of those brats that races past anything you hoped for." Redford believed inserting the Bacharach song made a huge difference. "How bad can a guy's judgment be? I hated the song, and suddenly, for the next six months, I had to listen to it everywhere I went. I mean everywhere: cabs, restaurants, stores. There was nowhere to go to get away from it, and it was at the top of the music charts for half a year." was just one of those brats that races past anything you hoped for." Redford believed inserting the Bacharach song made a huge difference. "How bad can a guy's judgment be? I hated the song, and suddenly, for the next six months, I had to listen to it everywhere I went. I mean everywhere: cabs, restaurants, stores. There was nowhere to go to get away from it, and it was at the top of the music charts for half a year."

The effects of Butch Ca.s.sidy Butch Ca.s.sidy were far-reaching for Redford. In February 1968 he had been sleeping in hotel hallways in Gren.o.ble with James Salter to save money. Two years later, in February 1970, he was a national icon on the cover of were far-reaching for Redford. In February 1968 he had been sleeping in hotel hallways in Gren.o.ble with James Salter to save money. Two years later, in February 1970, he was a national icon on the cover of Life Life magazine, labeled "New Star Robert Redford: A Real Sundance Kid." The magnitude of the hit, believed Michael Ritchie, helped the recut of magazine, labeled "New Star Robert Redford: A Real Sundance Kid." The magnitude of the hit, believed Michael Ritchie, helped the recut of Downhill Racer. Downhill Racer. "We were sometimes a little down about recutting, and I think it helped, if only to remind us how great an actor Bob was and how good his instincts were." "We were sometimes a little down about recutting, and I think it helped, if only to remind us how great an actor Bob was and how good his instincts were."

Universal, too, was encouraged and finally released Willie Boy, Willie Boy, which had been sitting on a shelf, a month after which had been sitting on a shelf, a month after Butch Ca.s.sidy. Butch Ca.s.sidy. Eight weeks later Paramount officially released Eight weeks later Paramount officially released Downhill Racer. Downhill Racer.

"I really cared about Downhill Racer, Downhill Racer," says Redford, "but Paramount distribution threw it away. First, they wanted to open it big, like another Butch Ca.s.sidy. Butch Ca.s.sidy. I, of course, resisted. I said, 'It's a small film, not a blockbuster.' So they said, 'Okay, we'll change tack.' But they opened it, of all places, in Kitzbuhel, Austria, playing it like an apres-ski treat. I later learned what really happened. Charlie Bluhdorn had moved back to his sugarcane operation. The honeymoon was over in terms of his intercession, so we were back in the hands of the so-called distribution pros. I learned they used small movies like I, of course, resisted. I said, 'It's a small film, not a blockbuster.' So they said, 'Okay, we'll change tack.' But they opened it, of all places, in Kitzbuhel, Austria, playing it like an apres-ski treat. I later learned what really happened. Charlie Bluhdorn had moved back to his sugarcane operation. The honeymoon was over in terms of his intercession, so we were back in the hands of the so-called distribution pros. I learned they used small movies like Downhill Racer Downhill Racer as an expenses dump. People ran up lunch expenses on other productions and attributed them to costs for our promotion." Redford earned not a dime-not even a salary-from as an expenses dump. People ran up lunch expenses on other productions and attributed them to costs for our promotion." Redford earned not a dime-not even a salary-from Downhill Racer. Downhill Racer. But the sad fate of the film did nothing to diminish the level of stardom he had now achieved. By year's end he was a daily staple in the gossip columns in newspapers, and the networks were rescheduling the forgotten TV shows he starred in. Richard Schickel, who knew him well, wrote a long feature on him in But the sad fate of the film did nothing to diminish the level of stardom he had now achieved. By year's end he was a daily staple in the gossip columns in newspapers, and the networks were rescheduling the forgotten TV shows he starred in. Richard Schickel, who knew him well, wrote a long feature on him in Time Time magazine in December. Lorillard, the tobacco company, launched a Redford cigarette, with a face that looked remarkably like his on the promotional packs handed out to sales reps. magazine in December. Lorillard, the tobacco company, launched a Redford cigarette, with a face that looked remarkably like his on the promotional packs handed out to sales reps.

"There we had to draw the line," says Redford. "I called up my lawyers and we hit Lorillard with a lawsuit. They fought back, but it cost them half a million dollars in the end." Redford was pleased, then amused when Martin Garbus, the civil rights lawyer who presented the case on his behalf, gave him a token gift of one of Lorillard's promotional packs, with his pseudoface beaming out. Redford took the packet home and placed it in a gla.s.s display case. A week later, he came home to find his kids had breached the case and smoked the cigarettes.

Redford took pride in his business sense. He took pride in the fact that he built his A-frame for $14,000 and spent just $20,000 for the first-phase development of the Sundance acreage (the money was borrowed against his Willie Boy Willie Boy contract). But almost immediately the partnership founded by Frankfurt started to disintegrate. "None of us had real money to begin with," says Stan Collins, who was responsible for the financial management of this new, amorphous business. "We were all to pitch in $20,000. Bob did his bit. But I didn't have $20,000, so I gave my services in lieu. Mike Frankfurt provided his legal services. Which meant that, apart from Bob, only Gottschalk and Hans Estin put hard cash up." Gary Hendler, a tax management expert, had structured the deal with the less experienced Frankfurt, but Redford took the bulk of the risk, and it was Redford who first spotted the defects in the partnership. The 98 percent mortgage was signed in his name, with repayments amounting to $360,000 a year. "At first, I didn't notice it. Everything moved so fast, and all I cared about was securing the canyon. To do that I had to keep working, to keep solvent, and I was working so intently I wasn't taking care," says Redford. contract). But almost immediately the partnership founded by Frankfurt started to disintegrate. "None of us had real money to begin with," says Stan Collins, who was responsible for the financial management of this new, amorphous business. "We were all to pitch in $20,000. Bob did his bit. But I didn't have $20,000, so I gave my services in lieu. Mike Frankfurt provided his legal services. Which meant that, apart from Bob, only Gottschalk and Hans Estin put hard cash up." Gary Hendler, a tax management expert, had structured the deal with the less experienced Frankfurt, but Redford took the bulk of the risk, and it was Redford who first spotted the defects in the partnership. The 98 percent mortgage was signed in his name, with repayments amounting to $360,000 a year. "At first, I didn't notice it. Everything moved so fast, and all I cared about was securing the canyon. To do that I had to keep working, to keep solvent, and I was working so intently I wasn't taking care," says Redford.

There was progress, though. Redford a.s.signed Wayne, Lola's brother, to build a new guesthouse, the Mouse House, beside the A-frame. On the resort side, a second chairlift was installed at a cost of $200,000. The new lift system spanned over a mile to an elevation of fifty-two hundred feet above the base camp, complementing the existing Poma lifts, which took novice skiers to an elevation twenty-six hundred feet above camp. The objective of all this, says Frankfurt, was to compete with Alta, Utah's only major ski resort, just thirty miles away.

Despite the progress, Redford was nervous: "It became pretty evident that the promises made were not going to be kept," he recalls. "There was no money. And I began to worry that no one was sincerely committed." Hendler, who was slowly taking over from Frankfurt, was ostensibly following the boss's orders, but Redford was concerned about him, too. Hendler had been skeptical about the purchase of the canyon lands to begin with, but had come around to Frankfurt's idea of developing the resort as a nationally advertised vacation spot. Redford saw the conundrum: Hendler's appet.i.te was for building, but his, essentially, was for preservation.

Hendler was Brooklyn born and Harvard educated. Despite being short, he had become a star varsity basketball player, an achievement, Redford opines, that reflected his determined stubbornness. While others preferred to take weekends off, he worked nonstop. Hesitant at first, he had seen the opportunities afforded by the property boom of 1970 and surrendered to Sundance. "Prior to Gary," says Frankfurt, "our setup in New York was hand-to-mouth. With EYR, we were always begging for the loan of office s.p.a.ce. We found Bob a hole in the wall on East Fifty-fifth Street and that was our business base in its entirety. Gary wasn't interested in any of this small-time panhandling. He saw the big picture. The economy was booming and the property market was on the up. People had disposable income. It was a good time for vacation properties. Gary came to see the light and he wanted Bob to benefit."

Hendler moved fast. First, a number of half-acre plots were sold at $10,000 each to a pool of friends a.s.sembled by Frankfurt and Hendler, including Steve Frankfurt, Universal's Lew Wa.s.serman, producer Dan Melnick and Sydney Pollack. The idea was for them to build vacation homes adhering to controlled architectural guidelines. A search was then begun for venture capital partners for a major expansion, led by Hendler and his mentor from Harvard, Larry Fleischer, who managed sports stars. Fleischer had managed the basketball careers of New York Knicks Dave DeBusschere and Bill Bradley. Frankfurt, like Redford, was comfortable in these circles, but less comfortable with the business operations of Fleischer. "No one was saying yet that this would be the arts center of the Southwest," says Frankfurt, "but it was clearly going to be arts connected, and I worried that Bob's art vision and Fleischer's business would clash. We all accepted that the facilities had to be expanded, and Gary said Fleischer would involve Restaurant a.s.sociates, the restaurant and catering enterprise he was heading up, and they would buy into the resort and invest seed capital. We all hung on for this deal, but nothing happened."

Some began to believe the new setup was a ready-made disaster. Brent Beck, who joined as resort manager at the end of the first Sundance season, found "low morale among the few staffers and a feeling that this so-called new resort was operating beyond itself." For Jerry Hill, who had worked in the canyon since he was fifteen, the early scenario was "nightmarish-it was a race to the bank in Provo every Friday to get in first and make sure the darn check didn't bounce."

Some investors introduced to Redford were less than desirable. There was the Utah tourism executive who proposed the training and sponsoring of America's first all-black Olympic ski team as a novelty draw. There was the executive of an NBC division interested in cashing in on the current second-home tax break advantages for staffers. And then there was the southern businessman who saw great potential in a cowboy-themed mountain park that would be accessed from the Alpine Loop by motorists driving under a Disney-like hundred-foot-high billboard depicting a smiling Redford as the Sundance Kid.

When they started out, Hendler was a junior partner in the Los Angeles law firm of Irell and Minella. Within a year he was in partnership with Art Armstrong and handling the legal affairs of star clients like Ella Fitzgerald and, later, Sean Connery, Pollack and Streisand. "That's where the real trouble started," says Redford. "Gary was clever, and he made money for these people. I did not want to be dragged into the territory of, 'You must do this picture for X cash, because we need X cash.' Everything I'd done till that point was about avoiding avoiding that trap. But Gary would sit me down and say, 'Sean [Connery] is doing three movies a year. You can be like Sean. He's financially far better off than you. You can use this money for the resort.' I would say to Gary: 'Who made the world? An accountant? No, it was made from chaos, and creativity led the way out of the chaos, that trap. But Gary would sit me down and say, 'Sean [Connery] is doing three movies a year. You can be like Sean. He's financially far better off than you. You can use this money for the resort.' I would say to Gary: 'Who made the world? An accountant? No, it was made from chaos, and creativity led the way out of the chaos, so for G.o.d's sake let us focus on the creativity. so for G.o.d's sake let us focus on the creativity.'" Later, Redford would say that Hendler had his best interests at heart, but that down deep Hendler really conceived of Sundance as little more than a tax write-off.

Redford had also become uneasy about Gregson, now an equal partner. Too many projects Redford expressed interest in were sidelined, and the easy communication between the men had lapsed. "I felt affection for him," says Redford. "He was a smart man. But I never knew exactly the truth of how Wildwood was being run. I was never told. When he set it up, he insisted on structuring it as a Bermuda-based company, for tax reduction purposes. It was legal and impressive on paper, but it was far too complicated and maybe compromising for my liking. And then, like Gary, his vision and mine diverged. I discovered his ambition for Wildwood was an empire. He wanted an alliance with a major entertainment music company, and he put the wheels in motion to start that without consulting me. We were thinking differently, so I saw separation as the best option. We stayed friends, but I told d.i.c.k, 'No, this Wildwood isn't for me,' and I shook his hand. It cost me $25,000 that I didn't have to buy out his share, but it was a price I was happy to pay."

The underlying dilemma, however, was about the essence of his acting career. Gregson, like Paramount, saw a big future for Redford as a glamour attraction, making headline movies with the likes of Paul Newman and earning big paychecks to underwrite Sundance or whatever extracurricular notion appealed to him. Redford was more considered. Butch Ca.s.sidy and the Sundance Kid Butch Ca.s.sidy and the Sundance Kid was a joyous experience, but he was realistic about it: it might be a fluke. He also didn't want to base his decision making on Hollywood mores. He wanted independence and experiment. "The trouble was, his obligation to Paramount meant they had some control over his direction," says Mike Frankfurt. "He liked the experience of the small-time movie with Ritchie so much that he wanted more. But Paramount now had a positive sense of what Robert Redford should be. He was a romantic adventure boy, and that's how they'd pitch him from now on." was a joyous experience, but he was realistic about it: it might be a fluke. He also didn't want to base his decision making on Hollywood mores. He wanted independence and experiment. "The trouble was, his obligation to Paramount meant they had some control over his direction," says Mike Frankfurt. "He liked the experience of the small-time movie with Ritchie so much that he wanted more. But Paramount now had a positive sense of what Robert Redford should be. He was a romantic adventure boy, and that's how they'd pitch him from now on."

Redford rejected the first half-dozen scripts Paramount offered, but accepted Little Fauss and Big Halsy, Little Fauss and Big Halsy, which had an edginess that smacked of the emergent alternative cinema. That Hollywood was changing under the weight of foreign influences and youth power was unquestionable. The Brits were here in force, evidenced in movies like John Schlesinger's which had an edginess that smacked of the emergent alternative cinema. That Hollywood was changing under the weight of foreign influences and youth power was unquestionable. The Brits were here in force, evidenced in movies like John Schlesinger's Midnight Cowboy, Midnight Cowboy, an essay in social agitation. Elsewhere, the p.i.s.s and vinegar of youthful experiment was flowing in an essay in social agitation. Elsewhere, the p.i.s.s and vinegar of youthful experiment was flowing in Woodstock Woodstock, M*A*S*H M*A*S*H and and Five Easy Pieces. Five Easy Pieces. This "adventurous disinhibition," in Redford's words, was also in This "adventurous disinhibition," in Redford's words, was also in Little Fauss. Little Fauss. The script was written by bit-part actor and playwright Charles Eastman. Eastman, whose family served in the technical and secretarial departments of various Hollywood studios, had worked for three uncredited months on The script was written by bit-part actor and playwright Charles Eastman. Eastman, whose family served in the technical and secretarial departments of various Hollywood studios, had worked for three uncredited months on This Property Is Condemned. This Property Is Condemned. As a writer he'd become legendary for holding on to the screenplays he wrote. One of his unproduced works, "Honey Bear, I Think I Love You," was cited by Robert Towne, the screenwriter of As a writer he'd become legendary for holding on to the screenplays he wrote. One of his unproduced works, "Honey Bear, I Think I Love You," was cited by Robert Towne, the screenwriter of Chinatown, Chinatown, as highly influential. His breakthrough, such as it was, was his self-directed as highly influential. His breakthrough, such as it was, was his self-directed The All-American Boy, The All-American Boy, a six-part meditation on human fallibility, couched in the profile of a boxer, played by Jon Voight. The movie languished on the shelf for years, and was only released in 1973, following Voight's success with a six-part meditation on human fallibility, couched in the profile of a boxer, played by Jon Voight. The movie languished on the shelf for years, and was only released in 1973, following Voight's success with Deliverance. Deliverance. Eastman's next project was Eastman's next project was Little Fauss, Little Fauss, which new producers Brad Dexter and Al Ruddy sold to Paramount. which new producers Brad Dexter and Al Ruddy sold to Paramount.

A trailer-park-trash story about two dirt-track-bike-racing enthusiasts, the unctuous Fauss and his manipulative, s.e.xually insatiable buddy, Halsy, the new script was distinguished mainly by its insistence on glorifying losers. This Milleresque cynicism was the appeal of the proffered role of Halsy. Michael Ritchie felt the choice was "plain ornery, just Bob's way of flipping the bird at convention in general." But Redford says, "It was the great writing that got me. It wasn't Henry Miller, but it was sweet and iconoclastic. Plus it did exactly what we tried to do with Downhill Racer, Downhill Racer, which was deflate false myths." which was deflate false myths."

Sidney J. Furie, a Canadian whose career began directing Cliff Richard, the British equivalent of Elvis, in travelogue musicals, was the unlikely director. Redford didn't know his early work, but Gregson had introduced him to Furie's quasiJames Bond movie, The Ipcress File, The Ipcress File, starring Michael Caine, and the recent Frank Sinatra vehicle, starring Michael Caine, and the recent Frank Sinatra vehicle, The Naked Runner, The Naked Runner, which Redford liked. He was stimulated, too, by the proposed costars. Michael J. Pollard, the New Jerseyborn actor who started in television and was nominated as best supporting actor for Arthur Penn's which Redford liked. He was stimulated, too, by the proposed costars. Michael J. Pollard, the New Jerseyborn actor who started in television and was nominated as best supporting actor for Arthur Penn's Bonnie and Clyde, Bonnie and Clyde, would play Little Fauss, and Lauren Hutton, the leading Revlon model, would play Halsy's girl, Rita Nebraska. would play Little Fauss, and Lauren Hutton, the leading Revlon model, would play Halsy's girl, Rita Nebraska.

Shot in three different western states through the summer of 1970, Little Fauss Little Fauss tested Redford's physical and emotional stamina. The bike racing, filmed at the Willow Springs Raceway outside Los Angeles, at the Manzanita Speedway in Phoenix, and at Sears Point in Sonoma County, in the sweltering heat of June, was the easiest part. But Furie and Pollard made the going tough. "Furie was one of the dictatorial, do-it-my-way-and-don't-ask-questions brigade," says Redford, "and that works with a lot of actors; in fact, they crave it. But it wasn't for me. The trouble was, I knew this Halsy character. He was the kind of self-serving b.u.m I'd known in my younger days, and that was an interesting psychology in the context of where America was going in the early seventies. But Furie wasn't up for that." Pollard, another of Stark Hesseltine's finds, was moody and introverted. Redford made several attempts to discuss the deeper levels of the script, but gave up. He found Furie entrenched and Pollard "a self-absorbed, freewheeling Actors Studio anarchist" who had no patience with revision. No friendships were formed. tested Redford's physical and emotional stamina. The bike racing, filmed at the Willow Springs Raceway outside Los Angeles, at the Manzanita Speedway in Phoenix, and at Sears Point in Sonoma County, in the sweltering heat of June, was the easiest part. But Furie and Pollard made the going tough. "Furie was one of the dictatorial, do-it-my-way-and-don't-ask-questions brigade," says Redford, "and that works with a lot of actors; in fact, they crave it. But it wasn't for me. The trouble was, I knew this Halsy character. He was the kind of self-serving b.u.m I'd known in my younger days, and that was an interesting psychology in the context of where America was going in the early seventies. But Furie wasn't up for that." Pollard, another of Stark Hesseltine's finds, was moody and introverted. Redford made several attempts to discuss the deeper levels of the script, but gave up. He found Furie entrenched and Pollard "a self-absorbed, freewheeling Actors Studio anarchist" who had no patience with revision. No friendships were formed.

That the end result was eccentric was no great surprise. Jamie, Redford's son, later regarded Little Fauss Little Fauss as a personal favorite because he felt it captured his father's essential rebelliousness. Alan Pakula regarded it as the last unself-conscious revelation of the actor's real-life "edge." These revelations, however, struggled against a thinly plotted script that was remarkable for its repet.i.tiveness. Longueurs apart, Redford's Halsy might be seen as a metaphor for the blind self-centeredness of rebellion: he uses women like Kleenex and compulsively manipulates the hero worship of Little Fauss for his own purposes. Beyond the generalities, the plot plods: Halsy sweet-talks Little Fauss into joining him on the race circuit, causes the accident that breaks Little Fauss's leg, abandons him, then borrows his name, license and bike to compete elsewhere. The biker groupie, Rita, the object of contention for both, gets pregnant, but neither her pregnancy nor Little Fauss's being drafted affects Halsy at all. At the end, the men drive to another race at Sears Point and disappear among the faceless compet.i.tors. The mood in turns is darkly comic, then wildly self-referential, then finally nihilistic. as a personal favorite because he felt it captured his father's essential rebelliousness. Alan Pakula regarded it as the last unself-conscious revelation of the actor's real-life "edge." These revelations, however, struggled against a thinly plotted script that was remarkable for its repet.i.tiveness. Longueurs apart, Redford's Halsy might be seen as a metaphor for the blind self-centeredness of rebellion: he uses women like Kleenex and compulsively manipulates the hero worship of Little Fauss for his own purposes. Beyond the generalities, the plot plods: Halsy sweet-talks Little Fauss into joining him on the race circuit, causes the accident that breaks Little Fauss's leg, abandons him, then borrows his name, license and bike to compete elsewhere. The biker groupie, Rita, the object of contention for both, gets pregnant, but neither her pregnancy nor Little Fauss's being drafted affects Halsy at all. At the end, the men drive to another race at Sears Point and disappear among the faceless compet.i.tors. The mood in turns is darkly comic, then wildly self-referential, then finally nihilistic.

The epilogue of Eastman's original draft, the draft he and Redford cherished, contained this sentence: "Somewhere is Halsy, somewhere is Little, but they are lost in the crowd for they are not winners but rather among those who make no significant mark and leave no permanent trace." Redford loved this subtle observation of a crucial social lie. "Because we are in a remedial society that actually isn't about remedies at all. It's a lie. And people like Halsy do their thing and vanish. Their lives have no consequence."

In the end, Redford felt keenly that the movie was a lost opportunity. He described it to Rolling Stone Rolling Stone as "a f.u.c.ked movie." But he remains fond of it. "I thought the underlying sentiment was an expression of what was truly at risk in the sixties fallout: loss of faith. It was about the condition that makes losers. Furie didn't get that. There were so many moments when he told me to do it one way, and I just couldn't. I as "a f.u.c.ked movie." But he remains fond of it. "I thought the underlying sentiment was an expression of what was truly at risk in the sixties fallout: loss of faith. It was about the condition that makes losers. Furie didn't get that. There were so many moments when he told me to do it one way, and I just couldn't. I knew knew the truth of these people, but he couldn't go there." the truth of these people, but he couldn't go there."

Redford's displeasure with Paramount grew. Since the studio had done nothing to push Downhill Racer, Downhill Racer, he instructed CMA to seek reversion of its nontheatrical rights to Wildwood. The request was received unsympathetically. Paramount had invested in him over the years and seemed offended that he was not keen to return the commitment. During the production of he instructed CMA to seek reversion of its nontheatrical rights to Wildwood. The request was received unsympathetically. Paramount had invested in him over the years and seemed offended that he was not keen to return the commitment. During the production of Little Fauss, Little Fauss, Paramount learned that Redford was preparing a movie for Warners with Sydney Pollack. Stanley Jaffe, the new vice president working with Robert Evans, was allegedly offended, disappointed, doubtless, that his star was moving away from the studio just as he had hit the big time. In the fall of 1970, Paramount complained formally about Redford's "contempt" for the legal settlement of 1968. The terms of that agreement had specified the actor's availability for three movies before September 1971, for a fee of $150,000 per movie. That agreement, said Paramount, had not been honored. Jaffe informed Hendler he was "sick of hearing Redford moan"; that Redford had spurned the offers of substantial scripts like Paramount learned that Redford was preparing a movie for Warners with Sydney Pollack. Stanley Jaffe, the new vice president working with Robert Evans, was allegedly offended, disappointed, doubtless, that his star was moving away from the studio just as he had hit the big time. In the fall of 1970, Paramount complained formally about Redford's "contempt" for the legal settlement of 1968. The terms of that agreement had specified the actor's availability for three movies before September 1971, for a fee of $150,000 per movie. That agreement, said Paramount, had not been honored. Jaffe informed Hendler he was "sick of hearing Redford moan"; that Redford had spurned the offers of substantial scripts like Murphy's War, Murphy's War, to be directed by Peter Yates; that the studio in fact lost $1 million to date on to be directed by Peter Yates; that the studio in fact lost $1 million to date on Downhill Racer, Downhill Racer, which had gone $600,000 over budget; that the studio also lost $5 million on which had gone $600,000 over budget; that the studio also lost $5 million on Blue Blue (which was finally made starring Terence Stamp). (which was finally made starring Terence Stamp).

Redford was outraged by the misrepresentations. "I cared about Charlie Bluhdorn because I liked him," says Redford. "I did not care about Paramount. As far as I was concerned, the onus was on them to come up with the good scripts, and they didn't, so I moved on. They had no allegiance to me. They paid me a lousy $60,000 for Barefoot Barefoot and $90,000 for and $90,000 for Little Fauss Little Fauss. So I felt as though I owed them nothing at all."

The heat of Paramount's fury reflected Redford's new importance. He was now a hugely valuable commodity.

13.

Two and a Half Careers As Redford became a star, Sydney Pollack was. .h.i.tting his stride. Burt Lancaster's patronage and friendship proved their worth on The Scalphunters, The Scalphunters, the gritty, mature western that made its money back in six months and served as the movie breakthrough Pollack longed for. Lancaster then offered him the gritty, mature western that made its money back in six months and served as the movie breakthrough Pollack longed for. Lancaster then offered him Castle Keep, Castle Keep, a war movie funded by Columbia, to be shot in Yugoslavia. While Pollack worked on a war movie funded by Columbia, to be shot in Yugoslavia. While Pollack worked on Castle Keep Castle Keep with Columbia's a.s.signed producer, John Calley, he was also preparing an independent project that Charlie Chaplin's company had been floating for years, Horace McCoy's with Columbia's a.s.signed producer, John Calley, he was also preparing an independent project that Charlie Chaplin's company had been floating for years, Horace McCoy's They Shoot Horses, Don't They? They Shoot Horses, Don't They? a brooding social essay about Depression-era excess starring Jane Fonda that would go on to earn nine Academy Award nominations, including one for Pollack as best director. a brooding social essay about Depression-era excess starring Jane Fonda that would go on to earn nine Academy Award nominations, including one for Pollack as best director.

For Redford, his friendship with Pollack was more than ever a haven. They sought out each other's company, kept in constant touch by phone and solicited advice and jokes. "Bob was never 'work' in my mind," said Pollack. "We were coconspirators, really, trying to make sense of Hollywood together. He would share his woes with me, and I with him. I was there for him with advice on Downhill; Downhill; he was there for me on my movies." he was there for me on my movies."

As scripts piled up at Wildwood, Redford singled out two submitted by the agent Joe Wizan, a friend of Gregson's from his London International agency days who was trying to become a producer and packager. The projects were "Apocalypse Now" and "Liver-Eating Johnson: The Legend of the Crow Killer," both written by Wizan's new discovery, John Milius, a Missouri-born film school graduate from the University of Southern California who had won an award for a short film. Wizan told Redford, "Pick which one you'd like. I can set either up, no problem." Redford read and liked both scripts. Each had a primal starkness that was revelatory of a raw, frontier Americanism that interested Redford. Over a couple of days, he reflected on both submissions and decided "Liver-Eating Johnson," a western, was exactly what he'd been looking for. He phoned Pollack and suggested they do it together.

For Pollack, the timing was perfect: "I was in the position to get it moving because I'd made They Shoot Horses, Don't They? They Shoot Horses, Don't They? and there was a great industry buzz about it. I'd also come in on budget with and there was a great industry buzz about it. I'd also come in on budget with Castle Keep, Castle Keep, so John Calley was happy. And then, just by luck, John was appointed head of production at Warners and he and Ted Ashley, Warners' president, started looking for something original they could call the next big thing." so John Calley was happy. And then, just by luck, John was appointed head of production at Warners and he and Ted Ashley, Warners' president, started looking for something original they could call the next big thing."

Milius was a lifelong admirer of Teddy Roosevelt's and a champion of what he calls "the warrior culture." His early writing had a barbarous intensity, projecting a world where humanity and sanity are constantly a.s.saulted and heroism is ambiguous. Pollack loved Milius's script, which he described as "a stylish, literary piece about a Paul Bunyan type who ate trees: weird!" But he agreed with Redford that in its present form it was unshootable. Redford turned to Milius's source novel, Vardis Fisher's Mountain Man, Mountain Man, and decided the gold was in the original. "It was the story of an authentic mountain man," he says, "based on well-doc.u.mented facts and closer to the real West than anything I'd ever read or seen. I made some simple connections: the Rockies, where I lived, wilderness, authenticity, the men who cracked the frontier, truth. I told Sydney, 'We can do this and decided the gold was in the original. "It was the story of an authentic mountain man," he says, "based on well-doc.u.mented facts and closer to the real West than anything I'd ever read or seen. I made some simple connections: the Rockies, where I lived, wilderness, authenticity, the men who cracked the frontier, truth. I told Sydney, 'We can do this the authentic way. the authentic way. There's no other option. Let's go.'" There's no other option. Let's go.'"

With Wizan as producer and Warners' backing, work started. Edward Anhalt, who had won several Academy Awards throughout the fifties, was a.s.signed the rewrite, and contracts were signed all around. Redford accepted an up-front $200,000 against his best-yet fee of $500,000. Pollack's fee was $220,000, a 20 percent improvement on Castle Keep. Castle Keep.

Pollack and Calley decided to shoot the film in southern Spain. Redford was shocked. He had been adamant from the outset: this movie should be made in the best, authentic setting-his own front yard. "I had an acute sense of location. The script was the unsensationalized life of a Rocky Mountain trapper. John Johnson, the original mountain man, lived in these canyons around Sundance 120 years ago. That was one good reason to do it here. There was also a budgetary advantage in the Utah right-to-work law. It made financial sense. There was no way I was going to go along with Sydney if he wished to make this on a Warners' lot with pickups in Spain."

Pollack insisted that the movie could not be made entirely on location for its budget of $4 million. But Redford dug his heels in. "He had a stubborn streak a mile wide," said Pollack. "I argued. I begged. I reckoned, We'll go through h.e.l.l on this one, but he'll get his way." Redford did. A month after Little Fauss Little Fauss wrapped, the newly t.i.tled wrapped, the newly t.i.tled Jeremiah Johnson Jeremiah Johnson started shooting with autumnal pickups in Sundance's Alpine Meadows, at Mirror Lake, on the flank of Timpanogos and along the ridges of Provo Canyon. "It turned into a mess," said Pollack. "We simply were not ready for production. As soon as we started, I knew for sure we could not do it for the $4 million agreed. Bob was a very expensive actor by now. And Calley was worried because the numbers didn't add up. He said, 'Bob is too costly, and these locations of his are too awkward. It will never work. You will run out of money.' But Bob continued to be insistent: 'We can shoot in Utah,' he said." started shooting with autumnal pickups in Sundance's Alpine Meadows, at Mirror Lake, on the flank of Timpanogos and along the ridges of Provo Canyon. "It turned into a mess," said Pollack. "We simply were not ready for production. As soon as we started, I knew for sure we could not do it for the $4 million agreed. Bob was a very expensive actor by now. And Calley was worried because the numbers didn't add up. He said, 'Bob is too costly, and these locations of his are too awkward. It will never work. You will run out of money.' But Bob continued to be insistent: 'We can shoot in Utah,' he said."

According to Pollack, Ted Ashley, backed by Warners' legal executive Frank Wells, pulled the plug in Utah. Warners then announced that the movie would be shot on the back lot, with the second unit doing some background shooting around Lake Arrowhead.

Redford would have none of it. He flew to Los Angeles with Hendler, Begelman and Fields for a showdown with Warners. Begelman advised Ashley, Calley and Wells that their star might become unavailable because of "illness." Threats and counterthreats flew. When things calmed down, it was agreed that Ashley, Calley and Wells would deposit $4 million in Zions Bank in Provo, which would represent their total contribution to the production. If the costs ran over, they would have to be covered by director and actor. A lien would be put on Pollack's production company as collateral.

Pollack was not at the meeting and felt this proposal was hardest on him. "It wasn't an easy decision for me to accept," he said, "because I was only just establishing myself and my company. I thought about getting out at that point, but I couldn't because Bob had already spent his $200,000." And it was true that Redford was financially stretched to the limit that summer. Nevertheless, Redford insists he was as exposed in the deal as his friend. "It was wrong of me to agree to the $4 million in Sydney's absence, and I did apologize eventually. But I deferred part of my fee, because of the risk. I was sharing this with Sydney, and I wanted to be fair."

For a while Pollack refused to return Redford's calls. "I was p.i.s.sed," says Redford. "It was clear this wasn't going to be an easy film to make, and he was getting cold feet. But we had made promises to each other. I got him on the phone and told him, 'Don't f.u.c.k me around, Sydney. You know we have to have to do this picture.' It was tense and drawn out, but finally loyalty carried the day." do this picture.' It was tense and drawn out, but finally loyalty carried the day."

David Rayfiel received a sudden frantic summons from Pollack: "He said, 'Forget you were born in Brooklyn. We have a story about liver-eating frontier savages. Milius has done some good work, Anhalt has done some work, Redford has done some. But I need you to fix it.'"

Milius's script had been gutted by Anhalt, Redford and Pollack and now revolved around the clash of value systems on the frontier between the white man and the Indian. Johnson's battle against the elements-at the forefront in Milius's script-was now background. In search of personal freedom, Johnson, an ex-soldier, leaves civilization to pit his wits against the Rockies. Along the way he befriends the regional tribes, the Blackfoot, Flathead and Crow, adopts an orphan boy and wins a gift bride from the Flathead, before inadvertently offending the Crow by helping a team of army scouts traverse their sacred lands. His new family is slaughtered in revenge and Johnson's harmony with the wilderness ends.

"I never saw movies as theatrical three-acters," says Rayfiel. "For me, a movie is narrative, like a novel. So what I gave was a clarity of flow and, hopefully, some character-illuminating dialogue that pointed up Johnson's nature and how he responds to his loss." As part of his revision, Rayfiel gave Pollack and Redford a five-page essay concerning Johnson's relationship with his Flathead bride. Pollack found this invaluable. "Some juice in that liberated a lot of the story line for Bob and I," said Pollack. "That human element was missing in Milius. There was no humanized contact. It was formerly just enmity all the way. But David's notes turned it around for us. Finally we found a shootable script."

Pollack's screenplay file for Jeremiah Johnson Jeremiah Johnson is the fattest and most revealing in his script library. It shows what underlay his and Redford's teamwork. "I was not a front-row political artist any more than I was a visual stylist," said Pollack. "But I always believed every speck of research was crucial, and the smallest detail must be finessed. Bob was not like that. He had to have a central reality that he could hold on to, and work from there. He was overview, I was detail." Starting on January 12, 1970, three weeks after the opening of is the fattest and most revealing in his script library. It shows what underlay his and Redford's teamwork. "I was not a front-row political artist any more than I was a visual stylist," said Pollack. "But I always believed every speck of research was crucial, and the smallest detail must be finessed. Bob was not like that. He had to have a central reality that he could hold on to, and work from there. He was overview, I was detail." Starting on January 12, 1970, three weeks after the opening of They Shoot Horses, Don't They? They Shoot Horses, Don't They? Pollack recorded his conceptual notes for creating the character of frontiersman Johnson with Redford. He concluded with a quote from a Pollack recorded his conceptual notes for creating the character of frontiersman Johnson with Redford. He concluded with a quote from a Newsweek Newsweek article about Redford: "A new movie hero has emerged, often a surrogate [of] the director himself, outside society, alienated by mainstream American values, searching for his ident.i.ty as he moves across the face of America. These new heroes are often losers whose heroism is measured not in their ability to triumph, but to survive." article about Redford: "A new movie hero has emerged, often a surrogate [of] the director himself, outside society, alienated by mainstream American values, searching for his ident.i.ty as he moves across the face of America. These new heroes are often losers whose heroism is measured not in their ability to triumph, but to survive."

Thereafter, over the next twelve months, Pollack recorded page after page of conversations, source references and ideas, all focused on reducing the gap between Redford and Johnson. Carol Rossen, who was a friend of Pollack's as well, believes that Jeremiah Johnson Jeremiah Johnson "was the fusion of Bob and Sydney and the interdependency of their creativity. Many people have remarked that Sydney really wanted to "was the fusion of Bob and Sydney and the interdependency of their creativity. Many people have remarked that Sydney really wanted to be be Bob, that all he lacked was the blond mane. And there's truth in that, because, after all, he was an actor, with an actor's training. But it was also a spiritual transference. They made seven movies together because they were mirror images of each other. The bottom line is, they saw life in very similar ways." Bob, that all he lacked was the blond mane. And there's truth in that, because, after all, he was an actor, with an actor's training. But it was also a spiritual transference. They made seven movies together because they were mirror images of each other. The bottom line is, they saw life in very similar ways."

Uninterrupted filming of Jeremiah Johnson Jeremiah Johnson finally began in January 1971. But Pollack and his cinematographer, Duke Callaghan, agonized as the schedule swung with the vagaries of weather: "The snows of St. George in southern Utah were terrible," said Pollack, "and we were using Cinemobiles [mobile ministudios] as the lifelines. There was no way I was going to let it overrun, and Bob was a superb partner in keeping us tight. In the end it was the greatest way to learn production, because I was playing with my own money. And it worked to my advantage: I beat the clock and brought it in at $3.1 million. The deal I'd made gave me 50 percent of the first $100,000 under budget and 25 percent of the second $100,000 and so forth, so I made an extra $100,000-plus by coming in $900,000 under budget." Pollack and Redford split the reward fifty-fifty. finally began in January 1971. But Pollack and his cinematographer, Duke Callaghan, agonized as the schedule swung with the vagaries of weather: "The snows of St. George in southern Utah were terrible," said Pollack, "and we were using Cinemobiles [mobile ministudios] as the lifelines. There was no way I was going to let it overrun, and Bob was a superb partner in keeping us tight. In the end it was the greatest way to learn production, because I was playing with my own money. And it worked to my advantage: I beat the clock and brought it in at $3.1 million. The deal I'd made gave me 50 percent of the first $100,000 under budget and 25 percent of the second $100,000 and so forth, so I made an extra $100,000-plus by coming in $900,000 under budget." Pollack and Redford split the reward fifty-fifty.

Redford's satisfaction with the movie was spiritual, but others extrapolated different values. There seemed, many said, a concentration of acting technique. The writer Robert Pirsig has observed that Redford's appeal to the public, like Gary Cooper's, is the "inscrutable silence," as portrayed in the Sundance Kid. This, says Pirsig, reflects a Native American demeanor lost to the culture. In Jeremiah Johnson Jeremiah Johnson Pollack observed a finessed focus: "He surprised me. He was running around with me, doing all the production things, riding snowmobiles and digging us out and laboring. But then the sh