Twenty years ago this month, I was at Sundance in Utah for a dear friend’s wedding. It was beautiful, calm, and quiet—prior to ski season and the film festival. The wedding party had the run of the place in the lovely autumnal weather. There were a variety of gatherings over the weekend. While I was heading to one, I passed a man, not so tall, and a younger woman walking in the opposite direction. He was wearing a cowboy hat, aviator sunglasses, and a shiny blue shirt. She was taking notes, as he talked. I wondered who he was and passed by. A moment later, I heard from behind me, “Is that David Corn?”
I turned around and the fellow had stopped. “David?” he asked. He put out his hand. “Bob Redford,” he said, taking off his sunglasses. Oh my God, I thought. I had not recognized him. “What are you doing here?” he inquired. I told him about the wedding. He told me he was a fan of my work. (I was now in the stratosphere.) And he said he was currently hosting a conference for the Natural Resources Defense Council at Sundance; he was a trustee of the organization. “I’m screening All the President’s Men tonight,” he said. “Come by if you can.” He pointed to the building where the event would occur. “Otherwise,” he added, “see you around.” Was that a twinkle in his eye? He was almost 70 but still oozed charisma and a magnetic boyish charm. “Yeah,” I said, a bit tongue-tied.
There was a reception for the wedding group that night. But my friend generously offered me dispensation, and I slipped out for the screening. The auditorium was full of NRDC environmental activists, when I tried to quietly enter at the rear. Bob—I could call him Bob, now, right?—was on the stage talking about the movie, and he spotted me in the back. He interrupted his remarks to say, “And now one of my favorite journalists is here,” and he introduced me. I nodded and sat down, feeling rather special. Bob had that true-movie-star glow, and now I was within it.
Bob told the audience the story of how during the early days of Watergate—long before it was clear this was a story that would end a presidency—he thought that there could be a film about how Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein were uncovering the scandal bit by bit for the Washington Post. He called the newspaper and got Woodward on the phone to pitch the idea. Bob told the reporter the movie would focus not on Nixon’s misdeeds but on the reporting and on Woodward and Bernstein’s partnership. Woodward wasn’t interested.
As Woodward and Bernstein have told the story over the years, after Woodward hung up, he immediately informed Bernstein about the call, and Bernstein said, “Do not ever talk to him again.” They both figured that if word got out that Redford was calling and Hollywood was knocking on their door it would undermine their credibility. They were already getting plenty of crap for their reporting. Bernstein gave Woodward a direct command: “Do not pick up the goddamn phone if Bob Redford calls."
Bob didn’t give up. He kept track of the story and the reporters and every few months tried Woodward again. The pair remained skeptical. But Bob eventually won them over, and months before their book was published in 1974, he optioned the work for the then-exorbitant sum of $450,000. His persistence led to a cinematic masterpiece, a gripping buddy movie about journalism and political intrigue. Watergate sparked my interest in journalism, and All the President’s Men, the book and the film, were a big part of that.
I saw Bob once in a great while over the years. He was always open, engaging, curious, evincing intelligence, humility, and impishness. I had the sense he liked to hatch plots. In 2007, he invited me to the premiere of Lions for Lambs, a film he directed and starred in with Tom Cruise and Meryl Streep. It was about the Afghanistan War and had an antiwar perspective. At the reception following the screening, I saw him rushing toward me. His first words were, “Can you believe I got this made?”
As many have noted following his death at the age of 89 last week, Bob sought to act in and direct films that made the audience think about the world around them. He was a skilled and precise actor, a commanding director, and a passionate activist who entertained and enlightened. His work on All the President’s Men shaped my life. I don’t recall if I ever thanked him. I should have.
After his death, many people, no doubt, rushed to watch Bob’s classic works, such as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Three Days of the Condor, The Sting, and All the President’s Men. I don’t need to encourage anyone to stream those movies. Instead, I recommend All Is Lost, one of his last films. It’s the story of a man on a sailboat during a solo crossing of the Indian Ocean. His boat collides with a shipping container that rips open a hole in the hull. On his own, far out at sea, the man is now in a fight for survival. There is precious little dialogue, and Bob provides a masterclass in acting without words. The film is a gripping metaphor. I know he was quite proud of his work on this picture, which did not draw the accolades it deserved. To fully appreciate Bob, give it a watch.
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