Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. 1969. Two outlaws best friends facing death together. The final freeze frame. Guns blazing. Together until the end. That was fiction. September 26th, 2008. That became real. Paul Newman died. Robert Redford lost his butch. The funeral was private.

 Redford sat in the back, silent as a grave. People noticed. He looked older, smaller, like part of him had been buried with Paul. When everyone left, Redford approached the casket, stood there alone for 10 minutes, just standing. Then he leaned close and whispered the same thing Sundance would have said to Butch. Four words that meant everything.

 Nell Newman heard them, started crying because she realized her father and Redford hadn’t been acting in those movies. They’d been showing the world what real friendship looked like. This is what Redford whispered and this is what he did when he got home that changed everything. Summer 1968. Two actors met for the first time to discuss a western nobody believed in.

The script was unconventional. Two outlaws who were funny, charming, and ultimately doomed. The studio was skeptical. Westerns were dying. Comedy westerns were suicide. Paul Newman was already a star. Cool handluke. Hud, the hustler. He had the blue eyes that made women swoon and the talent that made men respect him.

 He was 43 and at the peak of his powers. Robert Redford was younger, 32, still building his reputation. He he’d done some television, a few small film roles, but nothing that made him a household name. He was hungry, ambitious, and incredibly nervous about meeting Paul Newman. They sat in a restaurant in Los Angeles. Paul ordered coffee.

 Redford ordered the same, though he didn’t drink coffee. He was trying to match Newman’s energy, trying to seem professional. “So,” Paul said, looking at the script, “your Sundance.” “If you’ll have me,” Redford replied. Paul studied him. Those famous blue eyes taking measure. “You ride horses?” “I grew up in California.

 I can sit on one without falling off.” Paul laughed. “Good enough. Can you shoot? I’m learning. Can you take direction from a good director? Yes. Can you keep up with me? That was the real question. Redford met Paul’s eyes. Try me. Something happened in that moment. A recognition. Two men who understood each other instantly, who saw in each other a reflection of something they valued.

Honesty, work ethic, no “All right,” Paul said, extending his hand. “Let’s make a western.” They shook. Neither of them knew that Handshake would last 40 years. Filming Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid was magic. The kind of magic that happens maybe once in a career. Paul and Redford discovered they had chemistry.

 Not the forced kind, the real kind. They made each other better actors, made each other funnier, made each other braver. Director George Roy Hill watched them work and realized he’d stumbled onto something rare. These two men weren’t acting like friends. They were becoming friends. The trust you saw on screen was real. The jokes were real.

 The loyalty was real. There’s a scene in the movie where Butch and Sundance jump off a cliff into a river. They’re surrounded, outnumbered. The only escape is a 100 foot drop into water they can’t see. Sundance admits he can’t swim. Butch laughs and they jump together, trusting each other completely. That scene became their friendship, a leap into the unknown.

 together, trusting completely. The movie was released in 1969. It became a phenomenon, not just a hit, a cultural moment. Paul and Redford became the most famous duo in Hollywood. But more importantly, they became brothers. They didn’t advertise the friendship, didn’t sell it to magazines. It was private, sacred.

 They’d meet for lunch, play poker, talk about their families, went about projects, uh about life. Paul would give Redford advice. Redford would challenge Paul’s thinking. They balanced each other. In 1973, they made the Sting, another masterpiece, another display of perfect chemistry that the studio wanted to call it Butch and Sundance 2. Paul and Redford refused.

This wasn’t a sequel. This was two friends choosing to work together because they enjoyed it. The years passed. Paul became a philanthropist, started Newman’s Own, gave millions to charity. Redford started Sundance, a film festival dedicated to independent cinema. Named after the character Paul helped make famous.

 Paul came to the first festival, supported it, believed in it. They’d call each other late at night, talk for hours about movies, about aging, about what mattered. Paul would tease Redford about his pretty boy reputation. Redford would tease Paul about his salad dressing. The jokes were loving, real. In 2006, Paul was diagnosed with cancer. Lung cancer.

 He’d smoked for years. Now it was killing him. He told Redford during a quiet lunch at Paul’s home in Connecticut. How long? Redford asked. They don’t know. Could be months, could be years. Redford didn’t cry. Paul wouldn’t have wanted that. He just reached across the table and took his friend’s hand. We’ll beat it.

 Paul smiled. We’ll try. They didn’t beat it. The cancer was aggressive. By 2008, Paul was fading. His body was giving up, but his mind stayed sharp. He wanted to live. He had too much left to do, a charity to run, a wife to love, grandchildren to watch grow. Redford visited him in August 2008. Paul was thin, gaunt.

 The blue eyes that had captivated the world were tired. But when he saw Redford, they lit up. “There’s my Sundance,” Paul said, his voice weak. Here’s your butch, Redford replied, sitting beside the bed. They talked for hours about the old days, about the good work they’d done, about the friendship that had defined both their lives. Redford didn’t say goodbye.

He couldn’t. He just squeezed Paul’s hand and said, “I’ll see you soon.” Paul smiled. I’m counting on it. September 26th, 2008. The phone rang at Redford’s home in Utah. He knew before he answered. The way you know when something fundamental has shifted in the world. Bob, it’s Joanne, Paul’s wife. Her voice was steady, strong, but underneath Redford could hear the ocean of grief.

 Paul passed this morning peacefully at home. Redford sat down, the room tilted. He’d known this was coming, had been preparing himself, but preparation meant nothing. Paul Newman was gone. his best friend, his brother, his butch. When’s the service? Redford managed. Private family, close friends. We’ll we’ll send details. Thank you for calling me.

 Paul loved you, Bob. You know that. I know. I loved him, too. After he hung up, Redford sat in his study for hours, not moving, not crying, just sitting. His wife, Sabil, found him there as the sun set. She didn’t say anything, just sat with him. because there are no words for this kind of loss.

 The funeral was held at a small church in Connecticut. Paul had wanted it private. No media, no spectacle, just the people he loved saying goodbye. Redford arrived early, wore a dark suit, sunglasses even though it was overcast. He looked older than his 72 years. Like the news of Paul’s death had aged him overnight. People greeted him, hugged him, told him how sorry they were, Redford nodded, said thank you.

 But he didn’t engage, didn’t share memories. He was somewhere else, somewhere deep inside himself where the grief lived. He sat in the back row alone. He could have sat in front. He was family. But he chose the back, away from the attention, away from the eyes that wanted to see how Robert Redford grieved. The service began.

 Paul’s daughter spoke. His wife Joanne spoke. Friends shared stories. Funny stories. Stories that made people laugh through their tears. Stories about Paul’s generosity, his pranks, his love of racing cars, his devotion to charity. Redford listened, but he didn’t move, didn’t react. He was a statue frozen in grief.

 Near the end, they played a video. Clips from Paul’s movies. Coolhand Luke, the hustler, the Verdict, and of course, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The final freeze frame. Two outlaws running towards certain death. Together, always together. When the image appeared on the screen, Redford’s hands gripped the pew in front of him.

 His knuckles went white. Because that image wasn’t acting, that was real. That was him and Paul together until the end. The service concluded. People stood filed past the casket. Some touched it. Some whispered goodbyes. Some just looked and wept. The family stood nearby thanking people for coming, accepting condolences. Redford stayed seated, waited.

 He watched the church empty, watched Paul’s daughters leave to prepare for the burial, watched Joanne walk out, supported by friends, watched the priest close his Bible and step aside. Finally, it was just Redford and Nell Newman, Paul’s daughter, from his first marriage. She was organizing flowers near the altar, didn’t want to leave, her father, alone.

Redford stood, his legs felt heavy. He walked slowly down the aisle, each step taking effort, like walking underwater. He reached the casket, placed both hands on the polished wood, closed his eyes. 10 minutes passed. Nell glanced over occasionally, wondering if she should interrupt, if Redford needed help, but something about his posture stopped her.

He wasn’t breaking down. He was communing, having a final conversation with his best friend. Redford opened his eyes, looked at the casket. The wood was beautiful. Paul would have appreciated the craftsmanship. He always noticed quality in work, in people, in friendship. Redford leaned close, his forehead almost touching the wood, and whispered four words so quiet Nell almost missed them.

 “Thanks for the ride.” That was it. Four words, simple, complete, devastating. Nell’s hand went to her mouth. Tears started immediately because she understood. Her father and Redford had been on a ride together, a 40-year ride from unknown actors to legends, from strangers to brothers. And and now the ride was over.

 And Redford was saying, “Thank you for all of it.” Redford straightened, took a breath, placed one hand flat on the casket like a blessing, like a final touch. Then he turned and walked toward the exit. He saw Nell crying, stopped beside her. “Your [snorts] father was the best man I ever knew.” Nell nodded, couldn’t speak.

“He made me better,” Redford continued. “Better actor, better man, better friend. I wouldn’t be who I am without him.” “He felt the same about you,” Nell managed. “He talked about you all the time, about Sundance, about the ride you had together.” Redford smiled. sad. True. It was quite a ride. He left the church, drove himself to the airport, flew back to Utah to Sundance, the place he’d built, the place named after a character that had brought him and Paul together.

When he arrived home, Sibil was waiting. She’d made coffee, knew he wouldn’t eat, but coffee he might accept. “How was it?” she asked. “Quiet,” Redford said. Paul would have liked that. He went to his study, closed the door. Sabil understood he needed to be alone, to process, to to grieve in private the way men of his generation did.

 What Redford did next, he never told anyone. But his staff discovered it the following morning. In his study, he’d set up a small memorial, a photo of him and Paul from the Butch Cassidy set, young, laughing, full of possibility. Next to it, a copy of the script signed by both of them and a handwritten note. The note said, “To my butch, thanks for 40 years.

Thanks for the laughs. Thanks for showing me what friendship looks like. I’ll see you down the trail. Your Sundance.” He’d also done something else, something nobody expected. He’d called the Sundance Film Festival organizers, told them he wanted to create a special award, the Paul Newman Award, for filmmakers who embodied Paul’s values: integrity, courage, generosity.

 The first award would be given at the next festival. Paul supported Sundance from the beginning, Redford told them. Now Sundance will support his legacy forever. The weeks that followed were difficult. Redford was quieter than usual. He turned down interviews, canceled appearances. He needed time, space. The world wanted him to talk about Paul, to share memories, to commodify the grief. Redford refused.

My friendship with Paul was private. He told his publicist, “It stays private.” But in December 2008, Redford did something he rarely did. He wrote an essay published in a major magazine about Paul, about their friendship, about what it meant to lose someone who had shaped your life. He wrote, “Paul Newman was my brother.

 Not by blood, but by choice. We chose each other. We chose to trust each other. We chose to make each other better. That choice became the most important relationship of my life. He wrote, “When you spend 40 years with someone, they become part of you. Their voice is in your head. Their values shape your decisions. Their absence leaves a hole nothing can fill.

” He wrote, “People ask me what Paul meant to me. I tell them he meant everything. He was my mirror, my conscience, my friend. When I die, I hope someone says I was half the man Paul Newman was.” that would be enough. The essay went viral. People around the world read it and wept because it wasn’t about celebrity. It was about friendship.

Real, deep, transformative friendship, the kind most people dream of but never find. Years passed. Redford continued his work, continued Sundance, continued acting, though less frequently. But those who knew him noticed the change. The light in his eyes was dimmer. The smile came less easily.

 Part of him was still in that church in Connecticut, still standing at Paul’s casket, still whispering, “Thanks for the ride.” In 2013, at the Sundance Film Festival, they gave out the first Paul Newman award. Redford presented it. He stood on stage holding the trophy and talked about Paul. Not the actor, not the celebrity, the man.

 Paul believed in second chances. Redford said he believed everyone had something valuable inside them, something worth discovering. This award is for people who share that belief, who use their art to lift others up, who understand that the greatest success isn’t fame, it’s making the world better. The audience stood, applauded.

 Not for Redford, for Paul, for the memory of a good man, for the friendship that had inspired them all. After the ceremony, a young filmmaker approached Redford. Mr. Redford, I have to ask, what was Paul Newman really like? Redford smiled, the first real smile anyone had seen in years. He was exactly what you think, generous, funny, honest. But he was also more.

 He was loyal. When he chose you as a friend, he never wavered, never doubted, never abandoned. That’s rare. That’s Paul. You must miss him. Every day, Redford said, “But I’m grateful. Most people go through life never experiencing real friendship. I had 40 years of it. That’s a gift. That’s the ride Paul gave me. The ride.

 That’s what it always came back to. Butch and Sundance. Two outlaws riding together, trusting each other, facing death together. The movie ended with them frozen in midun, guns blazing, surrounded but undefeated. Paul and Redford’s friendship ended differently. Not with guns. with whispered words in a church, with quiet grief, with gratitude for 40 years of brotherhood.

 But in a way, the movie got it right. They did face death together. They did go out together because when Paul died, part of Redford died, too. The part that laughed easiest, the part that trusted most deeply. The part that knew what it meant to have a brother. This is the untold story of September 26, 2008.

 The day Robert Redford lost his butch. The day he stood at a casket and said, “Thank you for a ride that had lasted 40 years.” The day he learned that some friendships don’t end. They transform. They become memories. They become the voice in your head that says, “Keep going. Make good choices. Be the person they believed you were.

” Paul Newman believed Robert Redford was a good man, a talented actor, a loyal friend. And Redford spent the rest of his life trying to prove Paul was right. If this story moved you, if you understand what it means to lose a friend who shaped your life, share it with someone who needs to know that grief is the price we pay for love, and it’s worth it every time.

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