Hollywood, CA

It’s one of the most iconic images in film history: two outlaws, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, guns blazing, frozen in a moment of defiant brotherhood. For decades, audiences watched Paul Newman and Robert Redford leap into legend, believing they were witnessing great acting. But behind the scenes, their partnership was more than movie magic—it was the real story of two men whose friendship shaped Hollywood and each other.

From Strangers to Brothers

The legend began in the summer of 1968, when Newman, already a Hollywood titan, and Redford, a rising star, met for the first time to discuss a script nobody believed in. “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” was an unconventional Western—funny, tragic, and risky at a time when the genre was fading. Newman was 43, Redford just 32 and nervous. Their first meeting, over coffee in Los Angeles, set the tone for a partnership built on mutual respect.

“Can you keep up with me?” Newman asked. Redford replied, “Try me.” It was the start of a handshake that would last 40 years.

Filming was electric. The chemistry between the two men was undeniable, elevating each other’s performances and forging a bond that quickly transcended the screen. Director George Roy Hill saw it instantly: “These two aren’t just acting—they’re becoming friends.” The trust, the jokes, the loyalty—it was all real.

Their friendship was immortalized in the film’s most famous scene, when Butch and Sundance jump off a cliff into the unknown. In that leap, audiences saw not just characters, but the spirit of two men who would trust each other for a lifetime.

Beyond the Screen

“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” became a phenomenon, turning Redford and Newman into the most famous duo in Hollywood. But for them, the friendship was sacred, never a publicity stunt. They met for lunches, played poker, shared advice, and challenged each other’s ideas. In 1973, they reunited for “The Sting,” another masterpiece. Studios wanted to market it as a sequel, but the actors refused. “This isn’t a sequel,” Newman said. “It’s two friends choosing to work together because we enjoy it.”

As the years passed, their lives diverged but remained intertwined. Newman became a philanthropist, founding Newman’s Own and donating millions to charity. Redford launched the Sundance Film Festival, named after the character that had brought them together. Newman supported the festival from the start, attending the first event and championing independent filmmakers.

Late-night phone calls became their ritual—discussing movies, aging, and what really mattered. Their jokes were legendary: Newman teased Redford about his “pretty boy” reputation; Redford poked fun at Newman’s salad dressing empire. Through it all, their loyalty never wavered.

The Final Goodbye

In 2006, Newman was diagnosed with lung cancer. He broke the news to Redford over a quiet lunch in Connecticut. “How long?” Redford asked. “They don’t know,” Newman replied. “Could be months, could be years.” They didn’t cry. Instead, Redford reached for Newman’s hand and said, “We’ll beat it.” Newman smiled. “We’ll try.”

But the cancer was aggressive. By 2008, Newman was fading physically but remained sharp in spirit. Redford visited in August. “There’s my Sundance,” Newman greeted him, his voice weak but warm. They talked for hours, reminiscing about their shared journey. Redford couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye. “I’ll see you soon,” he said. “I’m counting on it,” Newman replied.

On September 26, 2008, the call came. Newman had passed away peacefully at home. Redford sat in his study for hours, numb with grief. His wife, Sibylle, found him there as the sun set, quietly keeping him company in the silence that only true loss brings.

The funeral was private, as Newman wished. Redford arrived early, looking older than his 72 years. He sat in the back row, away from the spotlight, surrounded by memories. Friends and family shared stories—funny, poignant, full of love. Clips from Newman’s films played, ending with the iconic freeze frame from “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” Redford’s hands gripped the pew, his knuckles white. That image wasn’t just acting; it was his life.

When the church emptied, Redford approached the casket, stood alone for ten minutes, then leaned close and whispered four words only Newman’s daughter Nell heard: “Thanks for the ride.” Nell wept, knowing what those words meant—a farewell to a 40-year journey from strangers to brothers.

A Legacy of Loyalty

Back in Utah, Redford created a small memorial in his study—a photo from the set of “Butch Cassidy,” a signed script, and a handwritten note: “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 also called the Sundance Film Festival, requesting a new award—the Paul Newman Award—for filmmakers who embodied Newman’s values: integrity, courage, generosity. “Paul supported Sundance from the beginning,” Redford said. “Now Sundance will support his legacy forever.”

Redford withdrew from public life, declining interviews and appearances. “My friendship with Paul was private,” he told his publicist. “It stays private.” But in December 2008, he broke his silence, writing an essay for a major magazine. “Paul Newman was my brother. Not by blood, but by choice. 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 absence leaves a hole nothing can fill.” The essay resonated worldwide—not as a story of celebrity, but as a testament to transformative friendship.

The Ride Never Ends

Years passed. Redford continued his work, but those close to him noticed the change—a dimmer light, a quieter smile. Part of him remained in that Connecticut church, still whispering, “Thanks for the ride.” In 2013, he presented the first Paul Newman Award at Sundance, honoring not the actor, but the man who believed in second chances and the power of lifting others up.

After the ceremony, a young filmmaker asked, “What was Paul Newman really like?” Redford smiled. “Exactly what you think—generous, funny, honest. But he was also loyal. When he chose you as a friend, he never wavered, never doubted, never abandoned. That’s rare. That’s Paul.”

Do you 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 story of Butch and Sundance didn’t end with guns blazing. It ended with whispered words, quiet grief, and gratitude for a brotherhood that changed two lives—and inspired millions.