Eddie Torres had been a camera operator for 12 years. He’d seen everything. Tantrums, affairs, breakdowns, fist fights. But he’d never seen this. An actress physically unable to kiss her co-star when cameras were rolling, then unable to stop touching him when they weren’t. It was 11:17 p.m. on October 23rd, 1967.
Stage 5 at Paramount was supposed to be empty. Eddie was packing up his equipment, running late because they’d gone 17 takes on a single kiss and still didn’t have it. 17 takes of Jane Fonda freezing up. 17 takes of Robert Redford standing there like a statue, patient as the mountains he loved, waiting for something nobody else could see.
Eddie heard voices low, coming from the Park Avenue apartment set they’d been shooting on all day. He should have left. Should have minded his own business. But but something in those voices made him stop, made him look. Through the stage door, barely lit by a single work light, he saw them. Jane and Redford, standing exactly where they’d stood for 17 failed takes.
But this time, Jane’s hands were on Redford’s chest. This time, she was the one moving closer. This time, there was no hesitation. Eddie’s finger found his camera’s power button before his brain caught up. He didn’t plan to film them. Didn’t mean to invade their privacy. But what he captured in the next four minutes would explain everything about why Jane Fonda couldn’t kiss Robert Redford on camera and why Hollywood’s Golden Boy had been so impossibly patient all day long.
October 1967, Hollywood was changing. The studio system was dying. New voices were breaking through. Jane Fondo was one of them. 29 years old, beautiful, but not in the safe blonde way Hollywood preferred. Smart, political, the daughter of Henry Fonda, trying to prove she was more than a famous name. She’d just finished Barefoot in the Park on Broadway opposite Redford.
Eight months, eight shows a week, standing ovations every night. The chemistry was undeniable, electric. Audiences couldn’t look away when they were on stage together. So when Paramount bought the film rights, casting Jane and Redford was obvious. Lightning in a bottle. Box office gold. Except now, 10 days into filming, nobody was sure they’d made the right choice.
Robert Redford was 31, golden blonde hair, blue eyes that looked through you. He’d exploded on Broadway with barefoot in the park in 1963. Four years later, he was the hottest young actor in America. Women wanted him. Men wanted to be him. But Redford himself seemed uncomfortable with all of it. The fame, the attention, the magazine covers calling him the handsomest man in Hollywood.
He’d bought land in Utah 6 years ago, 2 acres near Provo Canyon, middle of nowhere. He called it Sundance after a character he wanted to play someday. When people asked why, he’d shrug. Mountains don’t judge you, he’d say. They just let you be. That’s what Eddie loved about working with Redford. The abang for guy was quiet, professional, never late, never threw tantrums, just showed up, did the work, and disappeared. No drama.
Eddie had shot three films with Redford, never once saw him lose his temper, which made today even stranger. The scene they were shooting was simple. Page 12 of the script, Paul and Corey’s first kiss in their new apartment. Newlyweds happy and love. The kind of kiss that should take one, maybe two takes.
Good chemistry, experienced actors, clear blocking. They were on take 17. Positions. Director Jean Saxs had called at 9:00 a.m. His voice was already tired. This was his first film. He directed the Broadway production, knew these actors, knew this material. Should have been easy. Jane stood on her mark. Redford stood on his three feet apart.
The blocking was simple. Paul would say his line. Corey would laugh. Paul would cross to her. They’d kiss. Cut. Done. Action. Jane delivered her line perfectly. Redford crossed to her, got within a foot. Jane’s face changed. Something shut down behind her eyes. She stepped back. Half a step, barely visible, but enough.
Redford stopped, waited. Jane stood there, arms at her sides, looking at him, but not moving. Cut. Gene tried to stay calm. Jane, you stepped back. I know. I’m sorry. Let’s go again. Remember, Corey’s happy here. She wants this kiss. They reset. Tried again. Same result. Jane froze. Not dramatically, not obviously, but that half step back, that wall that came up.
By take seven, Gene was frustrated. Jane, what’s happening? I don’t know, she said quietly. And Eddie believed her. She looked as confused as everyone else. Redford said nothing. just stood there patient, those blue eyes watching Jane with something Eddie couldn’t quite read. Not annoyance, not confusion, something else. Understanding maybe.
Take 12. Jane actually started crying, not sobbing, just tears sliding down her face while she stood there, unable to move forward. Gene called for a break. Jane walked off set. Redford stayed exactly where he was for a long moment, hands in his pockets, looking at the floor. Then he followed her. Not rushing, just following.
Eddie was rewinding film when he heard them. Redford’s voice low. You don’t have to explain. Take your time. Jane’s response was too quiet to hear. But when they came back 15 minutes later, she looked steadier. They tried again. Still didn’t work, but Jane didn’t cry. By 6:00 p.m., they’d done 17 takes.
Jean Saxs was pacing. The cinematographer was checking his light meters for the hundth time just to have something to do. The script supervisor had stopped taking notes. Everyone knew they were stuck. “Let’s call it,” Gene finally said. “We’ll try again tomorrow.” The crew started breaking down equipment. Jane disappeared to her dressing room immediately.
Redford stayed on set, sitting on the couch that was part of the Park Avenue apartment set, reading his script. Eddie noticed he wasn’t actually turning pages by 11 p.m. Eddie was the last one there. He’d stayed late to clean a lens that had gotten fingerprints on it during the day. Perfectionist habit. His wife always said he cared more about his equipment than he cared about getting home on time. She wasn’t wrong.
He was packing up his camera bag when he heard it. Voices coming from stage 5. He thought everyone was gone. The lights were off except for the work lights the night crew left on. Eddie walked toward the sound, not trying to be quiet, not trying to sneak, just curious. Maybe security doing rounds, maybe a set designer checking measurements for tomorrow.
Then he recognized Jane’s voice. I couldn’t do it in front of everyone. It felt fake. Redford’s voice softer. It wasn’t fake on stage. That was different. We were characters then. Today, we were actors. There’s a difference. Eddie stopped at the stage door. He could see through the gap. The Park Avenue apartment set.
Jane and Redford standing exactly where they’d been all day. But the energy was completely different. Jane wasn’t frozen, wasn’t hesitating. She was facing Redford straight on, her hands on his chest, not blocking him, touching him. “You’re thinking too much,” Redford said. He wasn’t touching her, just standing there letting her set the pace. I know, Jane’s voice cracked.
But when Jean says action, suddenly I’m aware of 30 people watching, and I can’t I can’t pretend to feel something I actually feel. It makes it not real. Does that make any sense? Eddie’s hand found his camera. He didn’t plan it. Instinct. 12 years of filming moments. His finger hit record before his brain caught up.
Redford was quiet for a moment, then. So, don’t pretend. What? When we do the scene tomorrow, don’t act. Just be. Bob, that’s not how it works, isn’t it? Redford’s voice was patient, the same patience Eddie had watched all day. On stage, you weren’t thinking about the audience. You were just there in the moment with me. Jane’s hands moved from Redford’s chest to his shoulders.
On stage, I could forget people were watching. So, forget tomorrow, too. There are cameras. Close your eyes. What? When Jean calls action, close your eyes. I’ll be right here just like I was on stage. Just like I am now. Jane looked up at him through the camera lens. Eddie could see her face. The way she was looking at Redford like he was the only solid thing in a spinning room.
Why are you being so patient with me? She asked. Redford smiled. Small, barely there. because I know what it’s like to feel too much and not know where to put it.” Jane pulled him down, fast, sudden, her lips on his, and Eddie, watching through his camera lens, understood immediately why this woman couldn’t kiss this man in front of a crew.
This wasn’t acting. This was real. Too real. The kind of real that shouldn’t be captured on film. The kind of real that belonged to them. But Eddie kept filming. four minutes. Not because he wanted to invade their privacy, but because what he was seeing was the answer to the question everyone had been asking all day.
Jane Fonda couldn’t kiss Robert Redford on camera because she wasn’t acting. She was feeling. And feelings that real don’t perform well. When they finally broke apart, Jane was laughing, crying, and laughing at the same time. “Oh god, we’re in trouble.” Redford tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Yeah. What are we going to do tomorrow? You’re going to close your eyes.
I’m going to be right here and Jean’s going to get his shot. And after tomorrow, Redford was quiet for a long moment. I don’t know. Eddie powered off his camera. He’d seen enough, filmed enough. This was theirs, not his, not the crews, not Hollywood’s. He backed away from the stage door, careful not to make noise, picked up his equipment bag, left through the back exit.
The next morning, Eddie arrived at 6:00 a.m. Early even for him. He needed to process the film from yesterday. Needed to develop what he’d shot last night. Needed to decide what to do with it. By 900 a.m., the crew was back. Jane arrived looking different, calmer. Redford arrived at his usual time in his usual denim shirt and jeans carrying his usual coffee.
I They didn’t look at each other, didn’t speak. But something had shifted. The air was different. Positions, Jean Saxs called. He sounded exhausted like a man preparing for another 17 take disaster. Jane stood on her mark. Redford on his. Jan took a breath. Action. Redford delivered his line. Started crossing to Jane. Jane looked at him.
Then, just as Redford had suggested, she closed her eyes, shut out the crew, the cameras, the lights, everything except the sound of his footsteps coming closer. Redford reached her, his hand touched her face, gentle. Jane leaned into it, eyes still closed. When their lips met, it was natural, easy, real.
Jean didn’t call cut for 15 seconds. Just let the camera roll. Let them stay in the moment. When he finally did, his voice was quiet. That was That was perfect. Jane opened her eyes, looked at Redford. He was already looking at her. That small smile. The one Eddie was learning meant Redford knew something everyone else was still figuring out.
“One more for safety?” Gene asked, almost afraid to break whatever had just happened. “Sure,” Jane said, still looking at Redford. “They did it again.” “Just as good, maybe better.” Gene called it after two takes. The crew applauded. Jane laughed, embarrassed. Redford just nodded once, then walked back to his starting mark, ready for the next scene.
Eddie caught Jane’s eye as she walked past his camera. She paused, looked at him, really looked at him. Eddie wondered if she knew if somehow she’d seen him last night, seen his camera. But she just smiled, small, grateful, then kept walking. The rest of the shoot went smoothly. Barefoot in the Park wrapped in December 1967.
Released in May 1968, it was a massive hit. Critics praised Jane and Redford’s chemistry called it electric genuine. The kind of connection that can’t be manufactured. They were right. It couldn’t be manufactured because it wasn’t manufactured at all. Eddie never showed anyone the footage. Kept it locked in a film canister in his garage for 29 years.
Sometimes he’d think about it. I wonder if he should have destroyed it. Wonder if keeping it made him complicit in something he shouldn’t have witnessed. In 1996, Jane Fonda published her autobiography. There was a chapter about barefoot in the park, about working with Redford. She wrote, “Bob taught me that the hardest thing about acting is learning to be genuine in front of people who are paid to watch you.
Some things are so real they feel fake when performed. The trick is finding a way to keep them real. Anyway, Eddie read that passage three times. Then he made a decision. He found Jane’s agent, sent a message. 3 weeks later, he met Jane at a coffee shop in Westwood. She was 58. Still beautiful, still sharp. Eddie brought the film canister.
Set it on the table between them. October 23rd, 1967, 11:17 p.m. I was there. I filmed it. I never showed anyone, but it’s yours. You should decide what happens to it.” Jane stared at the canister. Her hand reached out, stopped. “Did I look like an idiot? You looked like someone who forgot cameras existed.” Jane smiled. Sad.
I couldn’t do that scene in front of everyone. It felt wrong, fake. But with him, when we were alone, she trailed off. You didn’t have to perform? Eddie finished. Yeah. She picked up the canister, held it. What happened after with Bob and me? Eddie shook his head. Not my story to know. Jane nodded. Thank you for keeping this private for 29 years.
What are you going to do with it? Jane looked at the canister for a long moment. Watch it once, then burn it. Some things aren’t meant to be permanent. She did. Eddie heard from her assistant 6 months later. Jane had watched the footage alone, then destroyed it. All of it. No copies, no backup, gone. But what she said about it in interviews years later told Eddie everything he needed to know.
Working with Bob Redford taught me that the best performances aren’t performances at all. They’re moments when you forget you’re supposed to be acting and just exist with another person in a moment completely real. Robert Redford never commented publicly about Jane Fonda. When asked about Barefoot in the Park in interviews, he’d smile that small smile and say, “Jane’s a remarkable actress.
It was an honor to work with her.” That was it. Never more, never less. But Eddie saw him once years later at a screening of one of Redford’s Sundance films. Someone asked about Jane. Redford’s face changed just for a second. That look Eddie recognized from the camera lens. the look of someone remembering something real, something that mattered.
She taught me that some things are too real to fake, Redford said quietly, then changed the subject. Today, Barefoot in the Park is considered a classic romantic comedy. Film students study Jane and Redford’s chemistry, try to figure out what made it so genuine, so electric. They analyze the blocking, the lighting, the direction.
They’re looking in the wrong place. What made that chemistry real wasn’t on the call sheet, wasn’t in the script. It was in what happened at 11:17 p.m. on an empty set when two people forgot about cameras and just existed together for 4 minutes. What Eddie Torres filmed and then gave away. What Jane Fonda watched once and destroyed.
What Robert Redford carried quietly. The way he carried everything else that mattered. Some things are too real to perform. And sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone is privacy. Not publishing what you see, not exploiting what you know, just witnessing it, keeping it safe, and letting them decide when to let it go. If this story about the delicate line between performance and truth moved you, make sure to subscribe and hit that thumbs up button.
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