Take 17. The final scene of The Way We Were. The moment Katie says goodbye to Hubble forever. The cameras are rolling. The crew is silent. Barbara Stryand is ready. Tears already forming in her eyes. And Robert Redford stops. Midcene mid breath. Just stops. I can’t do this, he says quietly.

 Director Sydney Pollock looks up from the monitor, confused. They’ve done 16 takes already. Redford’s been professional all day. focused, present, and now suddenly he’s walking off the set. Bob, Pollock calls after him. We’re almost there. One more take and we’ve got it. But Redford doesn’t turn around, just keeps walking toward his trailer, his shoulders hunched, his hands shaking.

 The entire crew stands frozen, watching Hollywood’s most controlled actor completely fall apart. Barbara doesn’t move. She’s still standing on her mark, still in character, still holding the emotion of the scene. But she’s watching Redford, really watching him because she’s seen this before, seen him struggle with this scene for weeks, seen him request delay after delay, seen him show up to set and then disappear for hours, and now finally she understands why.

But before we know what Barbara understood, before we know why Robert Redford couldn’t finish the most important scene of his career, we need to go back back to January 1959. Back to the moment that would haunt every love scene, every goodbye, every emotional performance Redford would ever give. Back to Scott, January 1959.

Robert Redford was 22 years old, newly married, working odd jobs while studying acting in New York. and he was a father. Scott Anthony Redford had been born two months earlier in November 1958. A healthy baby boy with bright eyes and a cry that could wake the entire apartment building.

 Redford had never felt anything like fatherhood before. The overwhelming terror of being responsible for something so small and fragile. The unexpected joy of watching this tiny person exist. For eight weeks, Redford’s entire world revolved around that baby. He’d get home from whatever job he was working and immediately take Scott from Lola.

 Would spend hours just holding him, talking to him, making promises about the future, about all the things they’d do together, about the man Redford would be for him. And then one morning in January, Lola went to check on Scott and found him silent in his crib. Sudden infant death syndrome. No warning, no explanation, no chance to say goodbye.

 just a healthy baby who went to sleep and never woke up. Redford didn’t cry at the funeral. Didn’t break down when they lowered the tiny casket into the ground. Didn’t show any emotion at all because if he started feeling it, really feeling it, he knew he’d never stop. So, he locked it away, buried it so deep that even he couldn’t reach it.

 And he kept moving, kept working, kept auditioning, kept pretending that losing his son hadn’t fundamentally broken something inside him that would never heal. But grief doesn’t stay buried. It finds cracks, leaks out in unexpected moments. And for Redford, it leaked out every single time he had to play a scene about love or loss or goodbye.

 Every romantic scene became about Scott. Every emotional moment connected back to that morning in January. Every performance became a way to feel something he couldn’t allow himself to feel in real life. By 1973, 14 years after Scott’s death, Redford had become one of Hollywood’s biggest stars.

 He’d learned to channel the grief into his work, to use it as fuel for performances that felt raw and real because they were. And when he was cast in The Way We Were Opposite Barbara Streryand, he thought he could handle it. Thought 14 years was enough time, enough distance. But from the first day of filming, Redford knew he was in trouble.

 Because the way we were wasn’t just any love story. It was about two people who loved each other deeply but couldn’t make it work. About the painful reality that sometimes love isn’t enough. About saying goodbye to someone you’ll carry with you forever. It was in every meaningful way the story Redford had been living since 1959. Only in his version, he never got to say the goodbye.

 Never got that final moment of closure. Never got to look Scott in the eyes one last time and say all the things fathers are supposed to say to their sons. The first few weeks of filming went smoothly enough. Redford was professional, showed up on time, hit his marks, delivered his lines with the perfect mixture of charm and melancholy that made Hubble Gardner feel real.

 But Barbara noticed something. Between takes, Redford would disappear, not far, just to a corner of the set or back to his trailer for a few minutes. And when he came back, his eyes would be red, his face tight, like he’d been crying and was trying very hard to pretend he hadn’t.

 She didn’t ask about it, didn’t pry. That wasn’t her style, but she paid attention. Watched how Redford prepared for emotional scenes. Hush, how he’d sit alone for long periods before shooting. How he’d touch his pocket in certain moments, like he was checking to make sure something was still there. In week five, Barbara found out what was in that pocket.

 They were filming the scene where Katie confronts Hubble about his compromises, about how he’d given up on the things he believed in. It was supposed to be angry, heated. But when they broke for lunch, Barbara noticed Redford sitting alone on the set holding something small. She approached quietly. Close enough to see, but not close enough to intrude.

 It was a photograph, black and white, worn at the edges. A baby. Redford was just sitting there staring at it, his thumb tracing the outline of the tiny face. Barbara stepped back before he noticed her, but she understood then. The disappearances, the red eyes, the way Redford seemed to be carrying something heavier than just the role. He wasn’t acting in this film.

 He was surviving it. The problem started in earnest during week eight when they began rehearsing the final scene. The goodbye on the street. Katie pregnant with someone else’s child. Hubble choosing his comfortable life over the complicated woman he truly loved. It should have been straightforward. They’d done dozens of emotional scenes already.

 But every time they ran through it in rehearsal, Redford would stop. Request changes to the blocking, suggest different line readings, asked to postpone until the next day. Sydney Pollock was patient at first. Redford was a perfectionist. Everyone knew that. But after two weeks of delays and excuses, Pollock pulled him aside. Bob, what’s going on? This scene isn’t any harder than what we’ve already done.

Why can’t we get through it? Redford looked at him with an expression Pollock would later describe as pure anguish. Because it’s goodbye, Sid, and I’ve never been good at those. The day they finally scheduled to shoot the final scene, Redford showed up early, unusually early. The crew found him already on set at dawn, sitting on the curb where the scene would take place, just staring at nothing.

 By the time cameras were ready to roll, he seemed composed, focused, ready. Take one was good, professional, technically perfect, but emotionally distant. Pollock called for another. Take two was better. Redford let more emotion through, but still something was missing. Takes three through 10 followed the same pattern.

Good performances, usable, but not great. Not the raw, devastating goodbye the scene needed. Pollock kept pushing. More vulnerability, Bob. I need to see it breaking you. This is the moment Hubble realizes what he’s giving up. Show me that pain. By take 16, Redford was barely holding it together. Barbara could see it, could see him using every ounce of control he had to stay present, to keep delivering the lines, to keep looking at her with Hubble’s resignation instead of Redford’s grief.

Pollock called for one more take. Just once more, Bob. Give me everything. This is it. The cameras rolled. Barbara delivered her lines perfectly, tears streaming down her face as Katie and Redford looked at her. really looked at her, opened his mouth to say his final line, and stopped mid-cene, mid breath. “I can’t do this,” he said quietly.

 The words weren’t Hubbles. They were Redfords, his own voice, his own truth. And then he was walking away off the set toward his trailer. While the entire crew stood frozen, Barbara stayed on her mark for a long moment, still in character, still holding Katie’s heartbreak, but watching Redford’s retreating figure with complete understanding because she’d spent three months watching him, watching him touch that pocket where the photograph lived, watching him disappear between takes to cry where no one could see, watching him try to perform goodbye

when he’d never actually said it to the person who mattered most. Finally, she moved, walked past Pollock, who was standing there looking lost. Past the crew members whispering and speculating, straight to Redford’s trailer. She knocked once. “Bob, it’s Barbara.” No answer. She tried the door. Unlocked. She stepped inside.

 Redford was sitting on the small couch, his head in his hands. The photograph was on the cushion next to him. “The baby.” Barbara sat down across from him. Didn’t touch the photo. Didn’t ask questions. just waited. After what felt like an eternity, Redford spoke. His uh name was Scott.

 He died when he was 2 months old, 14 years ago. And I never got to say goodbye. His voice was wrecked, raw. I never got to tell him I loved him. Never got to tell him I was sorry I couldn’t protect him. Never got to explain that I’d have given anything, anything to trade places with him. Barbara felt tears on her own face. Every goodbye scene I’ve ever done, Redford continued. It’s him.

 It’s always him. And this scene, this final goodbye with you with Katie, it’s the closest I’ve ever come to what I needed to say to Scott. And I can’t do it because if I say those words, if I really feel that goodbye, it makes it real. It makes it final. And I’m not ready. Barbara let the silence sit for a moment.

 Then she said something that would change everything. What if that’s exactly what you need to do? What if this scene is your chance to finally say goodbye to Scott? Not to Hubble saying goodbye to Katie, but you saying goodbye to your son. Let the camera catch it. Let the film hold what you haven’t been able to hold.

 Redford looked up at her, his face destroyed. I don’t know how. Yes, you do, Barbara said gently. You’ve been rehearsing it for 14 years. In every role, every scene, every moment you’ve touched that photograph in your pocket, you know exactly what you want to say. You just haven’t had permission to say it. So, I’m giving you permission.

 Use this scene. Use me. Use all of it. And finally, finally, let yourself say goodbye. They sat there for another 10 minutes. Barbara didn’t push, didn’t rush, just stayed present while Redford made the hardest decision of his life. Finally, he picked up the photograph, looked at Scott one more time, and put it back in his pocket. “Okay,” he said.

 “Let’s do this.” They walked back to set together. Pollock started to speak, but Barbara shook her head. “Just roll camera,” she told him. “Don’t call action. Don’t say anything. Just let it happen.” Pollock looked confused, but nodded. The crew scrambled back into position. Cameras started rolling and Barbara took her mark across from Redford.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Redford just stood there looking at Barbara. But he wasn’t seeing Katie. He was seeing his son. Seeing all the moments he’d missed, all the goodbyes he’d never gotten to say. And then he started speaking. Hubble’s lines. But with Redford’s heart, every word was a goodbye to Scott.

 Every gesture was the touch he’d never gotten to give one last time. Every look was the love he’d been carrying for 14 years with nowhere to put it. Barbara matched him, gave him everything Katie had, but more than that, she gave him space, held the grief with him, became the vessel for what he needed to release.

 And when they reached the final moment when Hubble was supposed to turn and walk away, Redford hesitated. His hand reached toward his pocket, toward the photograph, and then he let it drop, took a breath, and walked away. Pollock didn’t call cut for 30 seconds after the scene ended. The entire set was silent. Some of the crew members were crying.

 Everyone understood they just witnessed something that transcended acting. This wasn’t a performance. This was a man finally, after 14 years saying goodbye to his son. When Pollock finally called cut, Redford didn’t come back to check the take. Didn’t ask if they needed another. Just kept walking back to his trailer.

And this time when Barbara followed, she found him sitting in exactly the same position. But the photograph wasn’t next to him anymore. It was still in his pocket. And Redford was crying. Not the controlled hidden tears from between takes, but by loud, body shaking sobs that sounded like they’d been held in for over a decade.

Barbara sat down next to him, put her hand on his shoulder, and just let him cry. 30 minutes later, when the sobs finally subsided, Redford looked at her with red, exhausted eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “For what? For seeing me? For not running away? For giving me permission to finally let go.

” Barbara squeezed his shoulder. That’s what friends do. And in that moment, something shifted between them. They weren’t just co-stars anymore. They were two people who’d been through something profound together, who’d witnessed each other’s deepest pain and hadn’t looked away. The final scene of The Way We Were, the one that appears in the film, is take 18.

 The take where Robert Redford wasn’t playing Hubble Gardner. The take where he was saying goodbye to Scott. Critics would later call it one of the most emotionally devastating performances ever captured on film. They’d write about Redford’s eyes in that final moment. the way he conveyed an entire lifetime of regret in a single look.

What they didn’t know was that it wasn’t acting. It was grief. It was 14 years of unsaid words. It was a father finally finding the courage to let his son go. Barbara never told anyone what happened that day. Never revealed what she saw in Redford’s trailer or what she said to get him back on set.

 She kept his secret for 50 years because some things are too sacred to share. In 2024, during a rare interview, Barbara was asked about working with Redford. The interviewer mentioned the final scene, asked how they’d achieved such raw emotion. Barbara smiled that sad, knowing smile. Bob gave everything to that scene, she said carefully.

 More than anyone watching could ever understand. That wasn’t Hubble saying goodbye to Katie. That was something much more personal. And I was honored to be there for it. She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. Those who understood grief recognized what she was saying. The rest thought it was just acting. And maybe that was better.

 Maybe some truths are meant to stay between the people who live them. Robert Redford has never spoken publicly about why the final scene of the way we were was so difficult to film. has never acknowledged what that day meant to him. But in 2018, during his final interview before retiring from acting, he was asked if he had any regrets.

He paused for a long moment, then said, “I wish I’d learned earlier that saying goodbye doesn’t mean forgetting. It just means accepting. It took me too long to understand that. Cost me too much.” The interviewer didn’t follow up. Didn’t understand the weight of what Redford was revealing. But Barbara, watching from across the country, understood perfectly.

 And she smiled because she knew. Knew that on that November day in 1973, on take 18 of the final scene, Robert Redford had finally learned to say goodbye. And in doing so, had given one of the most honest performances in cinema history. Not because he was a great actor, but because for once he wasn’t acting at all.

 This story has been dramatized based on known facts about Robert Redford’s life and the filming of The Way We Were. The emotional truth of his grief over losing Scott, his difficulty with goodbye scenes, and his profound performance in the final scene are well documented. The specific details of take 18 and the private moments with Barbara Streryand have been imagine to honor that truth.