Before he captivated audiences as iconic characters like Bob Woodward, Jay Gatsby, Jeremiah Johnson, or the Sundance Kid, Robert Redford embodied a different, more chilling role: Death. In a legendary 1962 episode of “The Twilight Zone,” widely regarded as one of the series’ finest, a strikingly handsome Redford, then in his early twenties, delivered a captivating performance as the most charming and reassuring envoy from the afterlife imaginable, tasked with guiding a hesitant elderly woman to her final journey.
This particular episode, aptly named “Nothing in the Dark,” marked a pivotal moment, signaling the conclusion of Redford’s relatively short but impactful television career. Re-watching his portrayal of Mr. Death today, his undeniable star power is evident. His presence is magnetic, almost otherworldly, hinting at the cinematic greatness that would soon follow. He truly seemed destined for the grander canvas of the silver screen.
The introduction of Redford in “Nothing in the Dark” is a masterstroke, with his voice preceding his visual appearance. The episode begins with the elderly Wanda Dunn, played by Gladys Cooper, barricaded in her dreary basement apartment. She lives in fear, convinced that Death is imminent. Her isolation is shattered by a gunshot, followed by a youthful, surprisingly gentle voice calling for assistance from outside. Cautiously, she cracks open the door to find a seemingly helpless policeman sprawled in the snow.
Wanda’s initial perception of Redford as the injured officer mirrors our own: he appears vulnerable and small. Yet, there’s an undeniable warmth about him — a pleasant, almost sunny demeanor that is the antithesis of anything menacing or final.
The screenplay for “Nothing in the Dark” was penned by George Clayton Johnson, a frequent and masterful contributor to “The Twilight Zone.” His writing perfectly aligned with Rod Serling’s creative ethos, which often explored tales of ordinary individuals grappling with their deepest fears and flaws. Notably, Death materialized as a character in several episodes of the series. Director Lamont Johnson, another show veteran, expertly delves into Wanda’s psyche, visually representing her long-held isolation through the cramped, dim confines of her apartment, a literal and metaphorical avoidance of light.
Once inside, the seemingly pleasant officer flashes a disarming smile, putting Wanda at ease. He gently probes her, drawing out the story of a life defined by fear and avoidance. As Wanda slowly recognizes that Officer Beldon is, in fact, the very embodiment of Death she has desperately tried to escape, a profound understanding dawns upon her, revealing the true reason for her inevitable departure. A striking image captures a young Robert Redford, with his distinctive blond hair, conversing intensely with Gladys Cooper’s Wanda, illustrating the poignant encounter where Death takes on a surprisingly human, even empathetic, form.
Much like his future acclaimed co-stars, Paul Newman and Jane Fonda, Redford navigated the early stages of his career accepting the often superficial and predictable roles typical for attractive young actors in Hollywood. It was almost as if he and his contemporaries were biding their time, anticipating the artistic liberation that the late 1960s and 70s would bring. During these formative years, Redford meticulously refined his acting prowess, developing his signature stillness, intense gaze, subtle smile, and resonant, measured speaking voice.
Throughout the early 1960s, Redford frequently appeared as a guest star on television, a medium that regularly showcased burgeoning talent from New York’s vibrant theater scene. Vintage television enthusiasts watching channels dedicated to classic shows might spot Redford in episodes of “Perry Mason,” “The Virginian,” or “Alfred Hitchcock Presents.” In every appearance, he is captivating, not merely due to his recognizable features, but because of an inherent charisma that draws the viewer in.
Curiously, in “The Twilight Zone Companion,” author Marc Scott Zicree offered a rather harsh critique, stating Redford “performs with all the emotion of a male mannequin — which he strongly resembles.” This particular criticism, stemming partly from his striking good looks and more so from his deliberate, understated acting style, occasionally followed Redford even into his heyday as a movie star. He was, by nature, an actor who eschewed histrionics, never one to shout or overact.
Yet, it’s precisely this understated approach that makes his “Twilight Zone” performance so profoundly effective. Once Wanda invites Mr. Death into her home, he exudes a tranquil, comforting aura, embodying an almost serene inevitability.
The episode’s brilliant twist arrives with the entrance of a third character, an aggressive building contractor portrayed by R.G. Armstrong. This man appears to embody all of Wanda’s deepest fears. However, he merely comes to inform her that her building is slated for demolition. He offers his own brand of reassurance, explaining that progress often necessitates dismantling the old to make way for the new. Times evolve, generations change, and even Death, it seems, has taken on a youthful, vigorous appearance.
At the point of his “Twilight Zone” appearance, Redford had already accumulated a handful of minor film credits and graced over a dozen television episodes and teleplays. This included a role in the concluding broadcast of “Playhouse 90,” an episode written by Rod Serling himself, titled “In the Presence of Mine Enemies.” Following his breakthrough performance in Neil Simon’s wildly successful 1963 Broadway play “Barefoot in the Park,” Redford fully transitioned to the big screen, concluding his prolific period as a television guest star.
Even today, discovering Redford in one of these vintage television productions, particularly “The Twilight Zone,” feels like unearthing a hidden treasure. He immediately captures your attention and then, effortlessly, commands it.