Before he graced the silver screen as legendary characters like Bob Woodward, Jay Gatsby, Jeremiah Johnson, or the Sundance Kid, Robert Redford embodied a far more profound role: Death itself. In a groundbreaking 1962 installment of ‘The Twilight Zone’—an episode frequently hailed as one of the anthology’s finest—the strikingly handsome, blond actor, then barely into his twenties, delivered an unforgettable performance. He portrayed the most charming and serene envoy from the afterlife imaginable, tasked with guiding a reclusive, elderly woman towards her inevitable journey.
This particular episode, aptly named ‘Nothing in the Dark,’ marked a turning point, signaling the twilight of Redford’s brief yet impactful television career. Re-watching his portrayal of Mr. Death today, his magnetic appeal is undeniable. It’s clear how he ascended to become one of the late 20th century’s most adored movie stars. His screen presence is truly extraordinary, almost as if he was destined for a grander stage, a larger-than-life cinematic experience.
In ‘Nothing in the Dark,’ Redford’s voice precedes his physical appearance, building a subtle anticipation. The episode begins with the elderly Wanda Dunn (played by Gladys Cooper) hiding in her dim basement apartment, convinced that Death is imminent and avoiding all contact. Her solitude is abruptly shattered by a gunshot, followed by a youthful, gentle voice pleading for assistance from outside. Cautiously, she cracks open the door to find a policeman lying wounded in the snow.
Wanda’s initial impression of Redford as the injured officer mirrors our own: he appears vulnerable and unassuming. There’s an undeniable kindness about him, a radiant optimism that is the antithesis of anything ominous or foreboding.
Penned by the prolific ‘Twilight Zone’ writer George Clayton Johnson, ‘Nothing in the Dark’ perfectly aligned with Rod Serling’s signature style. Serling, the show’s visionary creator, often explored narratives of anxious, everyday individuals grappling with their inner frailties. (Notably, the personification of Death was a recurring motif throughout the series.) Director Lamont Johnson—no relation to George—masterfully delves into Wanda’s psyche by immersing viewers in the confined, dimly lit world where she has long isolated herself, shunning all light and life.
Once inside, the seemingly pleasant officer disarms Wanda with his smile as he rests and recovers. He gently questions her, gradually drawing out the story of a life lived in fear. It’s only when Wanda finally grasps that Officer Beldon is the very personification of Death she has been evading that she accepts her fate, understanding the necessity of her departure.
Much like his esteemed big-screen collaborators, Paul Newman and Jane Fonda, Redford navigated the early stages of his career by accepting the often superficial and predictable roles typically offered to appealing young actors in Hollywood. It felt as if he and his contemporaries were patiently biding their time, awaiting the creative liberation that would define the late 1960s and 1970s. During these formative years, Redford meticulously refined his craft, developing his signature stillness, intense gaze, subtle smile, and rich, measured speaking voice.
In the early 1960s, when television frequently showcased talent from New York’s vibrant theater community, Redford readily took on numerous guest star roles. If you tune into classic TV channels such as MeTV or GRIT, you’ll invariably spot Redford making memorable appearances in shows like ‘Perry Mason,’ ‘The Virginian,’ or ‘Alfred Hitchcock Presents.’ He consistently commands attention, and it’s not merely due to his now-iconic face.
However, not everyone was initially impressed. In ‘The Twilight Zone Companion,’ writer Marc Scott Zicree critically noted Redford’s performance, remarking that he ‘performs with all the emotion of a male mannequin — which he strongly resembles.’ This was a critique Redford occasionally encountered even during his peak as a movie star, attributed partly to his striking good looks and, more significantly, to his deliberate choice of understated acting. Redford was never one for theatrical outbursts or excessive emoting.
Yet, it’s precisely this understated approach that makes his ‘Twilight Zone’ performance so captivating. Once Wanda invites Mr. Death into her home, he projects an aura of calm and reassurance, embodying an almost serene inevitability.
The episode’s crucial turning point arrives with the introduction of a third character: an imposing and aggressive man (R.G. Armstrong) who forcefully enters, appearing to embody everything Wanda fears. This intruder is revealed to be a building contractor, there to inform her that her dilapidated home is scheduled for demolition. In his own way, he offers a different kind of reassurance, explaining that societal progress often necessitates tearing down the old to make way for the new. Times evolve, generations change, and even Death, it seems, has taken on a youthful, energetic form.
By the time he graced ‘The Twilight Zone,’ Redford already had a few minor film credits and a significant number of television appearances, including the final ‘Playhouse 90’ broadcast, notably penned by Serling himself, titled ‘In the Presence of Mine Enemies.’ His breakout role in Neil Simon’s immensely popular 1963 Broadway play, ‘Barefoot in the Park,’ propelled him into the world of cinema, effectively ending his prolific career as a television guest star.
Nevertheless, discovering Redford in these classic television gems, particularly ‘The Twilight Zone,’ remains a thrilling experience. It’s akin to unearthing a priceless treasure in a forgotten corner – he instantly captures your attention and holds it fast.