Robert Redford died Monday at his home in Sundance, Utah, surrounded by family. He was 89. The actor, director, and environmental activist passed away in the mountains he loved, ending one of Hollywood's most legendary careers.

Redford was a rare kind of movie star. Not just ridiculously handsome and genuinely talented, but smart enough to know that being good looking wasn't enough. While his colleagues stuck to leading man roles into their seventies, Redford changed course to directing, producing, and building establishments that last.

Born in Santa Monica in 1936, Redford's early life wasn't Hollywood glamour. His dad worked as a milkman and accountant, moving the family to Van Nuys when they could afford it. "I didn't see him much," Redford said of his father in 2005. His mother died when he was just 19, the same year he got a baseball scholarship to University of Colorado.

The restless kid who spent hours in the library reading Greek mythology became the restless actor who couldn't stand being typecast. "I didn't see myself the way others saw me and I was feeling kind of trapped," he said about his leading man image. "It was very flattering, but it was feeling restrictive."

So he broke free. Made "Jeremiah Johnson" when studios said Westerns were dead. It grossed $45 million. Directed "Ordinary People" in 1980 and won the Oscar for Best Picture and Best Director on his first try. Not bad for a handsome face.

"The sad thing you have to work against, as a filmmaker, is held opinions about what works or doesn't work," Redford said. "Sports movies don't work, political movies don't work, movies about the press don't work – so I've done three of them."

"All the President's Men" didn't work? "The Natural" didn't work? Studios kept telling him what wouldn't succeed, and he kept proving them wrong.

But Redford's real legacy isn't the movies – it's Sundance. He founded the institute in 1981 when independent film meant grainy student projects nobody watched. Now Sundance Film Festival is where careers launch. Steven Soderbergh broke through there with "Sex, Lies, and Videotape." Quentin Tarantino with "Reservoir Dogs." Ryan Coogler with "Fruitvale Station."

Every January, filmmakers flock to Utah hoping to become the next big thing, all because Redford decided Hollywood needed an attainable alternative. He built the bones for independent film to thrive, then stepped back and let it happen.

His environmental activism was real, not celebrity cause-of-the-month stuff. In October 2020, while California burned, he wrote about climate change for CNN. That same month, his son David died from cancer at 58. The man kept fighting for what mattered even while his world fell apart.

Redford worked alongside younger actors without seeming desperate to stay relevant. "An Indecent Proposal" with Demi Moore could've been creepy, but he made it work. "The Horse Whisperer" should've been cheesy, but he directed it with enough restraint to make it memorable.

The Academy gave him an honorary Oscar in 2002, recognizing what everyone already knew – the guy changed American film. Not just by being in it, but by creating space for others to reimagine what movies could be.

"I want to make the most of what I've been given," he told CNN in 2015 when asked about retirement. "You keep pushing yourself forward, you try new things and that's invigorating."

Redford represented something we've lost – movie stars who were actually larger than life, who stood for something beyond their next franchise deal. He could've coasted on his looks for decades, playing the same romantic lead until it got embarrassing. Instead, he built institutions, championed causes, and changed how American film works.

He died where he wanted to die, doing what he loved until the end. In Utah's mountains, far from Hollywood's nonsense, surrounded by people who knew him as more than Sundance Kid or Jay Gatsby.

The movies will remember him as a legend. The environment lost a genuine advocate. Independent film lost its founding father. But mostly, we lost one of the last reminders that movie stars used to mean something more than opening weekend numbers.

Rest easy, Redford. You will be missed.