LOS ANGELES — Robert Redford, the Oscar-winning icon whose golden-boy looks and quiet intensity defined American cinema for more than half a century, has left behind a revelation that is shaking Hollywood to its core: a deeply personal account of the nine men who shaped, haunted, and in some cases wounded him across a lifetime in the spotlight.

The legendary actor and director, who died at 89, spent his final years reflecting on a career that began when he was barely 21 and carried him from struggling young hopeful to one of the most revered figures in film history. In those reflections, he spoke with startling candor about the men who made his heart race, the men who earned his undying resentment, and the men whose bonds with him were complicated by jealousy, ambition, and the unforgiving social codes of their era.

The revelation paints a portrait of a man far more complex than the stoic heroes he played on screen. Behind the chiseled jaw and effortless charm was, by his own account, a troubled heart holding secret feelings for some of Hollywood’s most magnetic men — a confession his longtime friend Jane Fonda once hinted at when she said Redford had problems with women and sometimes seemed drawn to men who left a lasting effect on his life.

At the center of the list is Mike Nichols, the celebrated director whom Redford described not with admiration but with a bitterness that never faded. In 1967, Redford stood at the edge of a life-changing opportunity, auditioning for the role of Benjamin Braddock in “The Graduate.” The part could have catapulted him into worldwide fame.

Instead, Nichols turned him down bluntly, calling him a loser — a comment that filled Redford with anger and shame and left a scar he said he would never forget.

What followed, according to the account, was not a passing hurt but an automatic, enduring hatred. Every reminder of Nichols’s scorn made the insult feel fresh again. Redford turned down every future offer to work with Nichols, even as Nichols became one of Hollywood’s greatest directors.

To Redford, the refusal was never merely a career choice. It was a symbol that he would never forget the insult and would never allow any chance to be linked to the man who had shamed him.

Yet the same man who could not forgive Mike Nichols also carried a lifelong admiration for Paul Newman — his best friend, his most famous partner, and, by Redford’s own admission, the one he also hated. Their chemistry in “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” and “The Sting” became the stuff of Hollywood legend, but the truth behind the cameras was far more complicated.

From the start, Newman wanted to switch roles. He wanted to play Sundance, the smooth, rebellious character that went to Redford, then a little-known young actor. Newman accepted the role of Butch but could not fully hide his jealousy.

At the same time, Redford exploded into fame from the film, adding strain to a friendship that was both close and filled with quiet rivalry.

Instead of breaking them apart, the rivalry made them inseparable. Behind the scenes, Newman and Redford were famous for their endless pranks. Once Redford gave Newman a shiny Porsche that didn’t start.

Newman got back at him by crushing the car into a metal block, putting it in a garden, and sending it back. Strangely, neither of them ever mentioned the prank again, as if their friendship had its own secret code only they understood.

Their families were close too, living near each other in Connecticut, which fueled rumors. A former crew member shared that Redford often spoke about burning dreams of Newman, dreams that left him waking up in panic and desire. This was more than professional respect.

It was a hidden obsession that stayed in his mind. There were even times when Redford was caught whispering to Newman backstage, his voice low but serious: “Tonight, just the two of us.”

Those secret invitations turned into Hollywood gossip. Even though both actors stayed silent, the mystery only added to the belief that their bond went deeper than friendship. Despite all the public attention, Redford’s feelings never crossed the line of friendship.

At times, though, their closeness turned sour. It was said that Redford felt very let down and even angry when Newman did not return his warm gestures. Newman’s hidden distance made Redford feel pushed away even when they seemed close.

During those times, Redford stayed away from Newman, hiding his annoyance with polite smiles on set. It was a quiet tension that only insiders noticed. In later years, Redford invited Newman to join him on a project or walk in the woods, but Newman’s age and health made the role too hard.

Their dream reunion never happened. For Redford, this became one of his biggest career regrets.

When Paul Newman died in 2008, Redford could not hide his sadness. “I lost a true friend,” he said. “He was worth more than any love I have ever had.

Life and this country are better because he was in it.” A short statement, but one filled with friendship, respect, sorrow, and the closing of a piece of Hollywood history.

Looking further back, Redford’s strong attraction to men began with a name he treasured his whole life: Melvin Douglas. As a young man full of dreams, Redford was drawn to a name he would never forget. The first time he watched “Mr.

Blandings Builds His Dream House,” Douglas’s calm look, smooth smile, and elegant style lit a strange feeling in Redford’s heart — a mix of admiration and attraction unlike anything he had ever felt before.

This was the beginning of a lifelong fixation, a figure Redford adored and longed for endlessly. In Redford’s mind, Douglas was not just a skilled actor but the idea of a first love. Every move, every look on screen held Redford’s attention, showing him how to express feelings through eyes, smiles, and quiet grace.

This impact shaped Redford’s later acting, making every role as a politician seem like a lonely, wandering man in Washington — a reflection of Douglas. Each role carried Douglas’s presence, calm yet mysterious, a smile hiding loneliness and secret charm.

In his private thoughts, Redford longed for Douglas’s image, reminding himself that fascination and curiosity were never harmful. Instead, they fueled his powerful and lively performances.

The list also includes Sydney Pollack, the director and producer who became one of the most important people in Redford’s life — and whose relationship with him was tested by jealousy over another woman. Redford and Pollack first met on the set of “War Hunt,” when Pollack had a smaller role and Redford was a young actor with promise. From then on, they stayed close friends, but tensions grew during the filming of “Out of Africa.”

Redford became close to Meryl Streep. Soft looks, warm smiles, private moments — all of it made Pollack feel betrayed. His jealousy grew quietly.

It was no longer just a professional rivalry but an emotional storm he kept inside. Pollack’s private affection for Redford, once central in his world, now felt threatened. On set, the mood turned heavy.

Every look, every gesture between Redford and Streep became like an invisible weapon in Pollack’s emotional fight.

He could not hide his frustration, and Redford, aware but unsure, felt trapped between wanting to comfort him and wanting to escape. Redford later admitted he felt caught between two close friends, and it was uncomfortable. Yet, even with this, their bond proved strong.

Pollack and Redford learned to forgive. Redford invited Pollack out, and they made peace, though what they said to each other in private was never revealed. At 89, Redford called Pollack one of the most important people in his life.

“I’ve had many relationships, but the longest lasting was with Sydney Pollack.”

Redford’s life was shaped not only by men who moved his heart but also by men who stirred lifelong anger and resentment, like the famous Gene Hackman. Redford once had very high hopes for Hackman when they worked together on “Downhill Racer.” But Hackman’s intense and uncompromising way of working often annoyed Redford.

Redford wanted a soft, natural flow on set, but Hackman was like a hammer in a violin shop, breaking the rhythm Redford wanted.

This disappointment planted the seed of a deep irritation that stayed with Redford for years. Every scene with Hackman turned into a struggle. Redford, calm and professional by nature, had a hard time adjusting to Hackman’s aggressive energy.

The clash made him feel boxed in, slowly building into quiet resentment. All efforts to work smoothly together failed, and Redford realized Hackman would never live up to the expectations he had set.

This dislike went beyond the film set. In later years, Redford kept his distance from Hackman, turning down any offers to work with him or even be around him. Any chance or invitation was coldly refused, a reminder that the old frustration still remained.

When Gene Hackman passed away, Redford’s stance was clear. He did not go to the funeral or give public condolences. To Redford, Hackman was still the man who had irritated him, a painful memory of letdowns and conflict he did not want to revisit.

This choice made both Hollywood and the public fully aware of the deep animosity Redford held toward Hackman until the end of his life.

But the story did not stop there. Robert Redford also had unclear, mysterious ties with several Hollywood male actors, the most important being Dustin Hoffman. Redford said in several interviews that Hoffman was his second favorite man after Newman.

While filming “All the President’s Men,” they were more than just co-workers. They were like two reporters digging into Watergate, studying every detail, every line of dialogue until the border between film and reality almost disappeared.

But their relationship was not simple. On screen, their chemistry was powerful, both exciting and difficult. Sometimes tensions rose on set when Hoffman’s method acting pushed Redford to hold himself back.

But those clashes created sharp, lively moments like sparks that couldn’t be contained. Off set, they found private ways to relax. Redford remembered racing down Washington streets with Hoffman, wind in their hair and engines roaring, both to blow off steam and to challenge themselves.

These rides, though casual on the surface, turned into personal times where they shared thoughts on work and life, building a strong, manly, and magnetic friendship. Redford said that Hoffman’s quick mind, sharp thinking, and fiery arguments gave him a new way to see friendship and lifelong bonds. Still, Hoffman never left as strong a mark in Redford’s mind as his greatest enemy, Mike Nichols.

The list also includes Sidney Poitier, a black man separated from Redford by racial barriers. Redford and Poitier first met while working on “Sneakers,” but Poitier left a stronger mark on Redford than any role ever could. With the sharp insight of a star who had managed many complicated professional ties, Redford quickly noticed rare qualities in Poitier: calm wisdom and unmatched integrity.

From that point on, Redford saw Poitier not just as a co-worker but as someone who had a special place in his heart, a friend he would value for life.

On set, Redford and Poitier blended perfectly. Redford’s quick wit and sharpness matched Poitier’s calmness and depth. They were more than co-workers or friends.

They spent private time together, walking and talking for hours away from filming. But their bond was never completely free. It was held back by an invisible barrier: race.

In that time in Hollywood, a white star showing too much closeness to a black star was sensitive, watched closely, and often misunderstood.

Redford knew this and carefully held back his emotions, keeping everything within respect and friendship. Still, his admiration never faded. He showed it through quiet actions and words instead of gestures that might make Poitier uneasy.

Redford often spoke of Poitier in interviews about “Sneakers” and the documentary “Sidney,” calling him a moral guide, a great man he admired both on and off screen. Over the years, Redford stayed in touch and valued every memory with Poitier. Quiet talks, shared views on work and life, even moments of silence together created a bond that went beyond professional respect.

Redford admitted that his friendship with Poitier was one of the most treasured in his life, and he always looked back on it with deep gratitude.

Then there is Jack Nicholson, avoided for half a lifetime over a role. In 1974, Redford was cast as Jay Gatsby in “The Great Gatsby,” a role Nicholson also wanted. This decision became a wound in Nicholson’s eyes, leading him to openly show jealousy and even see Redford as privileged, having everything others could only envy.

Nicholson’s dislike for Redford went beyond the role. It covered the whole image Redford had built: an attractive man who caught everyone’s attention, a star loved by all women, someone Nicholson believed did not deserve it.

Every step, every smile from Redford felt like a blow to Nicholson’s already fragile pride, spreading bitterness through Hollywood that lasted for years. While Redford mostly ignored the criticism, he stayed completely away from Nicholson. Any chance to work together or any offer from Nicholson was refused, a reminder that the sting of being looked down on could never be erased.

And finally, there is James Cagney, the unseen lover, a fleeting dream. A rare secret few people know: Redford’s short-lived lover was James Cagney. On set or in private talks with close friends, Redford admitted his strong admiration for Cagney, calling him an incredible talent with a tone that mixed respect and quiet fascination.

It was not a public romance but a private admiration, a passing feeling that Redford mentioned again and again in personal stories.

Whenever Cagney’s name came up, Redford’s eyes lit up with both passion and curiosity. Cagney’s bold style and powerful presence on screen inspired Redford with both awe and secret desire. In Redford’s mind, Cagney was not only a professional role model but also the idea of a perfect lover in brief daydreams, an unspoken feeling he never made public.

For Redford, this small obsession never grew into more. Cagney stayed in his thoughts as an image of masculine charm and movie star magnetism, strong yet mysterious, able to make his heart race while still staying out of reach. Rumors claimed Redford once asked Cagney to dinner, but Cagney said no, and that was the end of it.

At 89, Robert Redford still remembered the men who left a lasting mark on his life. Nine men, from Paul Newman and Sidney Poitier to Dustin Hoffman and James Cagney, became memories, emotions, and secret desires that Redford carried throughout his life. They were also complicated ties, including men he resented forever, shaping him both in his career and in his emotions.

The account offers a startlingly human portrait of a man who spent decades projecting effortless cool and rugged independence. It suggests that behind the legend was someone who loved deeply, resented fiercely, and carried quiet obsessions that he never fully resolved. For a star who guarded his privacy with legendary discipline, the final revelation is perhaps the most intimate thing he ever shared — a confession that the men in his life, in admiration and in anger, shaped him as much as any role he ever played.