Ancient Empire

Paul Newman believed in Robert Redford before Hollywood did. Their friendship lasted nearly 40 years.

In 1968, director George Roy Hill was preparing Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Newman was already a major star, but Redford had not yet reached the same level of fame. The studio reportedly wanted a bigger name for the role of Sundance.

Newman stood up for Redford.

Redford later remembered that when the studio did not want him for the film, Newman supported him. Their partnership helped create one of Hollywood’s most memorable screen duos.

When the movie premiered in 1969, audiences connected with the chemistry between the two actors. They reunited in 1973 for The Sting, which went on to win seven Academy Awards, including Best Picture.

But their friendship extended far beyond the screen.

The two men loved practical jokes. One famous story involved Redford giving Newman a wrecked Porsche for his 50th birthday. Newman reportedly had the car crushed into a block of metal and sent it back. Redford then turned the block into a garden sculpture.

Their families lived near each other in Connecticut, and their friendship grew through decades of teasing, mutual respect, and shared memories.

They considered working together a third time in A Walk in the Woods, but the project never brought them back together. Newman died of lung cancer on September 26, 2008, at 83.

Redford continued building his own legacy, founding the Sundance Institute and helping independent filmmakers find opportunities in an industry that often overlooked them.

Then, on September 16, 2025, Redford died at his home in Utah at 89.

They made only two films together, but their partnership left a lasting mark on cinema.

Newman had opened a door for Redford when it mattered. Redford spent much of his later career creating opportunities for others.

Sometimes, one person’s belief in you can change the direction of an entire life.

Paul Newman: The Hollywood Legend with Hungarian Roots

Paul Newman became one of Hollywood’s most recognizable stars, but his family story began long before he became a household name.

Born on January 26, 1925, in Cleveland, Ohio, Newman was the son of Arthur Newman, whose family had Hungarian Jewish roots. His ancestry connected the American actor to a Central European heritage that formed part of his family’s journey across generations.

Newman built a remarkable career through performances that combined charisma, intelligence, and emotional depth. From The Hustler to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, he became known for portraying complex characters who stayed with audiences long after the credits rolled. In 1987, he won the Academy Award for Best Actor for The Color of Money.

But acting was only one part of his life.

Newman was also a passionate race-car driver who competed professionally, even participating in the 24 Hours of Le Mans. His love of racing became another defining part of his identity, far removed from the Hollywood spotlight.

In 1982, he co-founded Newman’s Own, a food company that became famous for directing its profits to charitable causes. The initiative eventually helped raise hundreds of millions of dollars for organizations supporting children and communities.

His personal life was equally significant. Newman married actress Joanne Woodward in 1958, and their marriage lasted until his death on September 26, 2008, at the age of 83.

Paul Newman’s legacy extends beyond his films. His Hungarian Jewish ancestry, dedication to racing, and commitment to philanthropy all formed part of a life that reached far beyond the screen.

Robert F. Kennedy arrived in Indianapolis on April 4, 1968, expecting to speak at a campaign rally. Instead, he faced a crowd that was about to hear devastating news.

Earlier that evening, civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee.

Kennedy’s advisers were concerned about security. The rally was scheduled in a predominantly Black neighborhood, where the news could deepen an already painful moment in American history.

But Kennedy chose to go ahead.

He climbed onto the back of a flatbed truck in an open park, without a prepared speech, and told the crowd what had happened.

“Martin Luther King was shot and killed tonight,” he announced.

The reaction was immediate. People gasped, cried out and struggled to absorb the news.

Kennedy spoke about his own grief after the assassination of his brother, President John F. Kennedy. He acknowledged the anger many people might feel, but urged them not to surrender to hatred or revenge.

He called for compassion, wisdom and love, then recited a passage from the Greek playwright Aeschylus that had helped him reflect on personal loss.

His words did not erase the grief or injustice that had brought the country to this moment. But they offered a message of shared mourning at a time when tensions were rising across America.

Violence and unrest followed King’s assassination in cities throughout the country.

Indianapolis, however, did not experience the widespread uprising seen in many other places that night. Historians have credited Kennedy’s speech as one important part of that outcome, alongside the actions and circumstances within the city itself.

The speech remains one of the most remembered moments of Kennedy’s public life.

On a night marked by grief and uncertainty, he chose to deliver painful news directly and appeal to the better instincts of his audience.

His message was simple: sorrow must not become a reason to turn against one another.

Irving Berlin was five years old when his family arrived in New York as Jewish immigrants from the Russian Empire.

Born Israel Beilin, he had grown up amid the persecution faced by Jewish communities in the Russian Empire. His family left for America in the early 1890s, eventually settling on Manhattan’s Lower East Side.

Berlin spoke little or no English when he arrived.

After his father died when Berlin was a teenager, he left school and began working to help support himself. He eventually found his way into New York’s music world, singing for tips and teaching himself melodies by ear.

He never became a traditionally trained musician.

Berlin could not read music fluently and developed an unusual method of composing, often working in the key of F-sharp and relying on a transposing piano while assistants wrote down his melodies.

Yet he became one of the most successful American songwriters of the twentieth century.

Then came personal tragedy.

His first wife, Dorothy Goetz, died of typhoid fever in 1912, only months after their marriage. Years later, Berlin married Ellin Mackay.

In December 1928, their infant son, Irving Berlin Jr., died at just 24 days old.

From then on, Christmas carried a painful memory for the family. Berlin and Ellin reportedly visited their son's grave on Christmas Day for many years.

Then, in 1940, Berlin wrote a song about Christmas and longing for home.

The song was “White Christmas.”

Bing Crosby introduced it to radio audiences in 1941, during the uncertain early days of America's involvement in World War II.

The song became an extraordinary success, resonating with soldiers far from home and families separated by war.

More than eight decades later, it remains one of the most recognizable Christmas songs ever written.

Irving Berlin died in 1989 at 101.

The immigrant who arrived in America as a child had become one of the country's defining songwriters.

And every Christmas, the world still hears the melody he created — while remembering the private loss that made the holiday different for him.

Cher had already become a star when she began realizing that fame did not necessarily mean control over her own life.

By the early 1970s, Sonny and Cher were one of America’s most recognizable entertainment couples. They had music, television, money and a public image built around their chemistry.

But behind that success, their marriage and business relationship had become increasingly complicated.

Cher later described how Sonny had structured their business affairs in ways that left her with far less ownership and control than she expected. Leaving the marriage meant more than walking away from a husband.

It meant untangling herself from the career they had built together.

That was when Lucille Ball became an important figure in Cher’s story.

Ball understood what it meant to build an entertainment empire alongside a husband — and then discover that the marriage could no longer continue.

Lucy and Desi Arnaz had created I Love Lucy and built Desilu Productions into a major Hollywood company. But their real marriage eventually ended, and Lucy filed for divorce in 1960.

Two years later, she bought Desi’s remaining share of Desilu and became the company’s sole owner.

For Cher, Lucy represented something larger than Hollywood success.

She was proof that a woman could leave a famous partnership and still build a future of her own.

Cher eventually divorced Sonny in 1975.

She went on to build a career that became completely her own, while continuing to evolve as a singer, actress and television personality.

And years later, Cher would become an example of independence for other women facing difficult personal situations.

The important part of Lucy’s influence was never that she made Cher’s decision for her.

It was that she showed Cher what could exist on the other side.

Sometimes one woman’s courage becomes another woman’s map.

And sometimes the most important thing someone can give you is the reminder that your talent, your identity and your future still belong to you.

Tom Cruise had only made a handful of movies when his sister convinced him to walk across a New York restaurant and introduce himself to Dustin Hoffman.

It was 1984.

Cruise was still a young actor, filming Legend and trying to establish himself in Hollywood. Hoffman, meanwhile, was starring on Broadway in Death of a Salesman.

Cruise admired Hoffman but was terrified of approaching him.

He reportedly told his sister that Hoffman wouldn’t know who he was and that the introduction would be humiliating.

His sister kept pushing.

Eventually, Cruise walked over and politely addressed the older actor as “Mr. Hoffman.”

Then Hoffman looked up.

“Cruise!”

The young actor who had been worried about being anonymous had just discovered that one of Hollywood’s most respected performers already knew his name.

Hoffman invited Cruise and his sister to see Death of a Salesman and welcomed them backstage afterward.

Before Cruise left, Hoffman told him they would make a movie together someday.

Cruise didn’t know it at the time, but Hoffman meant it.

About two years later, Hoffman sent Cruise the screenplay that became Rain Man.

The 1988 film became a major success, earning eight Academy Award nominations and winning four, including Best Picture and Best Actor for Hoffman.

Cruise was not nominated, but his performance as Charlie Babbitt became an important part of the film’s emotional story.

Years earlier, he had been afraid that Dustin Hoffman wouldn’t even recognize him.

Instead, that restaurant meeting became the beginning of one of the most memorable collaborations in American film.

Sometimes the moment you’re most afraid of being overlooked is the moment someone important finally sees you.

Marty Stuart was only 13 years old in 1972 when a country music magazine inside his history textbook got him into trouble at school.

The incident could have been nothing more than a childhood mistake. Instead, it became part of the story of how Stuart left his Mississippi hometown and began pursuing music seriously.

Stuart had already developed an extraordinary passion for country and bluegrass music. He was particularly devoted to the mandolin and was determined to find a place among the musicians he admired.

That opportunity came when he connected with Lester Flatt, one of bluegrass music’s most respected pioneers.

Flatt recognized the young musician’s talent and gave him an opportunity to join his touring group.

Stuart was suddenly traveling with professional musicians and learning from performers whose names he had previously known only from magazines and records.

For a teenager, it was an extraordinary education — not in a classroom, but on the road.

Stuart would eventually build a remarkable career of his own as a musician, singer, songwriter, producer, and passionate collector of country music history.

The boy who had once hidden a country magazine inside a history textbook would spend the rest of his life becoming part of the history he had been so determined to learn.

In the end, Marty Stuart didn’t just read about country music history.

He became part of it.

When Dolly Parton began earning real money from The Porter Wagoner Show, she could have used it to build a completely different life for herself.

Instead, she remembered the family she had left behind.

Dolly grew up in a large family in the mountains of East Tennessee. Her parents, Robert Lee and Avie Lee Parton, raised 12 children in a small cabin on Locust Ridge near Sevierville.

The family lived with very little.

The cabin had no electricity or indoor plumbing, and everyday life required work simply to provide the basics. Water had to be carried, heating the home was difficult, and the family relied on kerosene lamps for light.

Then Dolly’s career began to take off.

Her appearances on The Porter Wagoner Show brought her national attention and helped establish her as a major country performer.

But success did not make her forget the people who had raised her.

Dolly helped her parents move into a more comfortable home, giving the family something they had never had growing up: modern conveniences and a much safer place to live.

For Dolly, success was not simply about expensive clothes, fame or a bigger career.

It was about being able to give something back.

Years later, she would become one of the most successful entertainers in American history, while also investing heavily in her home region through education, literacy and charitable work.

The little girl who grew up in an East Tennessee cabin eventually became a global star.

But before she became famous around the world, she remembered something much more important.

Where she came from.

And who helped her get there.

She was told she was the first woman to report him.

Then she discovered other women had been told exactly the same thing.

Susan Fowler joined Uber as an engineer in November 2015. On her first day working with a new team, she says her manager used Uber’s internal chat to proposition her for s*x. Fowler took screenshots and reported the incident to HR.

The response, according to Fowler, was that the manager was a “high performer” and that this was supposedly his first offense.

Then Fowler began talking to other women.

She says several had reported the same manager and had been given essentially the same explanation.

Fowler stayed, documented what happened and eventually left Uber in December 2016. In her own account, she said that women represented about 25% of her engineering organization when she arrived, but only about 3% remained by the time she left.

On February 19, 2017, she published a detailed account of her year at Uber on her personal blog.

It spread rapidly.

Her story helped trigger a wider examination of Uber’s workplace culture, leading to investigations and major changes inside the company. Later, Fowler also became part of the broader public debate over forced arbitration in s*xual-harassment cases.

In 2018, Uber ended mandatory arbitration for individual s*xual-harassment and s*xual-assault claims. Other major technology companies, including Google, Facebook, Airbnb and eBay, later made similar changes.

Then, on March 3, 2022, President Joe Biden signed federal legislation allowing workers with s*xual-harassment or s*xual-assault claims to choose court instead of being forced into predispute arbitration.

Susan Fowler did not change the law by herself.

But she helped bring a hidden workplace problem into public view.

She was told she was the first.

She kept asking questions until she discovered she wasn't.

At 6 feet 6 inches tall, Clint Walker was impossible to miss.

But his presence on screen was about more than height.

Born Norman Eugene “Clint” Walker in 1927, he became one of television’s most recognizable Western stars when he was cast as Cheyenne Bodie in Cheyenne.

From 1955 to 1963, audiences watched him ride across the American West with a quiet confidence that became his signature.

Walker had the look of a classic cowboy hero, but it was his calm screen presence that made Cheyenne Bodie memorable.

He rarely needed exaggerated gestures or long speeches.

Sometimes, a look was enough.

Away from acting, Walker also had a passion for music and recorded songs during his career. His remarkable physique was also very real, reflecting the discipline he maintained throughout his life rather than simply being a product of Hollywood costumes and camera angles.

For a generation of television viewers, Clint Walker became the image of the strong, silent Western hero.

But there was something distinctive about him.

He could appear imposing without losing the quiet dignity that made his characters so memorable.

Walker continued working in film and television for decades, appearing in projects such as The Dirty Dozen and The Great Bank Robbery.

He died on May 21, 2018, just nine days before his 91st birthday.

Long after the cameras stopped rolling, the image remained.

A towering figure on horseback.

A deep voice.

A quiet presence.

And for millions of Western fans, the face of Cheyenne Bodie.