Redford’s Final Curtain: A-Listers Spark Drama at Sundance’s Last Park City Bash

Olivia Bennett, 1/20/2026Experience the bittersweet farewell of Sundance as it honors Robert Redford's legacy amidst a vibrant lineup of films and fashion. From poignant documentaries to striking narratives, the festival buzzes with anticipation, paving the way for a new chapter in Boulder.

The final Sundance in Utah. That’s not a phrase that rolls off the tongue for anyone who’s watched the independent film world orbit this mountain town since Reagan-era Hollywood. Still, here it is—Park City's swan song—cold, nostalgic, and oddly buoyant, all at once. Now, Robert Redford, the man whose sun-drenched ideals gave life to this snowy outpost of creativity, is gone. Redford's absence feels palpable. Streets he once strolled are instead filled with stories about him, fragile as breath on a frosty window.

This year, every accolade and every late-night tribute carries his name, whether spoken aloud or not. Retrospectives—ranging from the heartbreak of “Mysterious Skin” to the belly-laugh absurdity of “Little Miss Sunshine”—dot the schedule, as if curators too are unwilling to say goodbye. Even filmmakers with seasoned Sundance resumes, like Gregg Araki, wear their gratitude plainly. The sentiment is everywhere: the festival built careers, championed risk, and made space for the offbeat, so much so that the Egyptian Theatre feels less like a venue and more like a reliquary.

But nostalgia’s only half the story. The pace hasn’t slackened. If anything, the festival is moving faster, as though the whole apparatus is determined to prove relevance beyond its own legend. Audiences jostle for tickets to see Natalie Portman and Jenna Ortega conjure haunted glamour in Cathy Yan's "The Gallerist." Down the block, Chris Pine and Jenny Slate take their shot at a romcom in "Carousel"—one, reportedly, full of autumnal longing and misfit hope. And speaking of spectacle, the fashion outside screenings—think riotous bursts of color, slouchy boots, and enough faux fur to furnish a tribute to Elton John—demands nearly as much attention as the films themselves.

It wouldn’t be Sundance without a dash of provocation. Olivia Wilde, multitasking as both director and muse, is at the center of Araki’s latest: “I Want Your Sex.” Equal parts neon-drenched whodunit and candid love letter to Gen Z mores, it flirts with the queer edge of “Sunset Boulevard” but lands firmly in 2026 sensibilities—murder, mystery, and enough digital-age introspection to keep everyone slightly on edge. Hardly the stuff of quiet retrospection.

Documentaries, too, jostle for the spotlight—bracing, urgent, sometimes uncomfortably raw. “The AI Doc: Or How I Became an Apocaloptimist” tackles the celebrity-industrial complex through the lens of algorithmic self-delusion, while Ta-Nehisi Coates goes deep into Baltimore’s haunted past with “When A Witness Recants.” On another front, Jennifer Robinson’s “Silenced” aims straight at the bruising topic of defamation laws, proof that this festival never trades edge for mere applause.

Amid these cinematic marathons—buzzy premiers by day, makeshift cocktail hours by night—there’s that alchemy unique to Sundance: a kind of egalitarian chaos, where Oscar darlings and DIY dreamers mingle in a cloud of equal parts hope and caffeine. Jay Duplass, speaking as the dust settles, seems caught between awe and disbelief. Once upon a time, a $3 film screened here changed his life. Now, he points out with a smile, the mix is unchanged—freshly anointed stars passing the torch to newcomers who rolled their coins for gas money.

Change, inevitably, arrives. Next year, Boulder prepares to inherit the spotlight: another patch of rarefied air, a new generation of stories waiting for the green light. Perhaps the ghost of Redford, or at least his ideals, will haunt that Colorado stage, too—after all, traditions rarely vanish, they simply change their wardrobe.

Meanwhile, across the sea, the BRIT Awards have finally tired of London’s gilded familiarity and are decamping north to Manchester. No more palatial ballrooms; instead, the city’s raw, rain-washed ambition takes center stage. In a neat bit of symbolism, designer Matthew Williamson is lending Manchester a honeyed new trophy—sleek, amber, and catching light like the city’s worker bee icon. It’s flashy, sure, but also grounded in Manchester’s industrious stubbornness. Williamson’s poetic description is almost as sweet as the resin itself.

A fresh face emerges here as well: Jacob Alon, Critics’ Choice winner, glides past the flashbulbs with a gentle gratitude uncommon in music’s thornier corners. It’s the sort of rise—Fife’s quiet woods to Mercury Prize shortlist—that awards shows were born to celebrate. His acceptance speech hints at a belief that gentleness isn’t weakness, a refreshing note in a climate where hot takes usually outpace talent.

With the award’s original name restored, the judges deliver a subtle reminder: critical acclaim still matters. It’s not all about who can rack up streams or engineer a viral dance moment—though, let’s face it, a little bit of both never hurts. If the BRITs have survived wars, Thatcher, and the streaming era, surely they can handle Manchester’s unpredictable spirit.

There’s something cyclical about all this. Institutions—whether they’re film festivals, awards shows, or even fashion weeks—can’t stand still indefinitely. Every legacy needs an update, just as every classic needs a little tailoring before its next outing. Of course, purists will pine for the old stage, the familiar backdrop. Yet, what endures is not so much the venue, but the collision of risk and reward that happens wherever spotlight meets ambition.

So as Park City’s last encore fades and Manchester prepares to steal London’s thunder, what remains isn’t a sense of loss but a prickly, delicious anticipation. What comes next? Who’s ready to tear up the rulebook, or at least scribble in the margins? It’s this electric possibility—renewed, fleeting, ungovernable—that drags everyone up the mountain, or into a rain-slicked arena, year after unpredictable year.

That, in the end, is the one tradition that never seems to go out of style.

Snowflakes swirl and dance through the pale air above Park City, settling where they always have: along sidewalks crowded with knit beanies, woolen drama, and the unmistakable pulse of cinematic anticipation. Main Street, with its battered charm and banners, flutters beneath the weight of history. This winter, however, there’s something else drifting through the festival crowd—a sense that the curtain may not just be falling but folding away for good.The final Sundance in Utah. That’s not a phrase that rolls off the tongue for anyone who’s watched the independent film world orbit this mountain town since Reagan-era Hollywood. Still, here it is—Park City's swan song—cold, nostalgic, and oddly buoyant, all at once. Now, Robert Redford, the man whose sun-drenched ideals gave life to this snowy outpost of creativity, is gone. Redford's absence feels palpable. Streets he once strolled are instead filled with stories about him, fragile as breath on a frosty window.This year, every accolade and every late-night tribute carries his name, whether spoken aloud or not. Retrospectives—ranging from the heartbreak of “Mysterious Skin” to the belly-laugh absurdity of “Little Miss Sunshine”—dot the schedule, as if curators too are unwilling to say goodbye. Even filmmakers with seasoned Sundance resumes, like Gregg Araki, wear their gratitude plainly. The sentiment is everywhere: the festival built careers, championed risk, and made space for the offbeat, so much so that the Egyptian Theatre feels less like a venue and more like a reliquary.But nostalgia’s only half the story. The pace hasn’t slackened. If anything, the festival is moving faster, as though the whole apparatus is determined to prove relevance beyond its own legend. Audiences jostle for tickets to see Natalie Portman and Jenna Ortega conjure haunted glamour in Cathy Yan's "The Gallerist." Down the block, Chris Pine and Jenny Slate take their shot at a romcom in "Carousel"—one, reportedly, full of autumnal longing and misfit hope. And speaking of spectacle, the fashion outside screenings—think riotous bursts of color, slouchy boots, and enough faux fur to furnish a tribute to Elton John—demands nearly as much attention as the films themselves.It wouldn’t be Sundance without a dash of provocation. Olivia Wilde, multitasking as both director and muse, is at the center of Araki’s latest: “I Want Your Sex.” Equal parts neon-drenched whodunit and candid love letter to Gen Z mores, it flirts with the queer edge of “Sunset Boulevard” but lands firmly in 2026 sensibilities—murder, mystery, and enough digital-age introspection to keep everyone slightly on edge. Hardly the stuff of quiet retrospection.Documentaries, too, jostle for the spotlight—bracing, urgent, sometimes uncomfortably raw. “The AI Doc: Or How I Became an Apocaloptimist” tackles the celebrity-industrial complex through the lens of algorithmic self-delusion, while Ta-Nehisi Coates goes deep into Baltimore’s haunted past with “When A Witness Recants.” On another front, Jennifer Robinson’s “Silenced” aims straight at the bruising topic of defamation laws, proof that this festival never trades edge for mere applause.Amid these cinematic marathons—buzzy premiers by day, makeshift cocktail hours by night—there’s that alchemy unique to Sundance: a kind of egalitarian chaos, where Oscar darlings and DIY dreamers mingle in a cloud of equal parts hope and caffeine. Jay Duplass, speaking as the dust settles, seems caught between awe and disbelief. Once upon a time, a $3 film screened here changed his life. Now, he points out with a smile, the mix is unchanged—freshly anointed stars passing the torch to newcomers who rolled their coins for gas money.Change, inevitably, arrives. Next year, Boulder prepares to inherit the spotlight: another patch of rarefied air, a new generation of stories waiting for the green light. Perhaps the ghost of Redford, or at least his ideals, will haunt that Colorado stage, too—after all, traditions rarely vanish, they simply change their wardrobe.Meanwhile, across the sea, the BRIT Awards have finally tired of London’s gilded familiarity and are decamping north to Manchester. No more palatial ballrooms; instead, the city’s raw, rain-washed ambition takes center stage. In a neat bit of symbolism, designer Matthew Williamson is lending Manchester a honeyed new trophy—sleek, amber, and catching light like the city’s worker bee icon. It’s flashy, sure, but also grounded in Manchester’s industrious stubbornness. Williamson’s poetic description is almost as sweet as the resin itself.A fresh face emerges here as well: Jacob Alon, Critics’ Choice winner, glides past the flashbulbs with a gentle gratitude uncommon in music’s thornier corners. It’s the sort of rise—Fife’s quiet woods to Mercury Prize shortlist—that awards shows were born to celebrate. His acceptance speech hints at a belief that gentleness isn’t weakness, a refreshing note in a climate where hot takes usually outpace talent.With the award’s original name restored, the judges deliver a subtle reminder: critical acclaim still matters. It’s not all about who can rack up streams or engineer a viral dance moment—though, let’s face it, a little bit of both never hurts. If the BRITs have survived wars, Thatcher, and the streaming era, surely they can handle Manchester’s unpredictable spirit.There’s something cyclical about all this. Institutions—whether they’re film festivals, awards shows, or even fashion weeks—can’t stand still indefinitely. Every legacy needs an update, just as every classic needs a little tailoring before its next outing. Of course, purists will pine for the old stage, the familiar backdrop. Yet, what endures is not so much the venue, but the collision of risk and reward that happens wherever spotlight meets ambition.So as Park City’s last encore fades and Manchester prepares to steal London’s thunder, what remains isn’t a sense of loss but a prickly, delicious anticipation. What comes next? Who’s ready to tear up the rulebook, or at least scribble in the margins? It’s this electric possibility—renewed, fleeting, ungovernable—that drags everyone up the mountain, or into a rain-slicked arena, year after unpredictable year.That, in the end, is the one tradition that never seems to go out of style.