Robert Redford’s Last Sundance: Stars, Snow, and Scandal in Park City’s Farewell

Mia Reynolds, 1/20/2026 Sundance says a snowy, bittersweet farewell to Park City, while new voices like Jacob Alon bloom at the BRITs. Endings ache, beginnings beckon—but hope and artistry keep the story going, wherever the screen or stage may land.

Four decades have layered this small mountain town in a filmic glow. Each year saw a mess of hopefuls hustling snow-clogged streets, filmmakers cradling dreams not much bigger than a VHS tape, movie stars tripping awkwardly over slush in designer boots. But this particular January, there’s a subtle hesitancy—the air thick with anticipation and something closer to grief. It’s the last time Sundance lights up Park City’s streets. Hard to say that out loud, harder still to believe.

Robert Redford left his mark on the festival, and, with his recent passing, his absence shades every gathering. Deep down, many seem to be mourning both the man and the place in tandem, folding memories together like old ticket stubs. Without Redford, Sundance loses not just its founder, but its North Star—someone whose vision turned these snowy hills into a lighthouse for misfit storytellers.

Park City’s final Sundance glows with the nostalgia of a favorite diner closing its doors—a place where a thousand stories met and mingled. Blue-plate specials replaced here by avant-garde shorts; secret smiles traded now for hurried hugs outside late-night screenings. It’s a legacy cluttered with cult classics and gut-punch indies, films that wriggled away from tidy genres to carve out new spaces on the screen.

If festivals are measured in moments, this one has gathered its fair share. Director Gregg Araki, always quick with the unexpected, offered a few words that caught more than a few listeners: Sundance in its prime made careers and broke molds—it allowed a $3 guerrilla film to share a page with Oscar heavyweights. Jay Duplass took it further, musing openly about the town’s odd democracy, where film royalty and scrappy dreamers line up for the same overpriced oat milk latte. In these sticky collisions, Sundance found its soul.

One can sense it, this mingling of weight and levity. Classics swirl through the program: Redford’s “Downhill Racer” lining up alongside freshly restored “Little Miss Sunshine” and the joyous chaos of “House Party.” Meanwhile, the newcomers aren’t playing safe. Cathy Yan launches “The Gallerist,” poking gentle fun at the art world’s excesses; Gregg Araki, never one for half-measures, brings a sex-positive spark to Gen Z with “I Want Your Sex.” And over in another corner, Rachel Lambert offers a meditation on grown-up sorrows with “Carousel,” stubbornly refusing to let the laughter drown out the ache.

The lineup is brimming with promise—Olivia Wilde popping up in every conceivable role, Charli XCX straddling music and film, documentaries daring to tackle everything from medical ethics (“American Doctor”) to unsolved crimes and the deeply personal reckonings of Ta-Nehisi Coates’ “When A Witness Recants.” It’s a program trying hard to celebrate what’s unique about Sundance, and perhaps reassure everyone that the spirit isn’t going anywhere, even if the zip code soon will.

Still, all endings itch a little. Come to think of it, Boulder will no doubt foster its own storied moments, but can a new home really conjure the same magic as Park City’s Egyptian Theatre or the Eccles lobby—a place half-crowded with ghosts of debuts and disasters alike? Araki, ever the pragmatist, insists the festival’s mission isn’t tied to a patch of snow. Yet, it’s hard to let go.

Meanwhile, back across the Atlantic, another institution is packing its bags. The BRITs Critics’ Choice award, always a launch pad for the next pop sensation, lobs its own gentle curveball: Jacob Alon, a 25-year-old Scottish singer-songwriter, steps up as the first non-binary winner. Their acceptance feels less like a victory lap and more like an open-armed exhale—an invitation to embrace vulnerability in a world that favors sharp elbows. “Taing mhòr [many thanks] to the critics…” Alon beams, the phrase laced with gratitude and the soft burr of their small-town Scottish roots. This win, as they put it, feels like rising above grey rooftops—a reminder that dreams sometimes do take flight, even from unlikely addresses.

Alon’s journey has the shape of a folk song: woven with Edinburgh’s bustling scene, stitched through with both mischief and melancholy. Mercury Prize nods followed their debut, “In Limerence,” but the real accomplishment, perhaps, was in showing that softness and otherness have space among commercial music’s sharper corners. “The world’s full of broken edges,” Alon once said, “but there’s still room for something gentle.” It’s a sentiment easily pictured resonating with listeners nursing their own bruises, finding comfort just past the refrain.

As it happens, the BRITs aren’t staying put either. After a forty-six-year residency, London will soon hand over its hosting duties to Manchester. Symbolism abounds—the trophy now cast in amber resin, an affectionate nod to the city’s industrious bee and the humming legacy of reinvention. Designer Matthew Williamson mused about the bee as a bridge between eras—a fitting image as music’s vanguard settles into new digs, the old scaffolding repurposed for new stories.

No one ever said change was graceful. Endings tend to leave their mark; beginnings come slightly askew, always with a bit of grit in their gears. Yet, there’s something honest about that untidy transition. Park City and London, cradles of invention for decades, now hand the reins to Boulder and Manchester—places primed for their own legends, undoubtedly, but still learning the tune.

Maybe, in 2025, it’s fitting to find the cultural calendar in flux. Oscar hopefuls sometimes start out as cold-footed upstarts in Park City’s shadowy screening rooms, and who’s to say the next stadium anthem isn’t being tested at some tiny Manchester showcase? The scaffolding remains, but what matters—what always matters—is the storytellers, the risk-takers, and the audience willing to be moved.

Doors close. Windows crack open. The familiar gives way, sometimes with a bang, sometimes with just a sigh. Endings—and beginnings—wind together in the same uncertain dance. If art is about anything, it’s about making space for both.

Beneath the cold clarity of January skies, Park City doesn’t much look like a place about to bid farewell to an era. The sidewalks thrum under a patchwork of festival passes and puffer jackets, steam curling from doorways where last-minute deals and borrowed cell phone chargers are exchanged like street currency. Familiar chaos, yes—but for those attuned to Sundance’s old heartbeat, there’s a distinct shiver running underneath: not just from the chill, either.Four decades have layered this small mountain town in a filmic glow. Each year saw a mess of hopefuls hustling snow-clogged streets, filmmakers cradling dreams not much bigger than a VHS tape, movie stars tripping awkwardly over slush in designer boots. But this particular January, there’s a subtle hesitancy—the air thick with anticipation and something closer to grief. It’s the last time Sundance lights up Park City’s streets. Hard to say that out loud, harder still to believe.Robert Redford left his mark on the festival, and, with his recent passing, his absence shades every gathering. Deep down, many seem to be mourning both the man and the place in tandem, folding memories together like old ticket stubs. Without Redford, Sundance loses not just its founder, but its North Star—someone whose vision turned these snowy hills into a lighthouse for misfit storytellers.Park City’s final Sundance glows with the nostalgia of a favorite diner closing its doors—a place where a thousand stories met and mingled. Blue-plate specials replaced here by avant-garde shorts; secret smiles traded now for hurried hugs outside late-night screenings. It’s a legacy cluttered with cult classics and gut-punch indies, films that wriggled away from tidy genres to carve out new spaces on the screen.If festivals are measured in moments, this one has gathered its fair share. Director Gregg Araki, always quick with the unexpected, offered a few words that caught more than a few listeners: Sundance in its prime made careers and broke molds—it allowed a $3 guerrilla film to share a page with Oscar heavyweights. Jay Duplass took it further, musing openly about the town’s odd democracy, where film royalty and scrappy dreamers line up for the same overpriced oat milk latte. In these sticky collisions, Sundance found its soul.One can sense it, this mingling of weight and levity. Classics swirl through the program: Redford’s “Downhill Racer” lining up alongside freshly restored “Little Miss Sunshine” and the joyous chaos of “House Party.” Meanwhile, the newcomers aren’t playing safe. Cathy Yan launches “The Gallerist,” poking gentle fun at the art world’s excesses; Gregg Araki, never one for half-measures, brings a sex-positive spark to Gen Z with “I Want Your Sex.” And over in another corner, Rachel Lambert offers a meditation on grown-up sorrows with “Carousel,” stubbornly refusing to let the laughter drown out the ache.The lineup is brimming with promise—Olivia Wilde popping up in every conceivable role, Charli XCX straddling music and film, documentaries daring to tackle everything from medical ethics (“American Doctor”) to unsolved crimes and the deeply personal reckonings of Ta-Nehisi Coates’ “When A Witness Recants.” It’s a program trying hard to celebrate what’s unique about Sundance, and perhaps reassure everyone that the spirit isn’t going anywhere, even if the zip code soon will.Still, all endings itch a little. Come to think of it, Boulder will no doubt foster its own storied moments, but can a new home really conjure the same magic as Park City’s Egyptian Theatre or the Eccles lobby—a place half-crowded with ghosts of debuts and disasters alike? Araki, ever the pragmatist, insists the festival’s mission isn’t tied to a patch of snow. Yet, it’s hard to let go.Meanwhile, back across the Atlantic, another institution is packing its bags. The BRITs Critics’ Choice award, always a launch pad for the next pop sensation, lobs its own gentle curveball: Jacob Alon, a 25-year-old Scottish singer-songwriter, steps up as the first non-binary winner. Their acceptance feels less like a victory lap and more like an open-armed exhale—an invitation to embrace vulnerability in a world that favors sharp elbows. “Taing mhòr [many thanks] to the critics…” Alon beams, the phrase laced with gratitude and the soft burr of their small-town Scottish roots. This win, as they put it, feels like rising above grey rooftops—a reminder that dreams sometimes do take flight, even from unlikely addresses.Alon’s journey has the shape of a folk song: woven with Edinburgh’s bustling scene, stitched through with both mischief and melancholy. Mercury Prize nods followed their debut, “In Limerence,” but the real accomplishment, perhaps, was in showing that softness and otherness have space among commercial music’s sharper corners. “The world’s full of broken edges,” Alon once said, “but there’s still room for something gentle.” It’s a sentiment easily pictured resonating with listeners nursing their own bruises, finding comfort just past the refrain.As it happens, the BRITs aren’t staying put either. After a forty-six-year residency, London will soon hand over its hosting duties to Manchester. Symbolism abounds—the trophy now cast in amber resin, an affectionate nod to the city’s industrious bee and the humming legacy of reinvention. Designer Matthew Williamson mused about the bee as a bridge between eras—a fitting image as music’s vanguard settles into new digs, the old scaffolding repurposed for new stories.No one ever said change was graceful. Endings tend to leave their mark; beginnings come slightly askew, always with a bit of grit in their gears. Yet, there’s something honest about that untidy transition. Park City and London, cradles of invention for decades, now hand the reins to Boulder and Manchester—places primed for their own legends, undoubtedly, but still learning the tune.Maybe, in 2025, it’s fitting to find the cultural calendar in flux. Oscar hopefuls sometimes start out as cold-footed upstarts in Park City’s shadowy screening rooms, and who’s to say the next stadium anthem isn’t being tested at some tiny Manchester showcase? The scaffolding remains, but what matters—what always matters—is the storytellers, the risk-takers, and the audience willing to be moved.Doors close. Windows crack open. The familiar gives way, sometimes with a bang, sometimes with just a sigh. Endings—and beginnings—wind together in the same uncertain dance. If art is about anything, it’s about making space for both.