Myth, Wonder, and Baseball: Why Robert Redford's THE NATURAL Is Still Movie Magic at It's Best

With the recent passing of Robert Redford, I found myself revisting my favorite movie from the actor and filmmaker.

The Natural was a movie that spaked my imagination and gave me that wide eyed sense that stories can be larger than life and still feel true.

Redford left us on September 16, 2025, and revisiting this film now feels like saying thank you to a storyteller who understood how myth can live inside a simple game like baseball. 

In the story, Roy Hobbs shows up late to his destiny. Young and gifted, he carves a bat from a tree split by lightning and calls it Wonderboy. A terrible detour knocks him off the path. Years pass. He finally arrives in the big leagues as a grown man with quiet eyes and a swing that looks like memory itself.

He joins the New York Knights, a struggling club led by weathered manager Pop Fisher, played with gravelly heart by Wilford Brimley. In the dugout Roy meets Red the trainer, embodied by Richard Farnsworth, who feels like the soul of the game.

Around them orbit the forces that test a hero. There is Max Mercy, a sharp sportswriter played by Robert Duvall, who hunts stories like a detective. There is a shadowy team owner known as the Judge, brought to life by Darren McGavin, who likes the game only when it pays.

There is temptation in the form of Memo Paris, played by Kim Basinger, and there is grace in the form of Iris Gaines, played by Glenn Close, who steps out of the stands like sunlight on an overcast afternoon.

What unfolds is a fable about choice. Roy can chase easy money, or he can honor the game and the people who believe in him. He can hide from his past, or he can square his shoulders and look it in the eye.

The movie stacks the odds against him. His body betrays him. The club politics squeeze him. The city whispers, and still, when that swing connects, the ball rises into a night sky that seems to make room for legends.

I think the story works so well because it moves like a classic hero’s tale while staying grounded in lived in detail. Barry Levinson directs with an eye for ritual and rhythm. Dugouts feel like chapels, clubhouses feel like locker lined parishes, and the game action is shot with golden light that turns dust motes into magic.

Then there’s the sound of the crack of the bat as Hobbs hits a home run. The score by Randy Newman lifts that promise and sends it floating over the field.

The characters are drawn with clean, bold lines. You’ve got Pops who believes in the game even when it hurts him. Mercy believes in the story even when it hurts people. The Judge believes in the ledger. Memo is a fantasy that asks for nothing. Iris is a memory that asks for everything. Roy is the choice.

That is why the movie feels timeless to me. It tells us greatness is not the gift you are given, it is the decision you keep making when no one is watching.

There is also a beautiful conversation happening between this film and the novel by Bernard Malamud. The book leans into darkness and irony. The film leans into hope and I respect both. The movie chooses to be a folk tale and plays fair with that choice.

It is not naïve. It knows about greed, rot, and regret. It just believes that a person can still do the right thing and that it matters. In a culture that often treats cynicism like wisdom, that belief hits me right in the chest.

People sometimes tell me you have to love baseball to love The Natural, but I don’t think that’s true. You just have to remember the feeling of wanting to be the best version of yourself when a moment finally arrives.

The film wraps that feeling in a jersey and a thunderbolt bat, then asks you to cheer for a second chance. When Roy steps into the box and the camera lingers on his eyes, I feel the hush I felt as a kid when the world seemed to hold its breath for me too. Not because I was special, but because I hoped I could be brave.

On a craft level, the movie is a master class in visual storytelling. Levinson uses repetition like a refrain. Iris in white. The lightning insignia on Wonderboy. The way the stadium lights glare, almost like constellations bending closer to watch.

The final image has become pop mythology, but it earns that status because of all the small human beats that precede it. A nod from Pop. A glance from Iris. A quiet moment from Roy before the pitch. It is not spectacle for its own sake. It is the emotional payoff of a story that has been honest about pain and now, just for a heartbeat, lets triumph ring.

You should revisit this movie because Redford brings a quality to Roy that movies do not always make room for anymore. He plays a man who carries regret without wearing it like a costume. He listens, he smiles with humility, and he chooses. Watching him, I feel invited into the myth rather than talked at by it. That feeling is rare. It is also why the film still feels fresh.

If you are looking to watch this movie for the first time, let it be at night with the lights off and the volume up. When New York’s ballpark explodes into sparks, don’t chase the metaphor, just feel it and let it sink into your soul.

I love that scene! Roy steps in with Wonderboy, every wound and choice in his life carried into that moment. The pitch comes in the bat connects with the ball and it soars meeting the lights. 

Glass bursts into a storm of sparks that rains over the field while Newman’s theme rises like a tidal wave. Every time I watch it I feel a swell in my chest that starts as a breath and turns into awe. 

This scene is the story paying off every small decision. The lights don’t just explode, doubt does, regret does. For a few seconds the world glows and you believe that a second chance can light the sky.

Then, when the credits roll, sit a minute with the quiet. Ask yourself what your own Wonderboy looks like. Ask yourself if the person who believes in you has a seat saved in the stands.

I love this movie because it tells me that failure can delay you but it does not have to define you. It tells me that grace can arrive late and still be right on time. It tells me that heroes are not perfect. They are simply people who stop running. As a kid, that idea made my imagination catch fire. As an adult, it helps me keep going.

So here is my little salute. To Redford, whose eyes said more than most screenplays. To the teammates and foils who made Roy Hobbs feel real. To a film that glows with the warmth of summer and the ache of memory.

The Natural still swings for the fences, it still connects, and for me, it still lights up my imagination and wonder.