At the heart of the story is the relationship between two brothers, Norman and Paul, raised under the stern yet compassionate guidance of their Presbyterian minister father. Their home is steeped in Scripture, discipline, and the cadence of sermonic wisdom. Yet as the film unfolds, Redford shows how grace cannot be inherited through catechism alone. Paul’s brilliance and charisma coexist with self-destructive tendencies, reflecting humanity’s tragic bent toward sin. In his subtle framing and patient storytelling, Redford resists melodrama; instead, he allows viewers to perceive the pervasive mystery of evil—the inexplicable pull of darkness even in one so gifted and loved.
Theologically, Redford masterfully evokes innocence without sentimentality. The fly-fishing sequences, with their sweeping arcs and luminous waters, become sacraments of creation. They hint at Edenic harmony, where human beings participate in the beauty of God’s world with reverence and joy. But this is always shadowed by the reality of depravity: gambling debts, violence, estrangement. Redford lingers on this paradox, showing that innocence is not immune to corruption, and that human freedom—so full of possibility—is also perilously fragile.
And yet, the film refuses to yield to despair. Grace permeates its quiet moments. Norman’s father, though unable to rescue Paul from his choices, embodies a profound theological truth when he admits that “it is those we live with and love and should know who elude us.” Redford highlights this not as defeat but as humility—the recognition that only God’s grace can reach into the depths where human hands cannot. Even in Paul’s tragic death, Redford does not leave the viewer with finality of ruin, but with a haunting awareness that love and dignity persist, even when tangled in failure.
The river itself becomes the theological center: a symbol of constancy, flow, and transcendence. Redford films it as both judgment and mercy—beautiful yet untamable, reflecting the mystery of God’s presence. Norman’s closing reflection captures this sacramental quality with luminous simplicity: “Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.” This lyrical meditation reveals the rhythms of life and love, but also intimates that beneath these rhythms is something deeper still—grace itself, flowing through the fractures of human experience.
In "A River Runs Through It," Redford offers cinema as theology. He acknowledges the depravity of man but frames it within a world alive with grace, beauty, and mystery. His direction invites us to see that human dignity is not annulled by sin, but illuminated by the possibility of something greater: that even in brokenness, the light of grace still falls across the waters, calling us to live, to love, and to hope.
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