In the fading glow of a storied Hollywood career, Robert Redford— the golden boy of the silver screen, whose piercing blue eyes and sun-kissed charisma defined generations of American cinema—slipped into his final role with the effortless poise that made him an icon. It was 2017, and the 81-year-old legend had declared The Old Man & the Gun his cinematic farewell, a whimsical yet poignant tale of Forrest Tucker, a real-life bank robber who danced with danger into his twilight years. Redford, embodying Tucker’s irrepressible spirit, wasn’t just stealing scenes; he was stealing hearts one last time. But what truly anchored his performance, lending it that indelible aura of vintage charm and understated rebellion, were the seven bespoke suits he wore on screen—each one a masterpiece of fabric and finesse, hand-stitched in the unlikeliest of places: a quaint tailoring shop nestled in the heart of Madeira, Ohio, just outside Cincinnati.

Romauldo, the eponymous atelier founded in 1968 by Italian immigrant master tailor Romualdo Pelle, has long been a hidden gem for Cincinnati’s elite. With its navy awning fluttering along Miami Avenue and shelves lined with bolts of luxurious wool from mills like Loro Piana and Zegna, the shop embodies old-world craftsmanship in an era of fast fashion disposability. Pelle, now 90 and still wielding his needle with the precision of a surgeon, arrived in America from Italy in the 1960s, trading the olive groves of his homeland for the steel mills and bustling streets of the Queen City. He taught himself English from a dog-eared bilingual dictionary and built an empire stitch by stitch, dressing astronauts like Neil Armstrong, business titans such as Cintas founder Richard Farmer, and now, in a twist of fate that feels scripted by the stars themselves, a Hollywood legend on the cusp of eternity.

The call came like a bolt from a clear sky. The Old Man & the Gun, directed by David Lowery and loosely inspired by a 2003 New Yorker profile of Tucker, was filming in the Tri-State area—Dayton, Cincinnati’s suburbs, and the rolling hills that echoed the film’s folksy Americana vibe. The production needed suits that screamed classic cool: slim-cut woolens in earthy tones of gray, navy, and charcoal, evoking the 1970s and ’80s when Tucker pulled off his audacious heists. But with principal photography looming, there was no time for leisurely fittings or overseas shipments. Enter Tim Brock, Romauldo’s co-owner alongside Chris Berre, a Cincinnati native whose passion for menswear was ignited by years as a loyal customer under Pelle’s watchful eye.

Brock, a self-taught fitter with an artist’s eye for the male form, recalls the rush as if it were yesterday. “We had less than a month to make seven complete suits—jackets, trousers, even the linings—from scratch,” he says, his voice still laced with the adrenaline of that impossible deadline. Normally, crafting a single bespoke suit at Romauldo takes six to eight weeks: selecting fabrics, drafting patterns by hand, basting seams, and fine-tuning every lapel and cuff to the wearer’s physique. But for Redford, the team pulled all-nighters, their sewing machines humming like a jazz band in overdrive. Pelle himself oversaw the cuts, his gnarled hands guiding the shears with the wisdom of eight decades. “It’s inside me,” Pelle often quips about his unyielding drive, a mantra that turned a frantic order into wearable poetry.

Redford never set foot in the shop for measurements—a detail that adds to the mythic quality of the collaboration. Instead, Brock loaded the freshly tailored suits into his car and dashed to a soundstage on Paddock Road in Cincinnati, where the wardrobe department buzzed with the controlled chaos of a big-budget shoot. There, amid racks of period props and harried assistants, he waited his turn like a fanboy at a premiere. When called back, Redford emerged from makeup, his frame still lean and commanding at 81, exuding that signature blend of Midwestern humility and effortless allure. “I pinned him right there, on the spot,” Brock remembers, adjusting hems and shoulders while the actor cracked wise about the absurdity of robbing banks in broad daylight. No diva demands, no entourage tantrums—just a man grateful for the work of artisans who treated him like kin.

The suits, in their understated elegance, became extensions of Redford’s soul. One, a soft-shouldered gray flannel, draped him during a tender scene with Sissy Spacek, his longtime companion in the film; another, a sharper navy pinstripe, sharpened his gaze as he charmed tellers mid-heist. They weren’t flashy— no bold patterns or flashy silks— but that’s the point. As Brock puts it, “The style was so classic for that movie, rooted in that era of quiet confidence. Bob loved them. He kept saying how comfortable they felt, how they moved with him.” Redford’s appreciation ran deeper than compliments; he lingered in fittings, asking about the threads’ origins, the ethics of sustainable wool, even sharing stories from his Sundance ranch. “He’s the kindest man in the world,” Brock reflects, his eyes misting at the memory. “Extremely respectful, loved everything we did. He made us feel like we were part of something bigger.”

That “something bigger” was Redford’s valedictory, a film that premiered at the 2018 Toronto International Film Festival to rapturous reviews. Critics hailed it as a “lovable metaphor” for the actor’s own life— a career of calculated risks, from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to Ordinary People, where he won an Oscar for directing. The Old Man & the Gun grossed modestly but endures as a testament to Redford’s refusal to fade quietly. Tucker escapes prison at 70, robs banks into his 80s; Redford, mirroring him, bid acting adieu but lent his voice to projects like the 2020 anthology Omniboat and a poignant cameo in Avengers: Endgame. Yet, as news of his passing on September 16, 2025, at age 89 rippled through the world, those suits— now relics in a Hollywood archive— stand as poignant artifacts of a life unlived in regret.

For Romauldo, the experience was transformative. It marked Brock’s first foray into film costuming, opening doors to dressing Vice President-elect J.D. Vance for his 2025 inauguration (four suits, complete with a handwritten note of thanks) and other high-profile clients. But more than prestige, it was a brush with immortality. “We didn’t just make clothes,” Brock says. “We clothed a legend in his final dance.” Pelle, ever the philosopher, nods from his workbench: “Fabric holds memory. These suits? They carry Bob’s spirit— free, sharp, eternal.”

In a town like Cincinnati, far from Tinseltown’s glare, Romauldo reminds us that true style isn’t about flash; it’s about the hands that shape it, the stories sewn into every seam. Redford, in his borrowed elegance, gave that lesson one last, lingering look— a heartbreaking curtain call that leaves us wondering: What if we all dressed for the heist of our own lives with such grace? As the credits roll on a icon’s era, the echo of those seven suits lingers, a tailored tribute to a man who wore his legacy lightly, until the very end.