05/26/2025
Burt Reynolds spent his final days at his home in Jupiter, Florida, surrounded by his beloved dogs and close friends. In those quiet moments, he often sat on his porch watching the sunrise, holding a cup of black coffee in his hand, murmuring how mornings reminded him of the sets of "Smokey and the Bandit" (1977) and the endless highways that stretched ahead of him. His health had been steadily declining, but his mind remained sharp, and his wit, as dry as ever, never failed to draw laughter from those around him.
In the last stretch of his life, Reynolds focused less on acting and more on teaching. He poured his energy into the Burt Reynolds Institute for Film and Theatre, a passion project that allowed him to mentor aspiring actors. He’d often arrive early, sometimes before dawn, setting up the space himself. Students recalled how he used personal stories from "Deliverance" (1972) or "The Longest Yard" (1974) to teach lessons not only about acting but about perseverance and staying grounded. He believed talent meant little without humility.
Though he no longer took on major roles, he appeared in a few carefully chosen projects. In 2017, he delivered a deeply reflective performance in "The Last Movie Star" (2017), a role eerily close to his own reality, an aging actor confronting his past. He spoke openly about the film, calling it the most personal work of his career. It stirred old emotions and allowed him to confront both his regrets and triumphs with brutal honesty. On set, he refused a body double for scenes showing his fragility, saying, “Let them see me as I am now. I’ve earned this face.”
Reynolds maintained a strict daily routine during those years. He woke at 5 a.m., meditated for twenty minutes, and then fed his dogs, his most loyal companions. Breakfast was simple: oatmeal and berries, followed by a slow walk through his property. Mornings were for writing; he worked tirelessly on a second memoir, scribbling memories on yellow legal pads with a worn fountain pen. Afternoons were often spent with visitors, old friends, former co-stars, or students seeking advice. He would cook pasta for them himself, insisting on using his mother’s recipe.
Family remained a complicated subject. Though he was estranged from his adopted son, Quinton, for several years, they reconnected toward the end. Their reunion was quiet, held away from cameras or public eyes. Quinton visited regularly, sometimes spending entire weekends with him. Reynolds kept a framed photo of the two by his bedside, one taken in happier times, and often glanced at it before drifting off to sleep.
Physically, his strength waned, but he never admitted to pain. He dismissed nurses’ concerns with a wave and a quip. Yet those closest to him noticed the deeper signs, how he clutched the armrest before standing, how his breath shortened when he laughed too hard. Still, he never complained. What mattered more to him was the conversation, the company, and moments of quiet reflection.
His thoughts often returned to the choices he had made. He spoke with candor about roles he turned down, Han Solo in "Star Wars" (1977), Garrett Breedlove in "Terms of Endearment" (1983). “I was scared,” he admitted once. “Not of failing, but of succeeding and what it might mean.” He acknowledged how pride cost him relationships and roles, but never spoke with bitterness. Instead, he viewed those choices as necessary detours, parts of a life fully lived.
In his final months, Reynolds recorded hours of personal video diaries. Not for fame, not for release, but for Quinton. He wanted his son to know the man behind the mustache, the boy from Florida who once dreamed of playing football, the young actor who didn’t know how to say ‘no’, the older man who finally learned to say ‘I’m sorry.’
On the night before his passing, he looked at the sky and whispered to his caregiver, “I hope I’ve made people laugh more than cry.” Those were his last clear words. He died in peace the next morning, on September 6, 2018, with the rising sun gently warming the room.
