Newman hid THIS in Redford’s costume — when he found it, the entire crew lost it

Take 47: The Prank That Became Hollywood Legend

Prologue: The Sound That Stopped Hollywood

October 15th, 1973. Universal Studios. On a cavernous soundstage, under the hot glare of studio lights, Robert Redford sat down at a poker table for what was supposed to be the most dramatic scene of his career. Across from him, Paul Newman stared back, eyes glinting with mischief. The air was thick with tension—millions of imaginary dollars on the table, Oscar-level acting required.

Redford adjusted his vest, took a deep breath, and glanced up. The director called, “Action.” Forty crew members held their breath.

Then, a sound. Not the sound of cards being shuffled, not the tense hush of anticipation. No—this was something else entirely. A loud, unmistakable, and hilariously embarrassing sound. For three full seconds, the set was frozen. The director’s mouth fell open. The sound guy ripped off his headphones. And then, Paul Newman burst into laughter so deep and uncontrollable that the entire crew followed suit.

Redford sat, face red, stunned. He reached into his vest and pulled out the culprit: a classic whoopee cushion. He looked at Newman, who was now doubled over, tears streaming down his face. Redford shook his head and said five words that would become legend: “You are a dead man.”

But Newman was laughing too hard to care.

To understand how this moment came to be, you have to go back four years—back to when two of Hollywood’s biggest stars met for the first time and discovered a friendship that would change both their lives.

Chapter 1: The Birth of a Prank War

June 1969. The dusty plains of the American West, or at least, the Hollywood version of it. Robert Redford walked onto the set of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid with a reputation: the pretty boy, the serious actor, the guy who didn’t joke around. He was all business, focused, reserved.

Paul Newman, on the other hand, was famous for something else. He was a professional prankster, a set troublemaker, the guy who once filled a director’s car with popcorn. Newman saw Redford and decided to test him.

Their first day of rehearsal, they ran lines for the bicycle scene—a romantic, sweet moment. Newman was supposed to ride the bike while Redford watched. But Newman had other plans. He rode straight into the catering table, knocked over three trays of sandwiches, and fell dramatically onto the ground, motionless.

The crew panicked. Newman was 44 years old. This could be serious. Redford stood there for five seconds, then walked over, looked down at Newman lying in a pile of sandwiches, and said, “You missed the turkey on rye.”

Newman opened one eye, started laughing, and in that moment, a friendship was born.

From that day forward, the set of Butch Cassidy became a prank war zone. Newman put shaving cream in Redford’s cowboy hat. Redford replaced Newman’s prop gun with a cap gun that shot confetti. Newman convinced the makeup artist to give Redford’s mustache an accidental curl. Redford retaliated by having Newman’s saloon chair leg shortened by two inches.

The pranks were never mean. They were never destructive. They were just two grown men finding joy and making each other laugh. Director George Roy Hill loved it. “They’re like kids,” he told a reporter. “Expensive, talented, Oscar-nominated kids.”

But there was something deeper happening in an industry built on competition and ego. Newman and Redford were building something rare—a friendship based on trust, respect, and the willingness to look absolutely ridiculous for a laugh.

Chapter 2: Lightning in a Bottle

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid became a massive hit in 1969, earning over $100 million. The studio immediately wanted a reunion. Newman and Redford were box office gold—lightning in a bottle.

But Newman had one condition. “Only if George directs again, and only if Redford promises not to make me look old.”

Redford’s response: “I can’t make promises I can’t keep, Paul.”

Three years later, the three of them reunited for The Sting, a period piece about conmen in 1930s Chicago. Elaborate sets, intricate costumes, a complex plot, and absolutely no room for pranks. Or so everyone thought.

Production on The Sting began in September 1973. The studio was nervous. Period pieces were risky. The costumes alone cost $250,000.

Betty Walsh, the head costume designer, had worked in Hollywood for 27 years. She dressed Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, James Stewart. She knew her job was sacred. These weren’t just clothes; they were investments. She was particularly proud of the poker game costumes—each vest custom-tailored, hand-stitched, authentic 1930s material sourced from estate sales. Redford’s vest alone cost $1,200.

“These costumes,” Betty told her assistant, “are more valuable than most people’s cars. We treat them like museum pieces.”

Chapter 3: The Setup

Newman had a different perspective. On the first day of costume fittings, he looked at his elaborate three-piece suit and said, “You know what? This needs pockets big enough to hide a sandwich.”

Betty didn’t laugh. She was serious about her work. But Newman noticed something: Betty always hung the costumes on the same rack, in the same order, in the same room. Every morning at 8:00 a.m., she’d prepare them for the day’s shoot, then go to the production meeting at 8:30.

For 30 minutes, those costumes hung unguarded.

Newman filed this information away.

By early October, filming was going smoothly. Too smoothly. The set was professional, quiet, efficient. Newman was getting bored.

On October 14th, the day before the big poker scene, Newman approached Redford at lunch. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day,” he said. “Twelve hours of sitting at that poker table. We should do something to keep it interesting.”

Redford knew that tone. “Paul, no. This is a serious scene. Oscar-level work. George is already stressed about the lighting.”

“Exactly,” Newman said, grinning. “Everyone’s too tense. Someone needs to lighten the mood.”

“That someone is not going to be you.”

“We’ll see.”

That evening, after the crew left, Newman stayed behind. He told the security guard he’d forgotten his watch in the dressing room. But instead of going to the dressing room, he went to the costume storage area. There, hanging in perfect order, were the next day’s costumes. Redford’s poker vest hung third from the left. Beautiful, pristine, expensive.

Newman reached into his own jacket pocket and pulled out something he’d bought from a toy store that afternoon—a classic whoopee cushion, red rubber, unchanged design since 1930, completely period inappropriate, but absolutely perfect.

He carefully opened Redford’s vest. The interior had a silk lining with a small interior pocket designed for a pocket watch. The pocket was exactly the right size. Newman folded the whoopee cushion carefully, slid it into the interior pocket. The vest looked completely normal. No visible bulge, no sign of tampering.

He stepped back and admired his work. Tomorrow, when Redford sat down in his chair for the dramatic poker scene, his body weight would compress the vest. The whoopee cushion would activate in front of 40 crew members, in the middle of the most serious scene in the movie.

Newman walked out whistling.

Chapter 4: The Prank Unfolds

The next morning, October 15th, Betty Walsh arrived at 7:45 a.m., 15 minutes early. She liked to have extra time to inspect the costumes before the production meeting. She checked each piece carefully. Redford’s vest—perfect. No stains, no tears, no wrinkles. She ran her hand over the fabric, felt the interior pocket. Something seemed slightly fuller than usual, but the pocket watch they’d added the previous week explained that. She hung it back up and went to her meeting.

At 8:15 a.m., Redford arrived for makeup and wardrobe. He was in a good mood. The script called for him to win the poker game with a clever bluff. He loved scenes where his character outsmarted everyone. Betty helped him into the vest. He adjusted it, moved his shoulders, checked the fit in the mirror.

“Feels perfect, Betty. You’re a genius.”

She smiled. After 27 years, compliments from movie stars still felt good.

At 8:45 a.m., Newman arrived. He’d deliberately come later than Redford. Didn’t want to seem suspicious. He got into his own costume, checked himself in the mirror, caught Betty’s eye, and said, “Today is going to be a great day. I can feel it.”

Something in his tone made Betty pause, but she couldn’t quite place what bothered her.

At 9:30 a.m., director George Roy Hill gathered the cast and crew on the poker game set. The soundstage was massive. In the center sat an elaborate poker table, green felt surface, authentic 1930s chips, five chairs arranged around it.

“All right, everyone,” George said. “This is our money shot. Literally, this scene is what the whole movie builds toward. I need absolute concentration, absolute quiet. We’re going for perfection.”

He turned to Redford and Newman. “Bob, you’re the cool professional. Paul, you’re the worried veteran. The tension between you has to be palpable. No smiling, no jokes, pure drama.”

Both actors nodded seriously. George called for final touches. Makeup did last-minute powder. Sound checked levels. Lighting adjusted the key spots.

“Places, everyone.”

Newman took his seat first. Across the table, left side, he arranged his poker chips, picked up his prop cards. His face settled into the worried veteran character, but inside he was counting down. Any second now, Redford would sit down.

Any second now.

Redford walked onto the set. He stood behind his chair for a moment, getting into character. He closed his eyes, took a breath, centered himself. Then he sat down, and the soundstage exploded with the loudest, longest, most unfortunate flatulent sound in Hollywood history.

For three full seconds, nobody moved. Forty crew members froze. George Roy Hill’s mouth fell open. The sound guy pulled off his headphones. And Paul Newman, despite his absolute best effort, despite his 30 years of professional acting training, despite knowing that breaking character would ruin the take, couldn’t hold it together. A smile cracked across his face, then a chuckle, then a full, deep, uncontrollable belly laugh.

Redford sat perfectly still. His face was bright red. He looked down at his vest, back up at Newman, down at the vest again. Then he reached into the interior pocket and pulled out the whoopee cushion. He held it up, stared at it, looked across the table at Newman, who was now laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

The entire crew erupted. The sound guy was doubled over. The lighting director had tears streaming down his face. Even George Roy Hill, who’d been so serious about the scene, was leaning against a camera, shaking with laughter.

“You are a dead man,” Redford said quietly. But he was smiling.

Chapter 5: Laughter and Revenge

George Roy Hill tried to regain control. “Okay. Okay, everyone. Let’s reset. We’ll take it from the top.” But nobody could settle down. Every time someone looked at Redford’s face or at Newman, still wiping tears from his eyes, the laughter started again.

A script supervisor checked her watch. Ten minutes had passed. No usable footage. They were already behind schedule.

“Break,” George finally yelled. “Thirty minutes. Everyone get it out of your system.”

Newman stood up, still chuckling, and walked toward the craft services table. Redford followed him.

“I have to admit,” Redford said, “that was pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Newman turned around. “That was a masterpiece. Did you hear it? That sound carried to the rafters. The acoustics in this soundstage are incredible.”

“You put it in my vest.”

“I did.”

“Betty’s going to kill you when she finds out you tampered with her precious costume.”

“That’s why you’re not going to tell her.”

Newman poured two cups of coffee, handed one to Redford. “Consider it my gift to you. Thirty years from now, you’ll be telling people about this.”

“Thirty years from now, I’ll still be planning my revenge.”

Newman’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you’re going to retaliate?”

“Absolutely.”

“When?”

Redford smiled. “That’s the thing about revenge, Paul. It’s best served when you least expect it.”

For the rest of that day, Newman was visibly on edge. He checked his costume obsessively, inspected his chair before sitting, looked over his shoulder constantly. But Redford did nothing.

The poker scene took 47 takes—not because of the prank, but because George kept pushing for perfection. By take 38, everyone had forgotten about the whoopee cushion. By take 43, even Newman had relaxed. Take 47 was perfect. George yelled, “Cut, print.” And the entire crew applauded.

As they wrapped for the day, Newman approached Redford. “So, no revenge?”

“Not today.”

“Tomorrow? Maybe? Maybe not?”

“You’re going to keep me guessing.”

“For as long as it takes,” Redford said. “Weeks, months, years. One day when you least expect it, when you’re completely comfortable and you think I’ve forgotten…” He leaned in close and whispered.

Newman burst out laughing again.

Chapter 6: The Long Game

The revenge actually came three weeks later—not during filming, not on set, but at Newman’s home in Connecticut. Redford arranged for a gift basket to be delivered. It arrived on a Saturday morning. Newman’s wife, Joanne, brought it in.

“Look, honey, someone sent you something.”

The basket was enormous, wrapped in cellophane, filled with gourmet foods, cheeses, crackers, expensive wine. Newman opened the card.

“For your next dinner party. Love, Bob.”

How thoughtful, Newman thought. Maybe Redford had decided not to retaliate after all.

That evening, Newman and Joanne hosted twelve guests for a dinner party. At dessert, Newman decided to show off the gift basket. He brought it to the dining room table, removed the cellophane, and began displaying the contents.

“Look at this beautiful cheese,” he said, reaching for the package at the bottom.

The moment he lifted it, a dozen whoopee cushions tumbled out. They’d been hidden under a false bottom. They fell onto the table, bounced onto the floor, made absolutely ridiculous noises as they scattered.

The dinner guests stared, then started laughing. Joanne picked one up. “Let me guess, Robert Redford.”

Newman nodded, grinning. “He waited three weeks.”

“Are you going to get him back?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

And so it continued.

Chapter 7: Forty Years of Friendship

For the next forty years, Newman and Redford maintained what they called the long prank. Never mean, never public. Just two friends finding creative ways to make each other laugh.

In 1976, Redford founded the Sundance Institute. Newman sent a congratulatory telegram. “Heard you finally did something useful. Proud of you. Now stop stealing my pranks. Paul.”

In 1982, Newman launched Newman’s Own food company. Redford sent the first case of products back with a note. “Tasted your salad dressing. Still not as good as mine. Bob.”

In 2002, when Redford received an honorary Oscar, Newman was in the audience. As Redford walked to the stage, Newman stood up and started a slow clap. The entire audience joined in.

But after the applause died down, as Redford began his speech, Newman pulled out a small whoopee cushion and squeezed it quietly. The microphones didn’t pick it up, but Redford on stage heard it. He paused mid-sentence, looked directly at Newman, smiled.

“Some people,” he said to the audience, “never grow up, and I’m grateful for that.”

Chapter 8: Legacy and Laughter

When Paul Newman passed away in September 2008, one of the pallbearers at his funeral was Robert Redford.

After the service, a reporter asked Redford to share a memory.

“There are thousands,” Redford said. “But the one I keep coming back to is October 15th, 1973.”

“The Sting, the poker scene,” he smiled. “Paul hid a whoopee cushion in my costume in the middle of the most dramatic scene of the movie, right before I sat down.”

The reporter waited.

“It was stupid,” Redford continued. “It was childish. It delayed filming for 30 minutes and probably cost the studio thousands of dollars.” His voice softened. “It was also the most Paul Newman thing he ever did. He taught me that friendship isn’t about being serious all the time. It’s about trusting someone enough to look ridiculous in front of them. It’s about finding joy in the simplest, stupidest jokes.”

He paused. “I miss him every day. But whenever I sit down in a chair, I think about that moment and I smile.”

Chapter 9: Hollywood Remembers

In 2017, a documentary crew interviewed George Roy Hill before he passed away. They asked about directing The Sting.

“What was your favorite moment from production?”

Without hesitation: “Take 47, the poker scene, Paul’s prank.”

“But it ruined the take.”

“It did,” George said. “But it also reminded everyone on that set why we make movies. Not for the awards, not for the box office, for moments of pure unexpected joy.”

“Did you ever tell Newman you actually appreciated the prank?”

George smiled. “I did. Twenty years later, at a dinner, he asked if I’d forgiven him. I told him there was nothing to forgive. That prank might have cost us 30 minutes, but it gave us a story we told for decades.”

Betty Walsh, the costume designer, lived until 2019. At age 94, she gave her final interview. The topic: Hollywood’s greatest pranks.

“In 27 years in the business,” she said, “I saw hundreds of pranks, some clever, some cruel, some that got people fired. But Paul Newman’s whoopee cushion and Robert Redford’s vest—that was art. Why? Because it was perfectly timed, perfectly harmless, and it reminded everyone on that set that we were all just people trying to have fun.”

Even the costume designer, who was furious about someone touching her precious vest, she laughed. “I stayed mad at Newman for about 10 minutes. Then he bought me lunch and apologized. And I realized if I couldn’t laugh at a whoopee cushion, I was taking myself too seriously.”

Epilogue: The Prank That Lasts Forever

Today, that whoopee cushion sits in a display case at the Academy Museum in Los Angeles, donated by Redford in 2020. The placard reads: “From The Sting Production, 1973. A reminder that friendship and laughter are more valuable than any Oscar.”

Visitors often stop and stare at it. Some laugh, some take photos, but most just smile, remembering a time when two of Hollywood’s biggest stars reminded us that being silly isn’t childish—it’s human.

Because here’s what Paul Newman understood that October morning: Life is short. Movies are temporary. Awards collect dust. But a perfect prank—that lasts forever.