The Sting of Friendship: Paul Newman, Robert Redford, and Hollywood’s Greatest Prank

Prologue: Universal Studios, Stage 12, October 1973

The hot lights glare down on sixty silent crew members, cameras rolling. Robert Redford stands center stage, script in hand, ready for the most dramatic monologue of The Sting. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and begins:

“There once was a man from Nantucket.”

For a split second, confusion ripples across his face. Paul Newman, standing behind the camera, is doubled over, tears streaming from laughter. The crew looks around, stunned. Redford’s monologue has been replaced with nonsense. What follows will become the most legendary prank in Hollywood history. But to understand how Newman pulled it off, and why, you have to go back three years—to the moment their friendship became a war.

Chapter 1: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid – Utah, 1969

Two Hollywood legends. Six months in the desert. Something strange happened: Robert Redford and Paul Newman became not just friends, but rivals in mischief. It started with a spider. Newman slipped it into Redford’s cowboy boot between takes. Redford, unsuspecting, felt something move, screamed loud enough for the entire set to hear. Newman’s laughter echoed across the canyon.

Most would have been angry. Redford saw an opportunity. Three days later, Newman opened his trailer to find every piece of furniture bolted to the ceiling. Chairs, table, lamp—everything upside down. Newman stared, processed, then burst out laughing. Then he started planning.

Director George Roy Hill watched this escalation with concern. “You realize this is going to get worse, right?” Hill said to Redford. “You two are going to end up burning down a set.” Redford just smiled. “George, relax. It’s harmless fun.”

But Hill knew Newman didn’t do harmless fun. Newman did psychological warfare disguised as harmless fun.

Chapter 2: The Prank War Escalates

By the time The Sting began filming in 1973, the prank war was legendary. Crew members took sides: Team Newman, betting on creativity; Team Redford, impressed by patience and planning. But nobody, not even Hill, knew what Newman was planning for October 15th.

On the morning of the big scene, Redford arrived at Stage 12 at 6:00 a.m., two hours early. He liked to prepare in silence. The courtroom monologue was crucial—three pages of dense dialogue, the emotional climax of the second act. Redford had been rehearsing for weeks.

What he didn’t know: Paul Newman had been in his trailer at 5:00 a.m. Newman had a key, borrowed from a starstruck production assistant weeks earlier. He told her he needed to leave a birthday present for Redford. She handed it over without question.

Newman entered the trailer, found the revised script pages, and went to work. He had a portable typewriter, matching paper, and thirty minutes before anyone would arrive. He typed quickly, shaking with suppressed laughter. When finished, he replaced Redford’s script pages with his own—identical page numbers, identical formatting, indistinguishable at first glance. Then he left, returned the key, and went for coffee.

Chapter 3: The Bomb Detonates

At 8:30 a.m., Redford picked up his script. Everything looked normal—director’s notes in the margin, same as always. He tucked it under his arm and headed to makeup. Newman saw him walking across the lot, made brief eye contact, and nodded. Redford nodded back. Newman had to turn away to keep from laughing.

By 10:00 a.m., Stage 12 was ready. The courtroom set was massive, detailed, perfect. Sixty crew members in position. Cameras locked. George Roy Hill sat in his director’s chair, going over the shot list. This was an important scene.

Redford walked onto the set. Newman was already there, sitting off to the side. His scene wouldn’t be filmed until later, but he was there to support his friend.

“You ready for this?” Newman asked, voice perfectly casual.

“Been ready for two weeks,” Redford replied, holding up his script.

Newman smiled. “I have no doubt.”

Hill called for quiet. “All right, everyone. This is a big one. Bob’s been preparing like crazy. Let’s give him the respect of complete silence. No phones, no talking, nothing. When he starts, you could hear a pin drop. Understood?”

Everyone nodded. Hill turned to Redford. “Whenever you’re ready, Bob, take your time.”

Redford positioned himself in the center of the courtroom set. He took a deep breath, looked down at his script. The lights were hot. The camera was close. Sixty people were watching.

He began reading.

“There once was a man from Nantucket.”

His voice was strong, confident, dramatic—exactly the tone the scene required. But the words were nonsense. Redford stopped, scanned ahead on the page. Confusion, disbelief, realization.

Then, as he read further, a slow smile started to spread.

Chapter 4: The Greatest Prank

The crew was frozen. They’d heard, “There once was a man from Nantucket,” delivered with full dramatic intensity, and their brains were struggling to process it. Newman, behind the camera, was literally biting his fist to keep quiet. Hill stood up from his chair.

“Bob, everything okay?”

Redford looked up from the script, directly at Newman. Newman’s face was red from suppressed laughter, tears streaming down his face. Redford made a decision that would cement this moment in Hollywood history.

He kept reading.

“There once was a man from Nantucket whose script was replaced by a dummy who thought he was quite smart but forgot that revenge is an art and the victim was taking notes.”

The crew started to realize something was wrong. This wasn’t the scene they’d rehearsed. Redford’s delivery was perfect, dramatic, intense, but the words were absolute nonsense.

Redford continued, never breaking character.

“Your honor, I stand before you today to confess. I confess that I ate the last doughnut in craft services. I confess that I told the costume department Paul Newman’s waist size was actually three inches larger than he claims. I confess that I’ve been pronouncing ‘epitome’ wrong my entire life, and I’m too embarrassed to admit it now.”

Someone in the crew started laughing. Then someone else. Then everyone.

Redford kept going, maintaining full dramatic intensity.

“The defendant stands accused of being too handsome for his own good, of having eyes so blue that they constitute a public hazard, of making women in Nebraska faint simply by existing. How do you plead?”

George Roy Hill was leaning against a wall, laughing so hard he was sliding down it. The cinematographer had tears streaming down his face. The script supervisor dropped her clipboard and gasped for air. Newman was on the floor, curled in a ball, making sounds that didn’t seem human.

Redford reached the final page.

“In conclusion, your honor, I ask that the court recognize that Paul Newman, the man responsible for replacing this script at 5:00 a.m. this morning, thinking he was so clever, has made one critical error. He has assumed that I would stop reading. He has assumed I would break character. He has underestimated the depth of my commitment to this craft. And for that, your honor, I recommend a sentence of eternal embarrassment and the knowledge that I will get him back. Oh yes, I will get him back. The defense rests.”

Redford closed the script, looked directly at the camera, and bowed.

The stage erupted. Sixty people standing, applauding, screaming. Newman was trying to stand up, but couldn’t because he was laughing too hard. Someone had to help him to his feet.

Hill walked over to Redford, wiping tears from his eyes.

“That was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen on a film set. We’re keeping that footage. I don’t care if we never use it. We’re keeping it.”

Redford walked over to Newman, who was still gasping for air.

“5 a.m.?” Redford asked.

Newman nodded, unable to speak.

“The production assistant?”

Another nod.

“The typewriter—portable?”

Newman managed to choke out, “Kept it in my car.”

Redford extended his hand. Newman shook it. Two legends acknowledging a perfect execution of the perfect prank.

Chapter 5: The War Continues

But the story doesn’t end there. Three days later, Newman arrived on set to find his trailer completely wrapped in aluminum foil. Every inch—roof, walls, door handle, windows. It looked like a giant baked potato.

The entire crew watched as Newman stood there processing, then started laughing.

“How did you even…?” he started to ask.

“I have friends,” Redford said simply. “Many friends.”

The prank war continued throughout the filming of The Sting. Newman filled Redford’s car with popcorn. Redford had Newman’s parking space painted with a giant target. Newman replaced Redford’s coffee with beef broth. Redford hired a mariachi band to follow Newman around the lot for an entire day.

George Roy Hill eventually called a meeting with both of them.

“Gentlemen,” he said, exhausted, “I’m begging you. We have six weeks left of filming. Can we please, please finish this movie without any more pranks?”

Newman and Redford looked at each other, then at Hill, then at each other again.

“No,” they said in unison.

Hill put his head in his hands.

Chapter 6: Why Pranks Matter

But here’s what most people don’t understand about the Newman-Redford prank war. It wasn’t about winning. It was about something deeper.

Both men had reached a level of fame that isolated them. They were Robert Redford and Paul Newman—icons, legends. People treated them with reverence and distance. They couldn’t be normal. They couldn’t be themselves except with each other.

The pranks were permission. Permission to be silly. Permission to be human. Permission to have a friend who didn’t care that you were Robert Redford or Paul Newman. A friend who would break into your trailer at 5:00 a.m. just to make you laugh.

Chapter 7: The Legacy

Years later, in 1984, they did it again—a third film together, directed once again by George Roy Hill. The film was called Harry and Son. By this point, Hill knew what he was getting into. On the first day of production, Hill gathered the crew.

“I need to warn you all,” he said. “These two are going to prank each other. It’s going to be weird. It’s going to be distracting and it’s going to be the best part of making this film. Just roll with it.”

He was right.

The script prank became legendary in Hollywood. The footage still exists, locked in Universal’s vault—Redford performing “There Once Was a Man from Nantucket” with full dramatic intensity while sixty people lost their minds. Every few years, at private screenings for cast and crew reunions, someone would pull it out. Every time, it brought down the house.

Chapter 8: Friendship Remembered

In 2008, shortly before his death, Paul Newman was asked about his favorite memory from his entire career. The reporter expected him to mention Cool Hand Luke or The Hustler or one of his Oscar nominations.

Instead, Newman smiled.

“October 15th, 1973, Stage 12. Watching Bob Redford perform a limerick with the intensity of King Lear. That was the day I knew we’d be friends for life.”

When Newman died in 2008, Redford spoke at his memorial service. He told many stories—beautiful, meaningful stories—and at the very end, he told the story of the script.

“Paul once replaced my script with nonsense,” Redford said. “Three pages of absolute garbage, and I performed every word like it was Shakespeare. Not because I wanted to, but because I knew it would make him happy. That’s what friendship is—doing the ridiculous thing because you know it will make the other person laugh.”

The room was silent.

“Paul taught me that fame is nothing. Oscars are nothing. What matters is finding someone who will break into your trailer at 5:00 a.m. and replace your script just to see you try to act out a limerick. That’s love. That’s friendship. That’s everything.”

Epilogue: The Sting of Friendship

The Newman-Redford script prank reminds us that the best friendships aren’t built on grand gestures. They’re built on stupid jokes—on knowing someone well enough to know exactly how to make them laugh. On caring enough to put in the effort, even when the effort is breaking into a trailer at 5:00 a.m. with a portable typewriter.

In a world that often takes itself too seriously, sometimes the most profound thing you can do is replace your best friend’s dramatic monologue with a limerick about Nantucket—not because it’s mature, not because it’s professional, but because it’s human. And because twenty years later, that’s the memory that will make you both laugh until you cry.

What would you risk to make your best friend laugh?