The Squeaky Suit: How Paul Newman Turned Robert Redford’s Serious Moment into Hollywood Folklore
By [Author Name] | April 6th, 1976 | Warner Brothers Studios, Burbank, California
Prologue: The Sound That Shouldn’t Exist
Michael Torres had worked as a sound engineer on film sets for eleven years. He could identify every sound that didn’t belong in a scene—the rustle of a crew member’s jacket, the click of a camera operator shifting weight, the distant hum of traffic outside the sound stage. But at 2:47 p.m. on April 6th, 1976, Michael heard something through his headphones he couldn’t identify, couldn’t locate, and couldn’t explain. A squeak, high-pitched, brief, like a dog toy being stepped on. And it was coming from Robert Redford.
The production of All the President’s Men was in its final weeks of filming. The movie was generating Oscar buzz. Director Alan Pakula had created something special—a tense, intelligent thriller about Woodward and Bernstein’s investigation of Watergate. Robert Redford wasn’t just starring in the film. He’d spent four years developing it, securing the rights to the book, convincing Dustin Hoffman to co-star, fighting for creative control. This was his passion project, his statement that he was more than just a pretty face in cowboy movies.
The Courtroom Scene: Perfection Required
The scene they were filming on April 6th was critical. A courtroom sequence where Redford’s character, Bob Woodward, had to confront a hostile witness. The blocking required Redford to stand, walk forward, raise his arm to point at the witness stand, and deliver a key line about journalistic integrity.
Simple blocking, simple line, but everything had to be perfect. The lighting alone had taken three hours to set up. The courtroom set had cost $85,000 to build, an exact replica of a DC federal courthouse. And Redford’s costume—a custom-tailored three-piece suit in period-accurate 1970s styling—had been made specifically for this scene by head costume designer Margaret Chen. Margaret had worked in Hollywood for 23 years. She’d costumed Bonnie and Clyde, The Graduate, Chinatown. She knew her craft and was particularly proud of Redford’s courtroom suit: navy blue wool, hand-stitched lapels, functioning pocket watch chain. The suit had cost $800 to make, more than most Americans earned in a month.
“This suit,” Margaret had told her assistant that morning, “is going to be in close-ups. It needs to be perfect. No wrinkles, no lint, no imperfections.”
At 2:15 p.m., she helped Redford into the suit. He adjusted the vest, checked himself in the mirror, nodded with satisfaction. “Feels good, Margaret. Really good.” She smiled. After 23 years, she still appreciated when actors noticed her work.
Rolling: The Mystery Begins
At 2:30 p.m., Alan Pakula called for first positions. The courtroom set went quiet. Thirty-seven crew members settled into their places. Michael Torres put on his headphones and checked his levels. Everything was clean. No ambient noise, perfect conditions.
“Rolling,” the camera operator called.
“Speed,” Michael confirmed.
“All the President’s Men, scene 47, take one,” the slate operator announced.
“Action,” Pakula said quietly.
Redford stood from the defendant’s table. Walked forward, raised his arm toward the witness stand, and from Michael’s headphones came a sound that didn’t belong. Squeak. Brief. High-pitched. Unmistakable.
“Cut,” Pakula said. He looked around the set. “Did anyone else hear that?”
A few crew members nodded, but nobody could identify the source.
“Check the floor,” Pakula said. “Someone might have stepped on something.”
The crew searched, found nothing. They reset.
“Take two.” Redford stood, walked forward, raised his arm.
“Squeak!”
“Cut!” Pakula was frowning now. “Michael, where’s that coming from?”
Michael pulled off his headphones. “I don’t know. It sounds like a toy, but I can’t pinpoint the location. It’s close to Mr. Redford.”
“Check his shoes,” Pakula said.
Redford sat down. A crew member examined his shoes. Nothing. No squeaky soles, no debris. They reset again. Take three. Same result. Squeak.
Frustration Builds
By take five, everyone was getting frustrated. Pakula stopped filming to conduct a systematic search. They checked every piece of furniture on set, examined every prop, inspected the floor inch by inch. Nothing.
At 2:55 p.m. during the search, someone knocked on the soundstage door. A production assistant opened it. Paul Newman walked in. Newman wasn’t in this film. He had no reason to be on this set, but Newman and Redford had remained close friends since The Sting three years earlier, and Newman had a habit of dropping by Redford’s shoots unannounced.
“Heard you were filming the big courtroom scene,” Newman said, approaching Redford. “Thought I’d watch a master at work.”
Redford looked suspicious. “Paul, what are you really doing here?”
“Can a friend visit another friend at work?”
“Not you. Not without an ulterior motive.”
Newman put his hand over his heart in mock offense. “Robert, I’m hurt. I’m simply here to support your artistic endeavors.”
Pakula, overhearing this, called out, “Paul, you’re welcome to watch, but we’re having a technical issue. Some kind of squeaking sound we can’t locate.”
“Squeaking?” Newman’s face was perfectly innocent. Too innocent. “That’s strange. Have you checked the camera?”
“It’s not the camera,” Michael said. “It’s something else.”
The Prank Unfolds
They resumed filming. Take six. Redford stood, walked, raised his arm. Squeak. Newman, standing in the corner, made a small sound like he was suppressing a cough or a laugh. Redford’s eyes narrowed.
Take seven. Squeak. Newman coughed harder.
Take eight. Squeak. Newman turned away, shoulders shaking.
By take ten, Pakula was beyond frustrated. “This is ridiculous. We’ve checked everything. Robert, are you doing something? Some movement that’s causing this?”
Redford slowly raised his arm, extended it toward the witness stand, and felt something in his suit. Something in the lining under his left armpit. A small hard object sewn into the interior lining of the jacket.
His face went very still. He looked at Newman, who was now actively trying not to laugh, his face red with the effort.
“Paul,” Redford said quietly, “what did you do?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Redford reached into his jacket, feeling along the lining there, under the arm, a small bulge about two inches long. He pressed it. Squeak.
The entire set went silent.
“You didn’t,” Redford said.
Newman lost it. The laugh he’d been holding back for thirty minutes erupted. Full, deep, uncontrollable laughter.
Redford looked at Margaret Chen. “May I?”
Margaret, sensing what was about to happen, nodded. “Go ahead.”
Redford took off the jacket, turned it inside out. He found the interior pocket under the left arm where Margaret had sewn in a small reinforcement. Reached inside and pulled out a small yellow rubber dog toy, the kind sold in pet stores for $1.99, shaped like a bone with a squeaker inside that activated under pressure.
The set exploded. Crew members doubled over. The camera operator was crying with laughter. Even Pakula, who’d been frustrated for 45 minutes, started laughing.
“You sewed a dog toy into my $800 suit,” Redford said.
Newman was laughing too hard to respond. “Into the armpit, so every time I raised my arm, it would squeak,” Newman managed between breaths. “I—I’m sorry. I just—the mental image of you trying to do this serious scene…”
“How did you even get access to my costume?” Redford asked.
Newman wiped tears from his eyes. “I called Margaret yesterday. I told her I wanted to add a surprise to your suit. Something harmless. She was reluctant, but I convinced her it would be funny.”
Every head turned to Margaret Chen. She held up her hands. “He said it was for your birthday. He said it was a good luck charm.”
“My birthday was three months ago,” Redford said.
“He was very convincing.”
The Aftermath: Laughter and Recovery
Pakula, still chuckling, called out, “Okay. Okay, Paul, you’ve had your fun. Robert, can we please get back to work?”
Redford looked at the squeaky toy in his hand, looked at Newman, looked back at the toy. Then he started laughing too. Not immediately—it built slowly, but once it started, he couldn’t stop. “Ten takes,” he said between laughs. “We wasted ten takes because of a $1.99 dog toy.”
“Eleven if you count the one we’re about to do,” Newman said.
They reset. Margaret removed the squeaky toy from the suit, examined the stitching, confirmed there was no damage. Redford put the jacket back on, adjusted it, composed himself.
Take 11. Redford stood, walked forward, raised his arm. No squeak. But the moment his arm reached full extension, he remembered the squeaky toy and started laughing. Broke character completely.
“Cut,” Pakula said, but he was smiling.
Take 12. Same thing. Redford couldn’t raise his arm without thinking about the toy.
Take 13. He made it three words into his line before cracking up.
Newman, still watching from the corner, was not helping. Every time Redford looked at him, Newman made a small squeaking sound with his mouth.
“Paul,” Pakula said, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“No, no, I’ll be quiet,” Newman promised.
But thirty seconds later, during Take 14, he did it again. Squeak!
Redford stopped midline, pointed at Newman without looking at him. “Director, remove this man from my set.”
“It’s not your set,” Newman protested. “It’s Alan’s set.”
“Allan,” Redford said, “remove this man from your set.”
Pakula, trying to be serious but clearly enjoying himself, said, “Paul, I think you should go.”
Newman held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I can see when I’m not wanted.” He walked toward the door. Just before exiting, he called out, “Robert, if you need me, I’ll be at home training my dog to squeak on command.”
The door closed. The set was quiet again.
The Challenge of Returning to Seriousness
“Take 15.” Redford made it through the entire scene without laughing, but his arm gesture was stiff, too careful, like he was afraid the toy would somehow still be there.
“Cut. Robert, relax. The toy’s gone.”
“I know. I’m trying.”
Takes 16 through 22 were variations of the same problem. Redford was too aware of his arm movement, too conscious of the gesture that had caused the squeaking. Every take had something slightly off.
Finally, Pakula called a break. He pulled Redford aside. “You’re thinking about it too much. The prank is over. Newman’s gone. Just do the scene like you did in rehearsal two weeks ago.”
Redford nodded. “You’re right. I’m being ridiculous.”
“You’re being human. Newman’s pranks have that effect.”
They reset. Take 23. Redford took a breath, centered himself, focused on the character, not the memory of the squeaking suit.
“Action.”
Redford stood, walked forward, raised his arm with natural confidence, and delivered the line perfectly. The gesture felt right. The scene worked.
“Cut. Print,” Pakula said. “Finally. That’s the one.”
The crew applauded. Redford bowed slightly, then looked at the door Newman had exited through. “He’s still going to pay for this,” Redford said.
“I don’t doubt it,” Pakula replied.
A Lasting Joke and a Friendship
That evening, Redford called Newman at home. “You cost us two hours of production time,” Redford said. “Do you know how much that costs the studio?”
“Do you know how much laughter costs?” Newman countered. “Nothing. I just gave you and thirty-seven crew members two hours of free entertainment.”
“Allan wasn’t entertained.”
“Allan was absolutely entertained. I saw him laughing. After forty-five minutes of frustration.”
Newman was quiet for a moment. “Was it at least a little bit funny?”
Redford sighed. “Yes, it was funny. The timing of the squeak every time I raised my arm—that was impressively precise placement.”
“Thank you. I measured it carefully. Called Margaret three times to get the exact location of the arm seam.”
“You put actual effort into this prank.”
“Robert, I put effort into all my pranks. That’s what makes them art.”
Three weeks later, Newman received a package at his home. No return address. He opened it carefully, suspecting a retaliation from Redford. Inside was a photograph: Redford on the courtroom set, arm raised, face contorted in confusion as the squeak happened. Someone on the crew had captured the exact moment. Under the photo was a note in Redford’s handwriting:
Frame this. It’s the only Oscar you’re going to get this year.
Newman did frame it. Hung it in his home office. Kept it there for the rest of his life.
The Legend Grows
“All the President’s Men” premiered in April 1976. It was a massive critical and commercial success. Nominated for eight Academy Awards, won four. Redford’s performance was praised as career-best work: serious, restrained, intelligent.
In a press conference after the Oscars, a reporter asked Redford about working with director Alan Pakula.
“Allan was a perfectionist,” Redford said. “Some scenes took dozens of takes to get right. There was this one courtroom scene that took twenty-three takes.”
“Why so many takes?”
Redford smiled. “Technical difficulties. We had some unexpected sounds that took a while to locate and eliminate.”
The reporter didn’t pursue it, but several crew members in the audience started laughing.
A Museum Piece and a Lasting Memory
In 2008, Alan Pakula had been dead for ten years. He died in a car accident in 1998.
At a memorial retrospective of his work, Redford was invited to speak. He shared several stories about working with Pakula—professional stories, artistic stories—and then at the end:
“Allan had incredible patience. I remember during ‘All the President’s Men,’ Paul Newman snuck onto set and sewed a squeaky dog toy into my suit. It took us twenty-three takes to get one courtroom scene right because I couldn’t stop laughing every time I raised my arm.”
He paused. “Allan could have been angry. Could have banned Paul from the set permanently. Instead, he let the moment happen. Let us laugh. Let the crew bond over shared humor, because Allan understood something important: movies are made by human beings, and human beings need to laugh.”
After the speech, a young filmmaker approached Redford. “Is the squeaky toy story true?”
“Completely true.”
“Do you still have the toy?”
Redford smiled. “I do, actually. Margaret Chen, the costume designer, gave it to me after filming wrapped. Said she felt guilty about helping Paul. I kept it as a reminder.”
“A reminder of what?”
“That perfectionism has its place. But so does play. Allan taught me that. Paul reminded me of it every chance he got.”
In 2019, Redford donated the squeaky toy to the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History. It sits in a display case alongside other props from ‘All the President’s Men’: Woodward’s notebook, Bernstein’s typewriter, the Washington Post nameplate from the film. The placard reads:
“Squeaky dog toy sewn into Robert Redford’s suit by Paul Newman during filming of the courtroom scene. Required 23 takes to complete.”
A reminder that even in serious art, there’s room for play.
Visitors stop, read the placard, smile, some laugh, some take photos. All of them walk away with the same thought: Even legends were just people who like to make each other laugh.
Margaret Chen’s Confession
Margaret Chen, the costume designer, lived until 2020. In her final interview at age 87, she was asked about her career highlight.
“I dressed some of the most famous actors in Hollywood,” she said, “created costumes for films that won Oscars. But my favorite memory? Helping Paul Newman sew a squeaky toy into Robert Redford’s $800 suit.”
The interviewer laughed. “You helped him?”
“He called me the night before. Said he wanted to add something to Robert’s suit. I assumed it was a good luck charm or a personal memento. When he showed me the dog toy, I should have said no. Should have protected my costume.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because Paul explained his vision—the precise placement, the timing of when it would squeak, the effort he’d put into planning this one moment of surprise. And I realized this is also art. Not the kind that wins awards, but the kind that makes people remember what it feels like to laugh unexpectedly.” She smiled. “I got in trouble. Allan wasn’t happy I’d helped. But I wasn’t sorry. Some rules are worth breaking for a perfect joke.”
The Folklore of the Squeaky Suit
Today, film students study “All the President’s Men” for its cinematography, its editing, its performances. But among crew members who worked on the film, the Squeaky Toy Story is legendary, passed down like folklore, embellished slightly with each retelling, but always ending the same way:
Twenty-three takes, two hours lost. A $1.99 dog toy and a reminder that serious art doesn’t require serious people. Sometimes it just requires people who are serious about finding joy in their work.
Newman sewed a squeaky toy into Redford’s suit on April 6th, 1976.
Redford raised his arm. The toy squeaked. The director stopped filming. The crew laughed for two hours. And somewhere in that laughter, in that moment of unexpected absurdity, they remembered why they loved making movies in the first place. Not for the awards, not for the acclaim, but for moments like this—moments when the difference between a perfectly executed scene and a perfectly executed prank is just timing.
