Paul Newman and Redford did THIS on Butch Cassidy set — what the crew filmed SHOCKED Newman himself

The Poker Reel: How Robert Redford Quietly Made Paul Newman a Star

Prologue: The Screening Room, October 1968

Paul Newman sat in the dark, his eyes fixed on the flickering screen. He was watching dailies—raw footage from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid—when the projectionist made a mistake. Instead of the next scene, the wrong reel started playing. Outtakes, behind-the-scenes moments, scraps of score not meant for the rough cut. Newman was about to wave it off, but something on screen made him freeze.

A poker game. Him and Robert Redford, between takes. Nothing unusual, except for one thing: the camera had caught something Newman had never noticed. Something that, when he finally understood it, would change everything he thought he knew about the young actor sitting next to him for the past six months.

To understand what Paul Newman saw in that screening room, you need to understand the poker games.

Chapter One: The Hierarchy of Cards

The production of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid began in September 1968. Locations: Durango, Mexico, Utah, Colorado. Director: George Roy Hill. Stars: Paul Newman, age 43, one of the biggest names in Hollywood. Robert Redford, age 31, talented but still relatively unknown outside Broadway.

William Goldman’s script was brilliant—two outlaws running from the law, full of wit and melancholy. But the real story wasn’t on the page. It was what happened between the two leading men.

From day one, Newman made something clear: this was his set. He’d been making movies since 1954. He’d worked with Hitchcock, Kazan, you name it. Redford was the new kid. Talented, handsome, but unproven in film.

“I’m going to teach you how this works,” Newman told Redford on the first day. It wasn’t mean, just fact. The veteran showing the rookie the ropes. And one of those ropes was poker.

Every day during lunch, after lunch, between setups, whenever there was downtime, Newman would set up a card game—five-card stud, usually. Nothing fancy. The buy-in was small, $20, but it wasn’t about the money. It was about pride. And Paul Newman did not like to lose.

Redford would join the games. So would some of the crew—cinematographer Conrad Hall, assistant director Jack N. Reddish, sometimes George Roy Hill. But it was always Newman’s table. He’d deal, set the stakes, control the tempo, and he’d win. Not every hand, but most nights, Newman walked away ahead.

Redford, on the other hand, seemed to have terrible luck. He’d fold too early, bet too conservatively, miss obvious tells.

“You’re playing too safe,” Newman would tell him. “You gotta take risks. That’s what Sundance would do.”

After three weeks of shooting, Newman had won probably $2,000 off Redford. It became a running joke on set.

“There goes Redford funding Newman’s retirement,” the crew would laugh.

Redford would laugh, too, shrug it off. “I’m a terrible card player,” he’d say. “Always have been.”

Chapter Two: The Quiet Observer

But what nobody noticed—what Newman certainly didn’t notice—was that the script supervisor, a sharp woman named Meta Rebner, was paying attention. And what Meta saw didn’t match what everyone believed.

She saw Redford’s hands, the way he’d glance at his cards, the micro-expressions on his face, the deliberate timing of his folds. Meta had grown up in Las Vegas. Her father had been a dealer at the Sands for twenty years. She knew poker, and she knew when someone was playing badly on purpose.

By the fourth week, Meta was certain: Robert Redford was throwing the games. Not obviously, not every hand, but enough to make sure Paul Newman stayed ahead. Enough to keep Newman’s ego fed and his mood light.

She didn’t tell anyone. It wasn’t her place. But she did do something else. She told the camera crew to keep one camera rolling during the poker games.

“B-roll,” she told them. “Background material. George might want it for texture.”

The crew shrugged and did it—a 16mm camera on a tripod in the corner, just running, capturing hours and hours of the poker games. And in that footage, if you knew what to look for, you could see it: the tells, Redford deliberately folding strong hands, letting Newman win with weak ones. It was subtle, beautiful—a masterclass in controlled losing.

Chapter Three: Why Lose?

But why? Why would Redford do this?

Meta watched him for days, trying to understand. And then she figured it out.

Paul Newman needed to win. Not in an ugly way, not in a toxic, controlling way. But Newman was carrying the entire production on his shoulders. He was the star. The studio had bet everything on him. The pressure was enormous. Every night, he’d go back to his trailer and call his wife Joanne Woodward, stressed about the dailies, worried about the chemistry with Redford, anxious about whether the film was working.

But when Newman won at poker, his whole demeanor changed. He’d relax. He’d joke around. He’d be loose and playful for the next day’s scenes. The poker games were his pressure valve, and Redford had figured that out. So, he gave Newman what he needed. He took care of his co-star the only way he knew how—by losing.

On October 12th, 1968, they wrapped principal photography. The poker games ended. Newman had won about $4,000 total off Redford over eight weeks. Redford never asked for it back, never mentioned it.

Chapter Four: The Mistake That Changed Everything

The film moved into post-production. Newman flew back to Los Angeles for editing. A month later, he was in the screening room at 20th Century Fox, watching the rough cut with director George Roy Hill.

The film was good—better than good. The chemistry between him and Redford was electric. The script crackled.

“We might have something here,” George said.

Newman nodded. He felt it, too.

They were about to wrap for the day when the projectionist made his mistake. The wrong reel started playing. Instead of the next scene, it was B-roll footage. Behind-the-scenes material.

“Sorry, wrong reel,” the projectionist called out.

“Skip it,” George said.

But Newman held up his hand. “Wait, what is this?”

It was the poker games footage Meta had commissioned. Hours of it, now edited down into a rough montage. Newman and Redford playing cards, talking between hands, the easy camaraderie that had developed over eight weeks.

“I didn’t know we had this,” George said. “Meta must have shot it as atmosphere.”

They watched for a few minutes. Newman was smiling, seeing himself win hand after hand. “I cleaned him out,” Newman said, laughing.

But then something on screen caught his eye. A moment in week five—a hand of five-card stud. Newman had a pair of tens showing. Redford had a queen and a jack. Newman bet big, confident his hidden cards gave him three of a kind. Redford looked at his cards for a long moment. And in that moment, the camera shooting from the side caught something: Redford’s cards. He had a straight—queen, jack, 10, 9, 8. He had Newman beat dead to rights. And Redford folded.

“Too rich for my blood,” Redford said on the footage, pushing his cards away.

Newman raked in the pot, grinning. But now, watching it in the screening room, Newman saw what the camera had caught: Redford’s cards, face up for a split second as he folded the straight. The winning hand he’d thrown away.

Newman sat up straighter. “Wait, did he just fold a straight?”

George Roy Hill leaned forward. “I think he did.”

“Run it back,” Newman said.

The projectionist rewound. They watched again, clearer this time. Redford absolutely had the winning hand, and he’d folded it like it was nothing.

Newman’s mind started racing. How many times did this happen?

Meta Rebner, who was in the screening room taking notes, spoke up quietly.

“A lot.”

Newman turned to her. “What do you mean, a lot?”

Meta hesitated. Then she told him, “Bob was throwing the games, Paul. Not all of them, but enough. He’s actually a very good poker player. He was just letting you win.”

Newman stared at her. “Why would he do that?”

Meta chose her words carefully. “I think he knew you needed to win. I think he saw how much pressure you were under. And I think he decided that losing a few hundred was a small price to pay to keep his co-star happy.”

The screening room was quiet. George Roy Hill was watching Newman’s face, seeing the emotions play across it—confusion, realization, something that looked like being deeply moved.

“Show me the rest,” Newman said.

For the next forty-five minutes, they watched the poker montage. Once you knew what to look for, it was obvious. Redford throwing strong hands, making bad bets with good cards, setting up situations where Newman would win.

“Not every time—just enough.”

“Jesus Christ,” Newman whispered. “He played me for eight weeks. He played all of us.”

George Roy Hill started laughing, not mockingly, but with genuine appreciation.

“That might be the best performance in the whole damn movie. And it’s not even in the movie.”

Newman didn’t laugh. He was too busy realizing what Redford had done. This kid, this young actor who Newman had been treating like a student. He’d been taking care of him the entire shoot, protecting his ego, managing his stress, making sure the star of the film stayed loose and confident.

Newman stood up. “I need to call Bob.”

“It’s two in the morning on the East Coast,” George said. Redford was in New York doing press.

“I don’t care,” Newman said.

He went to the office, picked up the phone, and dialed Redford’s hotel. It took six rings, but Redford finally answered, voice groggy with sleep.

“Hello.”

“You son of a—” Newman said.

Redford was instantly awake. “Paul, what’s wrong?”

“I just watched the poker footage. All of it.”

There was a long pause, then Redford’s voice, careful. “Okay, you threw those games. You let me win.”

Another pause. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Redford sighed. “Because you needed to win, Paul. You were carrying the whole movie. The pressure was killing you. I could see it, and I figured if losing a few hundred bucks in poker kept you loose and happy, that was the cheapest acting lesson I’d ever get.”

Newman felt his throat tighten. “You’re telling me you spent eight weeks managing my emotional state through card games?”

“I spent eight weeks playing Sundance,” Redford said. “And Sundance takes care of Butch. That’s the whole movie. That’s the whole point. You think I was going to let my partner walk into a shootout alone?”

Newman sat down, the phone pressed to his ear. “I treated you like a rookie. Like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“You taught me a lot,” Redford said. “But I also taught you something. You just didn’t know I was teaching it.”

“What did you teach me?” Newman asked.

“That partnership is more important than ego,” Redford said. “That winning isn’t always about being the best. Sometimes it’s about making your partner better. You were the star, Paul. But I made sure you stayed a star. That was my job. Not just in front of the camera—behind it, too.”

Newman was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “You know what the crazy thing is? I thought I was the one taking care of you.”

Redford laughed. “We were taking care of each other, Paul. That’s what partners do. You just didn’t realize I was doing my part.”

“Keep the money, Newman.”

“What?”

“The $4,000. Keep it. You earned it. Hell, you earned ten times that for what you did. I don’t want your money, Paul,” Redford said. “I wanted us to make a good movie. I wanted us to become friends. Mission accomplished on both counts.”

Newman smiled. “We’re going to work together again. You know that.”

“Yeah, right. I hope so,” Redford said. “But next time we’re playing poker for real, and I’m taking all your money.”

“Deal,” Newman said. “But I’m warning you, I’ve learned a few things.”

“So have I,” Redford said.

They talked for another hour—about the movie, about acting, about what it means to be a partner. When Newman finally hung up, he sat in the office for a long time, thinking about what had just happened.

Chapter Five: The Legacy of Invisible Kindness

The next day, Newman called Meta Rebner.

“That poker footage—don’t use it in the movie, but keep it safe. I want a copy.”

“Planning to blackmail Bob?” Meta asked, joking.

“No,” Newman said, “planning to watch it every time I forget what a real friend looks like.”

Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid was released in September 1969. It became one of the biggest hits of the year. Newman and Redford’s chemistry was praised universally.

“Sir, they’re like brothers,” critics wrote. “You believe they’d die for each other.”

They weren’t wrong.

The poker footage stayed private for decades. It became a legend among the crew who’d been there.

“Did you hear what Redford did?” They’d tell younger filmmakers. “Our kid threw poker games for eight weeks to keep Newman happy. That’s partnership.”

Newman and Redford worked together twice more—The Sting in 1973, an even bigger hit, and various smaller projects over the years. But their friendship—that was the real legacy. For fifty years, until Newman’s death in 2008, they remained close.

In 2007, a year before Newman died, he was interviewed for a documentary about his career. The interviewer asked, “What’s your favorite memory from all your films?”

Newman thought for a moment, then smiled. “Losing at poker to Robert Redford. Except I wasn’t really losing. I just didn’t know it yet.”

The interviewer was confused. Newman explained the whole story—the poker games, the thrown hands, Meta’s footage, the 2 a.m. phone call.

“What did that teach you?” the interviewer asked.

Newman’s eyes were wet. “It taught me that the best performances happen off camera. Bob spent eight weeks giving me the greatest gift an actor can give another actor. He made me feel like a king so I could play my part like one. That’s not technique. That’s love. And I didn’t even realize it was happening. That’s how good he was.”

Epilogue: The Final Hand

When Newman died in September 2008, Robert Redford spoke at the funeral. He told the poker story publicly for the first time.

“Paul called me at two in the morning,” Redford said, “accusing me of throwing poker games. And I said, ‘Yeah, I did, because that’s what partners do.’ And Paul said, ‘I love you, you son of a bitch.’ And I said, ‘I love you, too.’”

That was their relationship—taking care of each other when the other didn’t even know they needed it.

The story of what the crew filmed on the Butch Cassidy set reminds us that the best kindness is invisible. That partnership isn’t about winning or losing. It’s about making your partner better, even when they don’t know you’re doing it.

Robert Redford could have crushed Paul Newman at poker, could have taken his money, proved he was the better player. But he understood something deeper: his job wasn’t to win. His job was to make sure Paul Newman felt like he could win at everything.