Universal Studios, Stage 12, October 1973. The Sting was 3 weeks into production, and the entire crew had gathered for Robert Redford’s big dramatic monologue. 60 people, cameras rolling, dead silence. Redford stood under the hot lights, script in hand, took a deep breath, and began reading. There once was a man from Nantucket.

The room exploded. Redford’s face went from confusion to shock to realization in 3 seconds. Paul Newman standing behind the camera was doubled over laughing. What Newman had done to that script was about to become the most legendary prank in Hollywood history. But to understand why Newman did this, you need to go back three years to another set to the moment their friendship became a war.

1969, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had just finished filming in Utah. Two Hollywood legends had spent six months together in the desert, and something strange had happened. They’d become best friends, but not the normal kind of friends, the kind who declared war on each other. It started innocently enough.

 Newman had placed a small spider in Redford’s cowboy boot between takes. Redford, putting on the boot without looking, felt something move. The scream that followed echoed across the entire set. Newman’s laugh could be heard from 300 yards away. Most people would have been angry. Redford saw an opportunity. 3 days later, Newman opened his trailer to find every single item of furniture had been bolted to the ceiling.

 Chairs, table, lamp, everything upside down. Newman stood there for a full minute processing what he was seeing. Then he started laughing. Then he started planning. George Roy Hill, the director of both Butch Cassidy and The Sting, watched this escalation with growing concern. These were two of the biggest stars in Hollywood.

 They were supposed to be professional. They were supposed to be focused. Instead, they were acting like 12y olds. Bob Hill said to Redford one day during Butch Cassidy, “You realize this is going to get worse, right? You two are going to end up burning down a set.” Redford just smiled. George, relax. It’s harmless fun. But Hill knew better.

 He’d worked with Newman before. He knew that Newman didn’t do harmless fun. Newman did complete psychological warfare disguised as harmless fun. And Hill was right. By the time the Sting started production in 1973, the prank war had reached legendary status. Everyone on the crew knew about it. Everyone had taken sides.

 Some were team Newman, betting on his creativity. Others were team Redford, impressed by his patience and planning. But nobody, not even Hill, knew what Newman was planning for October 15th, 1973. The day started normally. Redford arrived at stage 12 at 6:00 a.m., 2 hours before call time. He liked to prepare for big scenes in silence, going over his lines, getting into character.

This particular scene was crucial. His character, Johnny Hooker, had a dramatic courtroom monologue, three pages of dense dialogue, the emotional climax of the second act. Redford had been working on it for 2 weeks. He’d memorized every word, every pause, every inflection. He was ready.

 What he didn’t know was that Paul Newman had been in his trailer at 500 a.m. that morning. Newman had a key. He’d borrowed it from a production assistant weeks earlier, telling her he needed to leave a birthday present for Redford. The production assistant, starruck and eager to help, had handed it over without question. Newman led himself into Redford’s trailer, found the revised script pages that had been delivered the night before, and went to work. He had a portable typewriter.

 He had paper that perfectly matched the production script paper. And he had 30 minutes before anyone would arrive. He typed quickly, three pages, every word. But not the words Redford had memorized. Not the dramatic monologue that would make audiences cry. Something else entirely. Newman’s hands were shaking from suppressed laughter as he typed.

 Twice he had to stop and compose himself, afraid he’d wake someone. When he finished, he carefully replaced Redford’s script pages with his own. Identical page numbers, identical formatting, indistinguishable at first glance. Then he left the trailer, returned the key to the production assistant with a warm thank you, and went to get coffee.

 Acting completely normal, like he hadn’t just planted a bomb that would detonate in 3 hours. At 8:30 a.m., Redford entered his trailer to pick up his script. He flipped through the pages. Everything looked normal. Director’s notes in the margin, same as always. He tucked the script under his arm and headed to makeup. Newman saw him walking across the lot, made brief eye contact, nodded.

 Redford nodded back. Newman had to physically turn away to keep from laughing. By 10:00 a.m., stage 12 was ready. The courtroom set was massive, detailed, perfect. 60 crew members were in position. Cameras were locked and loaded. George Roy Hill sat in his director’s chair going over the shot list. This was an important scene.

 They needed to get it right. Redford walked onto the set. Newman was already there, sitting off to the side. His scene wouldn’t be filmed until later, but he’d come to watch to support his friend. “You ready for this?” Newman asked, his voice perfectly casual. “Been ready for two weeks,” Redford replied, holding up his script. Newman smiled.

 “I have no doubt.” Hill called for quiet on set. “All right, everyone. This is a big one. Bob’s been preparing like crazy for this. 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. 60 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 whose script was replaced by a Redford stopped. His eyes scanned ahead on the page. His face changed. Confusion first, then disbelief. Then, as he read further, a slow smile started to spread. The crew was frozen. They had no idea what was happening. 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, looked directly at Newman, made eye contact. Newman’s face was red from suppressed laughter, tears streaming down his face, and then 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, his voice 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 3 in 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 had dropped her clipboard and was gasping for air. and Newman. Newman was on the floor, literally on the ground, 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. 60 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. But the story doesn’t end there.

 3 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. But here’s what most people don’t understand about the Newman Redford prank war.

 It wasn’t about winning. It was about something much 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. 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. And 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 of Redford performing There Once Was a Man from Nantucket with full dramatic intensity while 60 people lost their minds. Every few years at private screenings for cast and crew reunions, someone would pull it out and every time it would bring down the house.

 In 2008, shortly before his death, Paul Newman was asked about his favorite memory from his entire career. The reporter expected him to mention Coolhand Luke or The Hustler or one of his Oscar nominations. Instead, Newman smiled. October 15th, 1973, stage 12. Watching Bob Redford perform a limick 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 stories, 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 limrich. That’s love. That’s friendship. That’s everything. 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 limick about Nantucket. Not because it’s mature, not because it’s professional, but because it’s human. And because 20 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? Have you ever done something ridiculous just to see someone you love smile? Let us know in the comments. If this story reminded you that the best relationships are built on stupid jokes and genuine laughter, make sure to subscribe for more untold stories of Hollywood’s greatest friendships. H.

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