Paul Newman

Os mais belos olhos azuis da história do cinema

Paul Newman: clássico & moderno

Reportagem de Patricia Bosworth para a Vanity Fair de Setembro de 2008

Paul Newman

Whether Paul Newman was playing the villain or the hero, Americans were smitten with his rugged good looks, his wry wit, and those blue, blue eyes. By Nate Cutler/Globe Photos.

The Newman Chronicles

Paul Newman saw his movie-stardom as a trap and worked to find his way around it—to keep fame from corroding his life. He succeeded beyond measure, as a distinguished actor, award-winning director, dedicated philanthropist, entrepreneur, political activist, racecar driver, and loving husband and father. As rumors swirl about the 83-year-old icon’s health, the author replays critical moments—some witnessed firsthand, others from Newman’s friends and colleagues—in a five-decade trajectory, gauging the unique impact of this remarkably private, deeply honorable man.

by Patricia Bosworth September 2008

Movie star Paul Newman has quietly turned over the entire value of his ownership in Newman’s Own—the company that makes salad dressings and cookies—to charity. Completed over a two-year period in 2005 and 2006, the amount of his donations to Newman’s Own Foundation Inc. comes to an astounding $120 million. This is unprecedented for any movie star or anyone from what we call Hollywood. Of course, Newman and actress wife Joanne Woodward have never been Hollywood types.—Fox News, June 11, 2008.

Earlier, the tabloids had been filled with rumors that Newman was dying from cancer, that he had had an operation on one of his lungs, that he was an outpatient at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, in New York City. Newman has always been a scrupulously private man (with a renowned sense of humor). When asked what he was being treated for, the actor retorted, “Athlete’s foot and hair loss.” The fact remains that he looks frail and thin. His neighbors in Westport, Connecticut, are worried about him, but Paul Newman, neither confirming nor denying reports about his health, tells us (through his spokesperson) that he’s “doing nicely.”


Newman at the Actors Studio, New York City, 1955. By Eve Arnold/Magnum Photos

Newman at the Actors Studio, New York City, 1955. By Eve Arnold/Magnum Photos

There has never been anyone in show business like Paul Newman. He is as famous as Oprah but doesn’t flaunt his celebrity. He has changed the lives of literally thousands of people (among them more than 100,000 children) with his generosity, and he’s entertained us and moved us with his films. He is an honorable man—“a man of conscience,” his friend Gore Vidal said. If Newman doesn’t want to tell us about his cancer (if he has cancer), why should he? As he has said so often about his private life, “It’s nobody’s business.”

Eighty-three-year-old Paul Newman has given so many interviews and been the subject of so many articles, books, TV documentaries, and Ph.D. studies that it’s not possible to write another piece without drawing from some of these myriad sources. For the past several months I have waded through mounds of research, marked countless pithy Newman quotes, and sat and talked with his friends and colleagues. What follows is, for lack of a better word, a tribute to this singular artist and philanthropist. It’s a kind of Newman collage, highlighting some of the most memorable incidents in this remarkable man’s unique existence.

I would like to start off with something Newman wrote about himself—applying that sharp wit of his—in Shameless Exploitation in Pursuit of the Common Good, the book he published with longtime friend and business partner A. E. Hotchner, the Hemingway biographer, in 2003:

Paul Newman (known as ol’ PL to both friends and enemies): The “L” stands for “Leonard” or “Lunkhead.” He answers to both. He is probably best known for his spectacularly successful food conglomerate. In addition to giving the profits to charity, he also ran Frank Sinatra out of the spaghetti-sauce business. On the downside, the spaghetti sauce is outgrossing his films. He did graduate from Kenyon College magna cum lager and in the process begat a laundry business, which was the only student-run enterprise on Main Street. Yale University later awarded him an Honorary Doctorate of Humane Letters for unknown reasons. He has won four Sports Car Club of America National Championships and is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as the oldest driver (70) to win a professionally sanctioned race (24 Hours of Daytona, 1995). He is married to the best actress on the planet, was number 19 on Nixon’s enemies list, and purely by accident has fifty-one films and four Broadway plays to his credit. He is generally considered by professionals to be the worst fisherman on the East Coast.

Newman has one of the most recognizable faces in the world, thanks to his 60-some films and the labels on the 100-plus Newman’s Own products that bear his name, but, even so, he’s managed to remain elusive and mysterious—and guard his privacy.

As screenwriter William Goldman, who wrote Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, told Time, “I don’t think Paul Newman really thinks he is Paul Newman in his head.” In many ways this is because Newman has striven to be anyone but “Paul Newman” over the course of his life.

He is more than a distinguished actor. He’s also an award-winning director, a champ racecar driver, a committed political activist, and, for the past 20 years, a truly amazing philanthropist. Newman credits his unparalleled success in so many areas to what he calls “Newman’s luck.” (He has always attributed his great good fortune to a series of “lucky breaks.”) “It’s allowed me to take chances, to take risks,” he has said. “To get close to a lot of edges without falling off.”

Walk-Stepping with Marilyn

Born in 1925, in Cleveland, Ohio, to a prosperous sporting-goods-store owner named Arthur Newman, Paul was raised, with older brother Arthur junior, by their mother, Theresa (a great cook), to be polite, read books, and appreciate music. Idealism and the Golden Rule came naturally to Paul, as did a taste for beer and a love of practical jokes.

He joined the navy during World War II (the war America believed in), and it was while he was in the Pacific serving as a radioman (after being dropped from flight-training school because he was color-blind) on a torpedo plane that he experienced his first brush with “Newman’s luck.” One afternoon his aircraft was grounded because the pilot he regularly flew with had an ear problem. The rest of his squadron was transferred to another aircraft carrier, which was subsequently hit by a kamikaze, killing the members of his team.

After the war he received a B.A. from Kenyon College, in Gambier, Ohio—but not before he had drunk a great deal of beer, gotten into a brawl, and been thrown off the football team. “No great loss,” he told Rolling Stone. “I was one of the worst football players in the history of Kenyon.” With all this new free time he auditioned for a play. By the time he graduated, he had acted in around a dozen and had written, directed, and starred in a musical.

When his father died, in 1950, Newman dutifully ran the family sporting-goods store, in Shaker Heights, Ohio, but after less than a year he sold the business and moved east with his first wife, Jackie Witte, and their baby son, Scott. He wanted to act.

He had so many opportunities (such as going to Yale Drama School and being discovered by a top talent agent), but just as important was his brand of good luck. He always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.

However, what’s so inspiring about his life and career is how much he has accomplished with this luck. He has used it to transform himself, events, and the culture over and over. What’s even more remarkable is that it never seemed to occur to him not to do this.

The first time I saw Paul Newman he was dancing with Marilyn Monroe. It was the summer of 1959 at a noisy Actors Studio party in New York’s Greenwich Village. I had just passed my audition and was being introduced to everyone as a new member by the Broadway producer Cheryl Crawford, one of the Studio’s heads.

Nobody was paying me much attention—understandably, since they were all watching a barefoot Marilyn, in a skintight black dress, undulate around the living room with Newman, lithe and sinewy in chinos and T-shirt.

They seemed to be dancing with such rapture; they both kept changing rhythms and sometimes they walk-stepped to the beat. They didn’t dance for very long—maybe three minutes—but what a hot, pulsing three minutes it was! They broke apart, Marilyn gave a giggle and a curtsy, and Newman bowed and moved directly past me through the crowd to get a beer.

That’s when I saw that rugged, chiseled, gorgeous face of his close up and breathed in his coolly seductive presence and beheld—I have to say it—those penetrating, unsettling blue, blue eyes.

Newman and actress Joanne Woodward share a laugh in their Beverly Hills home in 1958, the year they were married. By Sid Avery/

Everybody knew he had auditioned for On the Waterfrontthe role went to Marlon Brando – and tested with James Dean to play his brother in East of Eden. During the screen test they had improvised, and Dean murmured, “Kiss me!” Newman whispered back, “Can’t here,” and then they broke up laughing. (Richard Davalos would play the part.)

By then Newman had appeared in many live TV shows and on Broadway in Picnic and The Desperate Hours, where he played a vicious escaped convict. I watched him from the audience and thought he was amazing. I saw him in movies too, in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, for one, as the sulky, drunken Brick opposite Liz Taylor (a role that earned him his first Oscar nomination).

Newman and Woodward outside their Greenwich Village house, circa 1960. By Time Life Pictures/Pix Inc./Getty Images.

Newman and Woodward outside their Greenwich Village house, circa 1960. By Time Life Pictures/Pix Inc./Getty Images.

He won the 1958 best-actor award at Cannes for his performance as the seductive drifter Ben Quick in The Long, Hot Summer. His second wife, Joanne Woodward, whom he had just married, starred opposite him. Woodward was a member of the Actors Studio, too. She was 28—a slender, lovely blonde with a slight southern drawl. It was said she possessed a genius I.Q. Newman doted on her. After class they were sometimes seen walking hand in hand down West 44th Street. They seemed very much in love.

In 1959 he was back on Broadway starring in Tennessee Williams’s Sweet Bird of Youth opposite Geraldine Page. Elia Kazan, who was directing, made Newman tint his hair red and shave his hairline so he would look more like a predatory gigolo. Kazan also tried to break his new movie-star cockiness by telling the rest of the cast not to speak to him during rehearsal. “It worked,” Newman would later say. “I felt like shit.”

A bronzed Newman relaxes in the sun, April 1962. By Gene Lesser/Globe Photos.

A bronzed Newman relaxes in the sun, April 1962. By Gene Lesser/Globe Photos.

Every Tuesday and Friday, Newman showed up at the Actors Studio for class. He was bowled over by the creative diversity of the place—from the gnarled ancient actress Tamara Dakahanova, who had worked with Konstantin Stanislavsky at the Moscow Art Theatre, to Martin Ritt, a Group Theatre alum who would later direct Newman in six movies, including Hud. Newman would always credit the Studio as the major influence on his acting. “[It] was fabulous in those days,” he told Rolling Stone. He would watch Eli Wallach, Anne Jackson, Kim Stanley, and Geraldine Page work on scenes. “I learned so much,” he’d say. Years later, when he was president of the Actors Studio, in the 1980s, Newman would talk to us members about what good acting is—“not acting. It’s reacting. You gotta be in the moment,” he would say, “and always ask yourself the key questions an actor asks: Who am I? What am I doing here? Where am I going as the character?”

In character as rancher Hud Bannon, Newman leans against the tail fin of a pink 1958 Cadillac during the filming of Martin Ritt’s 1963 classic, Hud. By Bradley Smith/Corbis.

In character as rancher Hud Bannon, Newman leans against the tail fin of a pink 1958 Cadillac during the filming of Martin Ritt’s 1963 classic, Hud. By Bradley Smith/Corbis.

The summer of 1959 we were all engrossed in the project actor Michael Strong was developing in class—Chekhov’s comic monologue On the Harmfulness of Tobacco. Newman liked what he saw so much he decided to film it, and he shot it in five days in the auditorium of the Orpheum Theatre, on Second Avenue. Later there was a screening for the public.

In the biography Paul Newman, by Daniel O’Brien, Newman explained, “I did that as an exercise for myself … I did it to see whether I could handle a camera and direct actors.” He didn’t think it had turned out that well, but The New York Times gave it a good review. He thought maybe he would direct and produce someday.

Jack Garfein, another talented young Studio director, then married to Carroll Baker (a huge hit in Baby Doll), became friends with Newman. The two of them would go to a diner on West 44th Street after class and sit with other actors to talk shop. “What a sweet, decent guy Paul was,” Garfein remembers. “Yes, he was ambitious, but you got the feeling he’d never tolerate cruelty. And that he’d stand up for you if you needed protection.”

Newman and Woodward happily display cement-covered hands after leaving their prints in the forecourt of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, May 1963. From Bettmann/Corbis.

Newman and Woodward happily display cement-covered hands after leaving their prints in the forecourt of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, May 1963. From Bettmann/Corbis.

Going Incognito

In the ensuing years he would star in more pictures: Exodus, From the Terrace, Paris Blues. At this point he was considered the most beautiful man in the movies. But Newman always thought his good looks were a terrible curse, so he kept trying to find roles as far away from his own persona as possible, roles where he could “crawl out of my own skin” and create genuine character studies, such as the driven, ambitious pool shark Fast Eddie in Robert Rossen’s The Hustler or the sardonic, mocking title character of Hud, one of his most celebrated roles, in the movie that made him a superstar.

Woodward and Newman swing, 60s style, at home, 1965. By Fotos International/Getty Images.

Woodward and Newman swing, 60s style, at home, 1965. By Fotos International/Getty Images.

I remember going to see Hud in 1963, the day it opened, with some Studio friends. The theater was jammed, and we all cheered and laughed at Newman, who was so full of energy and wit as the nihilistic heel—the swaggering cowboy who wants all the good things in life and to hell with everybody else! (Incidentally, the scenes of sexual byplay and banter that Newman and Patricia Neal have in the kitchen at Hud’s ranch are lessons in the art of screen acting.)

Hud was an enormous hit, but Newman seemed surprised at the public for liking and seeming to approve of Hud’s unsavory character. “I think [Hud] was misunderstood, especially by the kids … ” he would argue. “He doesn’t give a shit about anything except himself.” However, it was Newman audiences were responding to. To his innate sweetness and honesty. He had such extraordinary audience rapport that they refused to believe Hud could be that selfish, and if he was—so what? They rather enjoyed it.

Taking a break on the set of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Newman plays ping-pong with co-star Robert Redford, 1969. From the Everett Collection.

Taking a break on the set of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Newman plays ping-pong with co-star Robert Redford, 1969. From the Everett Collection.

Now he was earning more than a million dollars a picture and getting a hefty percent of the profits. But the level of Newman’s fame at this point was so huge it was affecting his entire family (which consisted, by now, of his son, Scott, and two daughters, Susan and Stephanie, with Jackie Witte, and three daughters, Melissa, Nell, and Clea, with Joanne Woodward).

After he made Harper (where he played a sexy gum-chewing detective), in 1966, women starting coming after him in droves. Whenever he appeared in public with Woodward and the children, admirers would literally shove past the kids to get a closer look at Newman.

Newman in character as bicycle-riding rogue Butch Cassidy. From Twentieth Century Fox Film Corp./Photofest.

Newman in character as bicycle-riding rogue Butch Cassidy. From Twentieth Century Fox Film Corp./Photofest.

Woodward rarely commented on the marriage, but has been known to say that it’s hard to live with “Sam Superstar” (one of her many pet names for him). She admitted it was difficult to relate to this superstar, since this superstar had nothing to do with her husband. They had homes in Los Angeles and New York, but Newman preferred the secluded house they owned in Westport, by the Aspetuck River.

In public he began wearing disguises, even beards, and he always wore dark glasses, which he never took off, even when fans pleaded, “Oh, Paul, take off your dark glasses so we can see your blue eyes!” He would answer, “If I take off my glasses, my pants will fall down!” He stopped giving autographs: “I was standing at a urinal at Sardi’s,” he told Playboy, “and a guy came through the door with a piece of paper and a pen in his hand.… I wonder[ed], What do I do with my hands? Do I wash them first and then shake hands? Or do I shake hands and then wash up?” (Once, Newman went to the local ice-cream parlor in Westport to buy some Rocky Road. Customers gaped and sighed as he stood in line. He tried to ignore them but couldn’t resist turning to one woman, who seemed about ready to faint: “Lady, I think you should know you just put your ice-cream cone into your purse.”)

Steve McQueen, Newman, Barbra Streisand, and Sidney Poitier at a meeting for their own film-production company, First Artists, in 1972. © Bettmann/Corbis.

Steve McQueen, Newman, Barbra Streisand, and Sidney Poitier at a meeting for their own film-production company, First Artists, in 1972. © Bettmann/Corbis.

On location, women would stalk him, forcing him to keep changing hotels—he usually tried to stay in out-of-the-way places that didn’t have elevators, so that he could run up and down the stairs for exercise, something he would do until he was 80. He liked being in good shape. He did push-ups; he traveled with a portable sauna and would often soak his face in ice water or go swimming in a cold lake. But he would tell Maureen Dowd in a 1986 New York Times Magazine article, “There’s something very corrupting about being an actor—it places a terrible premium on appearance.”


Paul Newman filming in New York, 1956

Paul Newman in New York City during the filming of Somebody Up There Likes Me, 1956. By Sanford Roth/AMPAS/

“A True Labor of Love”

Sometime in 1964, Newman ran into Jack Garfein in L.A. Garfein was helping to organize Actors Studio West. “We needed money to rent a building, and I talked to Paul about it and showed him the place I’d found,” Garfein says. “He wrote a check for $20,000. We brought it over to the owner of the building, who told Paul, ‘I don’t know you, so I can’t accept your check.’ Paul thought this was hilarious, in view of the fact that he was so bugged by his celebrity. He’d been complaining to me that he would never be a serious actor, that he had always dreamt of performing the classics—Shakespeare, Shaw. His celebrity prevented him. I argued, ‘You can do Shakespeare at the Studio—that’s what this place is for,’ and he countered with ‘Oh yeah? People would come to see Paul Newman, superstar, as Hamlet—I don’t have the freedom to do what I want anymore.’ ”

He had to make some changes in his life. The turning point came in 1967, when he was 42. He decided to direct his first feature film, starring Woodward. Called Rachel, Rachel, it was the poignant story of a lonely, sexually frustrated spinster schoolteacher who finally gets involved with a man. The script was by Stewart Stern (best known for his Rebel Without a Cause screenplay), who was one of the Newmans’ closest friends.

The star-studded cast of the 1974 film The Towering Inferno included, from left, Steve McQueen, Robert Wagner, Faye Dunaway, William Holden, Jennifer Jones, Fred Astaire, Newman, Richard Chamberlain, Robert Vaughn, and O. J. Simpson. From Twentieth Century Fox Film Corp./Photofest.

The star-studded cast of the 1974 film The Towering Inferno included, from left, Steve McQueen, Robert Wagner, Faye Dunaway, William Holden, Jennifer Jones, Fred Astaire, Newman, Richard Chamberlain, Robert Vaughn, and O. J. Simpson. From Twentieth Century Fox Film Corp./Photofest.

“Paul put the production together in five weeks,” Stern recalls. “It cost about $700,000. He and Joanne didn’t take salaries. It was a true labor of love. Paul wanted to do it for Joanne.” (In a conversation about the film with Life magazine, in 1968, Newman said, “Joanne really gave up her career for me, to stick by me, to make the marriage work.”) Newman’s other reason to make the film, he told Playboy, was that it is about something that needs to be said. “It singles out the unspectacular heroism of the sort of person you wouldn’t even notice if you passed him on the street.… little people who cast no shadow and leave no footprints. Maybe it can encourage the people who see it to take those little steps in life that can lead to something bigger.… The point of the movie is that you’ve got to take the steps, regardless of the consequences.” Newman had prefaced these remarks by confiding that Rachel, Rachel “is probably more me than anything I’ve ever done.”

“I believe he was scared,” Stern adds, “scared people might be waiting for him to fall on his face and fail. He’d made such a huge reputation as a superstar, but he faced his fear and he faced up to the challenge. He liked to take risks. When he was directing, he didn’t have to be ‘Paul Newman.’ ”

Newman, making age 51 look good, in 1976. From A.P. Images.

Newman, making age 51 look good, in 1976. From A.P. Images.

It was summer when he filmed Rachel, Rachel. On set he wore shorts and a T-shirt, reinforcing the overall relaxed attitude. He surrounded himself with a cast of Actors Studio actors, including James Olson and Estelle Parsons (who was about to win an Oscar for her high-voltage performance in Bonnie and Clyde).

Parsons recalls how “Joanne and Paul were totally disciplined, caring, working together, collaborating with other people, always a sense of really caring about the actors—making time on the set valuable in terms of the crew being quiet, not distracting the actors. We were a real ensemble; we had three weeks of rehearsal first.” Parsons was playing Rachel’s only true friend: “I was a fellow teacher, a lonely lesbian. I had a scene where I kiss Joanne on the lips, and Paul said to me, ‘This is something that surprises you both.’ I thought, Why is he telling me that now? But suddenly I realized that it freed me to be this person.”

While principal photography was completed in six weeks, it took Newman another eight months to edit the film, with Dede Allen, the celebrated film editor (Reds, Bonnie and Clyde). There were many different cuts—he wanted it to be “perfect.” For a while the film didn’t seem to be working, and then suddenly everything came together. Stern remembers, “Joanne was absolute magic on the screen, and Paul cried.”

The only major disagreement Newman had during production was over his director credit. He was worried audiences would be distracted if his name was at the start of the film, so he opted for having it at the end. The Directors Guild rejected his request, arguing that its policy mandated that the credit appear at the beginning. Newman appealed to Elia Kazan and William Wyler. These two powerful directors were able to change the Guild’s mind.

Enjoying another of his passions, auto racing, Newman celebrates at Lime Rock Park racetrack, in Connecticut, July 1980. By Ron Galella/WireImage

Enjoying another of his passions, auto racing, Newman celebrates at Lime Rock Park racetrack, in Connecticut, July 1980. By Ron Galella/WireImage

In the midst of editing Rachel, Rachel, Newman decided to actively campaign for Eugene McCarthy, the Democratic senator from Minnesota, who had recently announced he would be a candidate for the presidency.

McCarthy was running for president, he said, because he saw “growing evidence of a deepening moral crisis in America” and he hoped to alleviate “this sense of political helplessness.” He never said he was doing it to run against Lyndon B. Johnson per se—he was only challenging the president’s position on Vietnam. Newman told Playboy, “I was so fed up with the present Administration that I couldn’t resist going to work for him It took guts to lay his cards on the table, to oppose a President who belonged to his own political party.”

Enjoying another of his passions, auto racing, Newman celebrates at Lime Rock Park racetrack, in Connecticut, July 1980. By Ron Galella/WireImage

Newman hawks his soon-to-be famous salad dressing, the first in the Newman’s Own line of products, in an early promotional shot from 1985. From Sipa Press.

Chicken Bones and Beer Bottles

It was January 1968, the start of the most turbulent 12 months of America’s post–World War II period. The country was still reeling from J.F.K.’s assassination, and there was the polarizing struggle over the Vietnam War. There were mass protests in the streets and on school campuses. Many 18-year-olds were burning their draft cards.

Newman was one of Hollywood’s biggest celebrity activists. He had supported the civil-rights movement from the very beginning, participating in sit-ins and demonstrations and giving money to Martin Luther King Jr. He joined Brando in Gadsden, Alabama, Ku Klux Klan country, and together they also traveled to Sacramento to protest at a whites-only housing development. As part of a select group of actors to take part in King’s March on Washington, Newman said in the O’Brien biography, “I think there’s too much fear of not speaking out … I’m proud I was there.”

“I was the one who convinced Paul to go to New Hampshire for McCarthy,” says Bobbie Handman, a political consultant and noted arts advocate, who was helping McCarthy with his campaign, which had only a skeleton crew.

Handman recalls how “Paul and Joanne would come over for dinner with talent agent Boaty Boatwright and actress Myrna Loy, and we’d sit in the kitchen talking politics.” She was in charge of “celebrities for Gene,” so “naturally I wanted Paul.”

Cool Hand Luke had just opened around the country to huge business—the Luke character, which Newman played to perfection, was a fierce and funny nonconformist, a rebel. The character connected with the counterculture—and with the public in general. Newman was a bigger star than ever, much to his discomfort.

Handman continues: “I kept saying to Joanne, ‘I really want Paul to go up to New Hampshire, but he won’t give me an answer,’ and Joanne would whisper, ‘Just keep calling him.’ So I phoned him every day for a week and he finally agreed.”

McCarthy had few supporters, save for some college students and anti-war activists. Newman flew up to the wilds of New Hampshire in the dead of winter. It was bitter cold when he arrived in the small city of Claremont, where he was picked up by Tony Podesta, a student from M.I.T. who was working on the campaign. (Today he is a well-known D.C. lobbyist.) According to Charles Kaiser’s 1968 in America, Podesta hoped “that there might be a few shoppers out that he could shake hands with.” When they got to the square there were hundreds of people waiting, what Podesta thought to be the entire population of the town: “Most of them were either middle-aged women or teenaged kids, and all of them had decided they wanted to walk away from that day with a piece of Paul Newman’s clothing.”

After rushing through the unruly crowd, hiding in a barbershop, and sneaking out a back door, Newman told those gathered, “I didn’t come here to help Gene McCarthy. I need McCarthy’s help. The country needs it.”

“Paul turned the tide for McCarthy,” Handman says. “Paul put him on the map—he started getting national coverage by the press. He started being taken seriously.”

What happened next is recorded history. The Vietcong’s Tet offensive began January 31, 1968, shattering America’s illusions—proving that the war could not be won as Johnson had been saying. He had lied.

McCarthy did very well in New Hampshire, and then Robert F. Kennedy announced he was running for president. Two weeks later President Johnson quit the race. Newman continued to campaign for McCarthy—he went on radio and TV, and every weekend that spring saw him in Wisconsin, Indiana, or Nebraska.

For the Wisconsin primary he hung out in Polish pool halls. Podesta, who was traveling with Newman, said in Ronald Brownstein’s The Power and the Glitter, “Once we figured out what was going on here, we began to advance him harder than we advanced the candidate.” Newman traveled to Lake County, Indiana. “He got into the airport at 8:30 [a.m.]; he did nine stops before lunch. We picked him up in a station wagon with a flap-down back, and had four guys, plus a driver We’d pull up to a street corner in Gary, wherever. The four guys would come out of the car, lock arms around the car, flip the back down and he’d get up and give a little talk. There’d be four hundred people there, five hundred people there, at 10 a.m. in the middle of downtown Gary There wasn’t anybody who had the kind of electricity Newman did. We didn’t get those kinds of crowds for McCarthy.”

Once at the airport, in order to avoid a stampede, Podesta tried offering the crowd chicken bones and beer bottles that had touched Paul’s lips in exchange for their staying off the tarmac. However, Newman’s leftovers provided more than just crowd control. To compete with the Kennedy dynasty, Podesta remembered, he was “auctioning off things [Newman] had touched, and doing a little fund-raising in that way.”

McCarthy lost the nomination in 1968, in spite of strong showings in a number of primaries. Newman was later urged by friend and fellow Democrat Gore Vidal to run for Congress. Though flattered, Newman kindly dismissed the idea, stating, “I don’t have the arrogance, and I don’t have the credentials.” But through the years he continued to act on his political beliefs, supporting the Center for the Study of Democratic Institutions.

It continued to be a very busy year. Rachel, Rachel opened to tremendous reviews. Newman won the best-director award from the New York Film Critics Circle; Woodward was nominated for an Oscar, as was Estelle Parsons.

Newman attends the premiere of Martin Scorsese’s The Age of Innocence, September 1993. By Rick Maiman/Corbis Sygma.

Newman attends the premiere of Martin Scorsese’s The Age of Innocence, September 1993. By Rick Maiman/Corbis Sygma.

Birth of the Buddy Picture

Newman had always been fascinated by cars and was a big racing fan, attending the Indianapolis 500 every Memorial Day. Starring in Winning, a movie about the Grand Prix, seemed like a no-brainer. He and Robert Wagner would play rival racecar drivers. They attended driving school—for a mere two weeks—to learn how to handle a racecar. Newman was a natural at it. He insisted on doing all his own driving during filming, much to Universal’s concern—and Woodward’s too. But, Newman said, “it was just sensational for me to be able to drive the big stuff … I got ‘stoned’ on automobiles … it’s a natural high.” By the end of filming he was hooked. “It’s the one thing that I can be genuinely adolescent about,” he said.

So much of why he loved racing was because he could hang around the track with the other drivers and be “one of the guys.” They didn’t treat him like a movie star, yet they were very protective of him—no photographers allowed, no press, no fans. Eventually he arranged his schedule so he could spend six months a year racing and six months making movies—and more movies.

And then came Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

It’s probably Newman’s best-loved film, maybe because it embodies the late 1960s Zeitgeist of outlaws as cultural heroes—living legends (just as Robert Redford and Newman were sure to become) who are cool, gorgeous, and forever wisecracking, even at the end, when they are trapped by the law and badly wounded. Butch jokes, “I got a great idea where we should go next.… Australia,” just before they are killed by a rain of bullets.

I remember having dinner in a West Side restaurant with Newman, Gore Vidal, and Boaty Boatwright not long after the movie opened. During our meal the chef came bolting out of the kitchen crying, “Mr. Newman! I have to tell you something. I have seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid 14 times!”

Newman stared at him as if he were crazy. “Why?” he asked in his husky, gravelly voice. “Why?

“Because it makes me feel good!”

Precisely. When Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid opened, in October of 1969, it was like a breath of fresh, clean air wafting through the country. America was sick of Vietnam and assassinations and violence in the streets. The public flocked to see this golden, bittersweet movie about two good-natured, self-mocking outlaws—best friends who want never to be separated. They run the Hole in the Wall Gang, a group of outlaws who rob banks until tighter security forces them to rob trains. They fail at that as well. The Wild West is dying, but they won’t admit it.

Their sometime companion is Etta Place, the beautiful schoolteacher (played by Katharine Ross) who is Sundance’s lover but whom Butch likes, too—a lot—but it doesn’t really matter because the woman in this movie is incidental. (Newman once remarked, “I don’t think people realize what that picture was all about. It’s a love affair between two men.”)

I had lunch with William Goldman recently, and he told me he had worked on the Butch Cassidy screenplay for six years. “I was fascinated by those characters. I don’t know why they hadn’t been written about before—they were real people, very well documented I wanted to tell the story of these two guys who dreamt of repeating their past—like Gatsby. But they in fact did recapture the past, which is what I found so moving about the narrative. We all wish we could do that, make that happen.”

During the filming the cast and crew would have supper together. Newman would toss a big salad and then bring over a coffeepot filled with scotch and ice. Afterward, everybody would watch the dailies and Newman’s hands would sweat. “My hands always sweat when I watch the rushes,” he later said.

As told in the O’Brien biography, Butch Cassidy’s sister, Lula Betenson (who was still living at the time), was asked by Twentieth Century Fox to endorse the film, but when she refused to provide a favorable quote without having seen the finished movie, Robert Redford persuaded Lula to plug the film unseen in return for a fee. (Lula eventually watched the movie.) When interviewed in Playboy years later, Redford mentioned Lula’s enthusiasm for Westerns and how she appreciated Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, because it captured what was missing from most Westerns—the feeling of fun.

Some major film critics dismissed the picture—the sense of fun the outlaws had was exactly what most of them objected to. Despite critics, Butch Cassidy went on to be a huge hit—by the spring of 1970 it had taken in $46 million in North America and grossed another $50 million abroad. Newman was jubilant. “I knew that [it] was going to be the biggest film I’d ever been in!” And Redford—who was relatively unknown when cast as Sundance—went on to become a major star. By the end of 1969, Newman was the No. 2 box-office draw, right behind John Wayne. At the Academy Awards, William Goldman, cinematographer Conrad Hall, and composer Burt Bacharach all won Oscars for their work on the film.

For the next 30 years, Newman and Redford kept trying to figure out a sequel, a new series—something to perpetuate this magical duo. (It goes without saying that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid became the archetypal buddy movie of the 1970s.) “Too bad they got killed,” Newman would say, “’cause those two guys could have gone on in films forever.”

However, Newman and Redford would re-team with Butch Cassidy director George Roy Hill on The Sting (1973), another huge hit, about con men during the Depression, and then Newman and Hill would work together again on Slap Shot (1977), set in the rough-and-tumble world of ice hockey. This film was one of Newman’s personal favorites. He trained for weeks at a rink near Norwalk, Connecticut, so he could whiz around the ice as Reggie the coach, skating his way to the championships, playing dirty hockey to the amazement of howling crowds.

“He gives the performance of his life—to date,” Pauline Kael wrote in The New Yorker. “Here his technique seems to have become instinct. You can feel his love of acting.” But Hill, according to the O’Brien biography, sensed Newman’s weariness during the 68-day shoot: “I think Paul is bored with acting. It’s too bad. He has the capacity to become a great actor.” While Newman, now 52, rarely watched his old films, he was still confronted by his fleeting youth as the media continued to publish photographs of him from The Hustler and Cool Hand Luke. Hill observed Paul’s ambivalence about his fame: “Being a celebrity is a process of dying, and that has been the hardest thing for Paul to cope with.”

Father and Son

All along, Newman protected his privacy and nurtured his family. Both he and Jackie Witte raised their three children with love and concern. The same held true with the three daughters he had with Woodward. She spent a great deal of time with her stepchildren too. The entire Newman clan was rarely photographed in public, but they did often vacation and travel together, again without publicity. But on occasion there were tensions. Newman admitted his relationship with Woodward was not always harmonious. There were arguments. “I’m all in favor of a good screaming free-for-all every two or three months,” he said in the 1988 biography Paul and Joanne, by Joe Morella and Edward Z. Epstein. “It clears the air, gets rid of old grievances and generally makes for a pleasant relationship. Joanne has a habit of rationalizing, and when she starts that, that’s when I turn ugly! But when she tells me what she instinctively feels, I pay very close attention.”

Newman didn’t spend as much time with his children as he wanted. He was so busy, “but when I am with them, I enjoy it,” he said. He has admitted he had very little patience. “[The kids] know that, and they try me. But at a given point, they flee in terror!”

He had special problems with Scott, an intense, handsome young man.

By 1974, Scott was working as an actor and stuntman, most recently on Newman’s latest movie, The Towering Inferno. He would occasionally rehearse scenes at the Actors Studio West.

Scott felt ambivalent about his father’s fame, maintaining that he didn’t know if people liked him for himself or because he was Paul Newman’s son. Newman would later admit he hadn’t known how to deal with his son. “I had lost the ability to help him,” he said. Newman was no stranger to challenging father-son relationships. His own father had been unemotional, keeping him at arm’s length, so Newman had been determined to parent his children differently. Still, his unresolved relationship with his father stayed with him. He told Time magazine, “I think he always thought of me as pretty much of a lightweight. He treated me like he was disappointed in me a lot of the time, and he had every right to be. It has been one of the great agonies of my life that he could never know. I wanted desperately to show him that somehow, somewhere along the line I could cut the mustard.” (Newman Sr. never approved of Paul’s going into acting. He didn’t live to see Paul’s many achievements.)

In the fall of 1978, Newman returned to his alma mater, Kenyon College, to direct a theater production there. Back in L.A. his son was recovering from injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident; he was still in pain and taking all sorts of medications. A friend says, “Paul saw to it that there were psychiatrists and doctors available for Scott, day and night.” But in the end nothing helped. On November 20, Scott died from an accidental overdose of drugs and alcohol.

Soon, friends of Newman and Woodward’s established the Scott Newman Center, which to this day aims to educate the public on the dangers of drug and alcohol abuse. Newman’s oldest daughter, Susan, served as the foundation’s executive director for five years.

A despondent Newman remained at Kenyon, resuming his role as the play’s director. According to a drama student’s account in the biography Paul and Joanne, Newman addressed the tragedy, saying, “I don’t know what to say. But what I need right now—I need the show, I need all of you. I need the rowdiness.” Back in New York, he kept everything bottled up inside. He took to walking the streets late at night. He didn’t seem to care whether he was recognized, but people usually left him alone. Once I saw him on Second Avenue and 81st Street around three a.m. It was raining, and he emerged suddenly out of the gloom wrapped in a trench coat, his silent, grieving face a mask of tragedy. His eyes appeared closed, as if he were trying to blot out something insupportable.

Then I heard he had begun racing cars like a man possessed. By now he was one of the best amateur drivers in the country, racing under the name P. L. Newman. He was winning Sports Car Club of America races as part of the Bob Sharp racing team. He broke track records at Watkins Glen and placed second at Le Mans, the dangerous endurance race that takes place over a 24-hour period in France. He began racing motorcycles too. He certainly wasn’t immune to accidents. The first dramatic one occurred during a race at the Golden State Raceway, in Sonoma, California, in 1980. His car overturned, but he emerged with only a gash on his forehead. Despite everything, though, racing would remain an important part of Newman’s life. He would eventually establish his own team, PLN Racing, and become the co-owner of another, named Newman/Haas/Lanigan Racing, which continues to be one of the country’s pre-eminent teams.

A Pinch of This, a Dash of That

Through the remainder of the 1970s, Newman made a movie (Quintet, for Robert Altman), raced more cars, and directed Woodward in The Shadow Box for television, picking up an Emmy nomination for directing.

He also spent a lot of time fishing with his close friend A. E. Hotchner. Hotch, as he’s known, says, “Paul seems happy when he’s on our rattletrap boat, Caca del Toro. We fish, we drink a lot of beer, we shoot the breeze.”

One afternoon this spring Hotch and I had lunch together. I asked him to describe Paul Newman in one word. “A loner. The most private man. He has a small group of loyal friends who are very protective of him. That said, Paul knows who he is and what he can do more clearly than anybody I have ever known. He’s a terrific businessman. He’s smart.”

He and Hotch go back 50 years. In 1955, Hotch had written a television play, The Battler, based on Hemingway’s Nick Adams stories. Arthur Penn was directing. James Dean was starring. But then Dean was killed in that car accident, and, according to Hotch, Penn said, “ ‘There’s this young kid at the Actors Studio named Paul Newman. I think he could play the part of the Brawler.’ And we cast him, and Paul was sensational.” The two have been friends ever since. “It helps that we have lived near each other in Westport forever,” Hotch says.

The week before Christmas in 1980, Newman decided to stir up a batch of his famous salad dressing and give it to friends as Christmas presents. Hotch was keeping him company. At the time, Hotch tells me, almost all mass-market salad dressings were full of preservatives and artificial flavorings, which Newman detested. He always used olive oil, mustard, and red-wine vinegar, sometimes a little garlic and onions. He frequently asked for these ingredients while out at restaurants, such as Elaine’s, in order to dress his own salad.

“He made so much dressing that night—he’d made it in a vat—that we had a lot left over, and suddenly Paul had this brainstorm: Why don’t we bottle it and sell it in some local stores?” Hotch reminded him that they would have to get insurance, label it correctly, find a bottler. Newman agreed. They divided the responsibilities. Hotch would find the bottler, and Newman would put up the seed money.

“For the next couple of months Paul called me constantly during the filming of both Absence of Malice and The Verdict,” Hotch says. “He might be in an airport about to speak on the nuclear-freeze movement or he’d be in between races, but it was always the same thing: ‘Have you found a bottler yet?’ ”

Newman voices off at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, August 1968. Sitting behind him is playwright Arthur Miller, cigarette in mouth. By Lee Balterman/Time Life Pictures/Getty Images.

Newman voices off at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, August 1968. Sitting behind him is playwright Arthur Miller, cigarette in mouth. By Lee Balterman/Time Life Pictures/Getty Images.

Finally, a factory in Boston agreed to work with them, and then marketing experts told Newman and Hotch they would have to spend $400,000 test-marketing. Instead, they test-marketed their dressing with 20 or so friends, in Martha Stewart’s kitchen: a group of good friends dipping lettuce leaves into cups of various unnamed salad dressings (like Kraft and Wishbone). “Ours was the favorite,” Hotch says, “but we still had to find a store that would sell it. Stew Leonard, who owned a big supermarket in Norwalk, met with us. He tasted it, liked it, said he’d sell the dressing—if Paul’s face was on the label. ‘But we’re calling it Newman’s Own—isn’t that enough?’ Paul said. ‘For all they know it could be Seymour Newman from Newark, New Jersey,’ Stew said. ‘You will not be able to sell one bottle of dressing unless your face is on the label.’ ”

Newman was finally persuaded, but he vowed if this was the case, then all the profits would go to charity.

Stew Leonard set up a testing at the store. He put up a huge welcome, paul newman sign and an enormous photograph of Newman and Hotch in Butch Cassidy costumes with a caption that read, “Butch Cassidy is also a gourmet cook.” Hundreds of shoppers showed up. In two weeks, 10,000 bottles of Newman’s Own salad dressing were sold.

In September 1982, Newman told New York Times food critic Mimi Sheraton, “The reason I went into the salad-dressing business is because I suddenly realized I needed a different power base. When Reagan became President, I discovered I had been end-played.… I realized that to be effective I would have to enter the world of business, and this is it. I guess I’ve had more fun doing this than anything else I’ve done in a long time. But remember, it’s really my way of telling Ronald Reagan that his salad days are over.”

Newman didn’t stop with salad dressing. Next came Newman’s Own Industrial Strength All-Natural Venetian-Style Spaghetti Sauce. By the end of 1984, a mere two years after the company was founded, Newman’s Own had sold more than 18 million bottles of salad dressing and more than eight million jars of spaghetti sauce. More than $2 million in profits was donated to charity. Meanwhile, Newman and Hotch worked tirelessly out of their tiny Westport office, coming up with more products: popcorn, lemonade, cookies, new kinds of salad dressings and pasta sauces. (Twenty-five years later, gifts to charity and other types of organizations have exceeded $250 million.) It seemed as if Newman’s passion for his business, for giving everything away to charity, energized him and revived his passion for acting.

Courtroom Drama

During the mid-80s he gave some of his greatest performances in film. Sydney Pollack directed Newman in Absence of Malice, where he plays a man trying to expose corruption in the media. Pollack told Maureen Dowd, “There’s a stillness in his acting now that is quite magnetic. You can feel his intelligence, you can see him thinking.” But maybe it was simply that Newman was finally able to forget about being a sex symbol. “I was always a character actor,” he said. “I just looked like Little Red Riding Hood.”

For The Verdict, he played a seedy alcoholic lawyer, down on his luck, desperate to win one more case. He told New York Times writer Maureen Dowd that he was able to simplify things as an actor because he finally had an idea about “how the strings are synchronized.” No longer “working too hard to find emotions,” he was able to create a character “by finding his nerves.”

Newman was now president of the Actors Studio. He attended sessions, participated in a reading with George Roy Hill, but we noticed a change in him; to most of us he seemed cold and almost unapproachable. Newman, however, told Dowd, “I’ve been accused of being aloof. I’m not. I’m just wary.”

Shortly after The Verdict opened, in 1982, Newman found himself at the center of a very real and public legal battle in Manhattan’s Surrogate’s Court. At issue were some 1,000 audiotapes of “critiques” made by Lee Strasberg (who headed the Studio until his death, in l982) with Studio actors. Anna Strasberg (Lee’s widow) was claiming ownership, saying they were unique notes from a master teacher. The Actors Studio argued the tapes were group efforts in which various actors participated rather than one man’s notes. Newman filed an affidavit in support of the Studio’s position.

There was much discussion among lawyers for and against the Studio’s position. Newman finally complained about the line of questioning by Strasberg’s attorney Irving P. Seidman, who asked if he was “aware of the issues” in the case. Newman grinned and responded, “I know what the issue is—why am I here?”

The Studio would lose the case and the rights to the tapes.

In the late 80s, Newman, who served as president until 1994, also clashed with Ellen Burstyn, then the Studio’s artistic director, over admitting Madonna, according to insiders. Burstyn had invited the singer, who was appearing on Broadway in the David Mamet play Speed-the-Plow, to become a member. Newman objected, saying, in effect, that nobody, star or unknown, should get preferential treatment—everyone should audition. Madonna never became a member.

In 1986 he starred opposite Tom Cruise in The Color of Money, about gamblers, con men, and pool players. Martin Scorsese directed. As Scorsese was editing the film, he told Maureen Dowd, he was struck by the changes in Newman’s face. It was still beautiful, he said, but now it “looks like he’s been there and survived but taken something with him.” As for those startling blue eyes, “there’s so much information in his eyes about what they’re seeing.”

Newman finally won the Academy Award for best actor, for The Color of Money, but after so many nominations—six—it didn’t seem to matter as much. He didn’t attend the awards ceremony but later accepted his Oscar at a small party his press agent, Warren Cowan, gave in L.A. According to the O’Brien biography, when party guest Loretta Young asked about the award, Newman confessed to an anti-climactic feeling, comparing it to “chasing a beautiful woman for 80 years. Finally she relents, and you say, ‘I am terribly sorry, I’m tired.’ ”

“The Fun Starts Here”

Even though Newman’s Own was giving millions to charities and organizations such as Meals on Wheels, Literacy Volunteers, Flying Doctors, The Nation magazine, the Lark Theatre, and the Actors Studio, Newman wanted to create his own charity, and so he did.

Around 1985 he came up with the idea for a summer camp for children with life-threatening diseases: cancer, sickle-cell anemia, H.I.V./aids. He envisioned the camp as a place where kids can experience the joys of childhood without compromising their medical needs. Campers would pay nothing. The idea popped into his head one morning, and Newman told Life magazine in 1988, “I’ve had friends who died young. Life is whimsical. Longevity is an incredible gift, and some people don’t get to enjoy it.”

Newman named the camp the Hole in the Wall Gang Camp, after Butch Cassidy’s group of outlaws. He wanted the site—300 sweeping, wooded acres in Ashford, Connecticut, with a big lake fronting the property—to be unconventionally designed, like a Western town Butch might have lived in.

In Shameless Exploitation in Pursuit of the Common Good, by Newman and Hotch, which details how the camp came to be, Thomas Beeby, the head of Yale’s School of Architecture, who was recruited to help with the design, recalled, “Building this camp was unique in that all the bureaucracy that usually surrounds building construction was absent.” The architects Beeby hired designed log cabins, corrals, a main hall with swinging doors. “We were like little kids building sandcastles,” Beeby went on. “It was a magic moment.”

Newman was determined that the camp would open in the summer of 1988. Construction went on night and day; even in the dead of winter, workers labored, sometimes through blizzards.

Checking in on the camp’s progress one afternoon, Newman and Hotch, after driving through snow and sleet, found the men had been working extremely hard. Newman invited everybody out to the local bar. There was a pool table, draft beer, and lumberjack food. Newman played pool with the guys, tossed darts, told his bad jokes, posed for endless pictures, and autographed menus and shirts—even a bald pate or two.

Work continued around the clock, and as word got out about it huge donations poured in: nearly a million dollars for a state-of-the-art swimming pool, $5 million from the kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

The first Hole in the Wall Gang Camp opened in June 1988, just as Newman planned, and looked the way he had dreamed it would. The sign at the entrance proclaimed, the fun starts here.

In attendance that first season were 288 ailing kids, hiking, swimming, riding horses—occasionally getting tired, because of the chemo. Sometimes a little boy couldn’t walk for as long as he wanted to, because he had only one leg. A medical team was on call around the clock; there were state-of-the-art medical facilities and a helicopter available to take a child to Yale–New Haven Hospital if necessary. Counselors were young, many still in college. Some had suffered from life-threatening diseases themselves.

The kids laughed, had fun, and enjoyed themselves. They discovered a world of possibilities, not limitations. The children would leave the camp feeling they had accomplished something, learned something.

The goal was reached and children from all over the world were traveling to Connecticut. However, part of the original plan was to create a camp that would inspire the formation of other, like-minded camps. Today the dream is being realized, and there are camps in places such as Florida, California, Israel, Ireland, France, and the United Kingdom. To date, more than 114,000 children have attended a Hole in the Wall camp or program. It is the world’s largest family of camps for children with serious illnesses and life-threatening conditions.

In 2007, Newman retired from acting, but he continued to race cars and work on Newman’s Own. (He entered into a partnership with McDonald’s in 2003, and today his salad dressings are offered in thousands of McDonald’s restaurants nationwide.) He still develops products and remains deeply involved with the camps, especially the original one, in Connecticut. (He had a cabin built across the lake so he could stop by frequently.) He is very protective of the camps, not allowing visits from journalists or the photographing of the kids. He never imagined that the camps would have the impact that they have had on the medical profession and on children. But Newman doesn’t want praise or accolades, even though by now he has been showered with countless medals and awards and honorary degrees.

Lasting Legacy


Newman at the Actors Studio, New York City, 1955. By Eve Arnold/Magnum Photos. More photos.

Paul Newman at the Actors Studio

This past year, at one of the usual meetings of parents and children at the original camp, Newman showed up; crowds pressed close. The mother of one little girl spoke to Ray Lamontagne, the head of the camp’s board. Her daughter wanted to tell Paul Newman something, but she couldn’t get over to him because she was in a wheelchair. Lamontagne fought his way through the crowd and brought Newman back to the little girl, and he knelt down by her wheelchair. “For the first time in my life I have a friend,” the little girl told him. “I’ve never had a friend before, because I’ve been in a wheelchair most of my life, so kids avoided me. So thank you, Mr. Newman, for this camp.” Newman had tears in his eyes.

He had already said, “I wanted to acknowledge luck. The beneficence of it in many lives and the brutality of it in the lives of others, especially children, who might not have a lifetime to make up for it.”

June 15, 2008

In the past week there has been a veritable media frenzy about “Paul Newman’s cancer.” The Newman family isn’t talking; some friends can’t seem to get their stories straight. It hasn’t helped that Newman’s longtime press agent, Warren Cowan, just died.

In the meantime, the Associated Press reports, “Michael Brockman, Newman’s racing team partner, said Newman told him recently that he wants to get back into his race car for a test run and possibly another competition. His last race was last fall, he said.… [He] called Newman ‘one of the best guys I ever met.’ ‘He’s just a regular guy,’ Brockman said. ‘He’s humble.’ ”

Patricia Bosworth is a Vanity Fair contributing editor.

  1. Paul Newman is a legend for his work in movies, and he’s a stud for all his work outside of movies

  2. vou explicar-te António tenho todas estas fotos do Paul Newman todas era para as ter publicado na Rapariga. fui ao teu Facebook, gostei da foto ao telemóvel, estás impekável

    Vou ver agora Caos Calmo, aqui em casa.
    Já andamos nisto da Blogosfera há quantos anos?
    Desde o Fio da Navalha

    Beijo à tua filha.

    • emily
    • 18 de Fevereiro, 2010

    I enjoy browsing your site, always learn something interesting stuff.
    Emily RandallHusky Training

  3. Could I use a little part of your post on my blog?It goes very well with what im writing about and I will also link back to you for credit if you allow me.

  4. Well written overview. Don’t think there will be another quite like him.

  5. nice blog! thanks for the help.

  6. Really enjoyed this blog post. Keep writing.

  7. Thank you for your post.Really thank you! Great.

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