The first time Joanne Woodward saw Paul Newman, she thought he looked too perfect.
It was the summer of 1953, and they were both young actors trying to make their way in New York theater. They had been cast as understudies for William Inge’s “Picnic,” a Broadway play that would become a massive hit.
Newman, who had recently graduated from the Yale School of Drama, arrived on set looking like a model out of a magazine immaculately dressed, blue eyes piercing, and his charisma undeniable.
Woodward, already a skilled and confident actress, found his appearance almost unnatural.
According to Woodward, she sat in the rehearsal room watching Newman interact with others and thought he seemed too polished, too clean-cut. She later recalled being unimpressed, stating that he “looked like an advertisement for ice cream soda.” She was drawn to actors with a rugged, more unpredictable energy, and Newman, at first glance, seemed too composed and well-mannered for her taste.
However, beneath his handsome exterior, there was a sharp mind, a deep sincerity, and a quiet intensity that would soon change her perception.
Newman, on the other hand, had a completely different experience of their first meeting. From the moment he saw Woodward, he was captivated. She had an energy that filled the room sharp wit, quick humor, and an undeniable presence.
Unlike many aspiring actresses of the time, she was not interested in playing coy or pretending to be impressed.
She carried herself with confidence, a quality that both intrigued and intimidated him.
While Woodward found Newman too refined, he found her irresistible. In later interviews, he described being drawn to her intelligence, calling her the most talented actress he had ever met. He admitted that while he was initially in awe of her, he also felt a little overwhelmed. She was more experienced in theater, more comfortable in her skin, and had a natural ability to command attention. At the time, he was married to Jackie Witte, his first wife, and though he felt an immediate connection with Woodward, he kept things professional.
During their time as understudies, they spent long hours in rehearsals, watching the lead actors perform and stepping in whenever needed. Conversations between them started casually, revolving around their work, the industry, and their ambitions. Slowly, Newman’s charm began to work on Woodward. She noticed the way he carried himself not just with confidence but with genuine kindness. He was not just a pretty face. He had a deep love for acting, an artistic depth that aligned with her own. Over time, the edges of her skepticism softened.
One of the defining moments of their early interactions came when they were sitting backstage during a rehearsal break.
The theater was stifling hot, and Woodward was fanning herself aggressively. Newman, in his usual gentlemanly way, offered to get her something to drink. Instead of being flattered, she rolled her eyes, finding his politeness almost too much. But when he returned with a cold bottle of Coca-Cola and a half-shy, half-amused smile, something shifted. She found herself laughing at his earnestness, and for the first time, she looked at him with different eyes.
Later in life, both Newman and Woodward would reflect on that initial meeting with humor and appreciation.
Newman often joked that he had to work hard to win Woodward over, that she had not been impressed with him in the slightest. Woodward, in turn, acknowledged that while she had been skeptical at first, she had underestimated him. That first meeting, though unremarkable in the moment, was the start of something extraordinary.
Years later, after they had fallen in love and built a life together, Newman admitted that from the moment he met Woodward, he knew she was different. Even when she dismissed him, even when she didn’t fall for his easy charm, he felt something between them.
Woodward, for her part, laughed when recalling those early days, saying that if anyone had told her in 1953 that she would one day marry Paul Newman, she would have called them crazy.