Raksin remembrances

The recording sessions were a unique combination of working time and social event. Charlie was at his best, in his most elegant finery, sitting near the podium, listening and carrying on, sometimes conducting a bit, and generally charming everyone with his antics. He was delighted with the way the score was turning out, and his euphoria was contagious. Al Newman liked to record at night, when the rest of the United Artists studio was shut down. Since the stage was soundproof, this could not have been because of a need to avoid the distraction of daytime activities. After a while, I realized that there is a quality of isolation which those of us who work at night experience, a psychological remoteness that provides blessed relief from the clamor of everyday banality, and that this is what Newman was after. And when, after three or four hours of intense concentration, an intermission was called, the entire orchestra of about sixty-five, the sound crew, and the rest of us would adjourn to an adjacent stage where tables had been set up and a supper was served in grand style by the staff of the best caterers in town, the Vendome. This period of congeniality must have been very expensive--supper for about eighty-five, five nights a week for several weeks--but it was surely worth it, for it helped to sustain the feeling that something special was afoot, something elegant and worth the effort.

Eddie Powell and I shared a problem which the others were spared. When the recording sessions were over, the musicians and sound crew went off to get some rest, to be ready for the next evening's work. But Eddie and I had to keep one jump ahead of the copyists and the orchestra, so we would usually resume work on the next round of orchestrations when everyone else had gone home. Since this went on and on, after a while we were both ready to be carted away from sheer exhaustion. One day Al Newman said to me, "You look sick. Why don't you take the night off--skip the recording." I must have been pretty well worn out to agree to miss the session, but it was either that or collapse....

When I arrived at the studio the next morning, I learned that Al and Charlie had had a fierce argument at the session; they too were operating on ragged nerves, and after one bad take Charlie had accused the players of "dogging it"--lying down on the job. At this, Newman, who at the best of times had a hair-trigger temper, had broken his baton and stalked off the stage, and was now refusing to work with Chaplin. This was put to me in a way that reveals the sleazy side of studio politics. Several of Sam Goldwyn's younger executives, who knew all the gossip, told me that I would be expected to take over and conduct the remaining sessions. I realized later that they would have enjoyed watching me struggle with the temptation offered by such an opportunity, believing that it was certain to supersede whatever loyalty I might feel toward Newman. But I said that if what they told me was true, then Charlie was at fault and owed Al and the orchestra an apology, and that I could not agree to anything that would hurt Al or weaken his position. As it turned out, the United Artists people invoked Powell's contract with them and had him complete the sessions. With Eddie conducting, I did most of the remaining orchestration, and the recordings concluded in a rather sad and indeterminate spirit. Eddie and I thought that this was not the way to end things, so we gave a big party for the orchestra, complete with the best that the Vendome had to offer. But nothing could quite compensate for the fact that, as a result of my stiff-necked adherence to what I thought was right, Charlie and I became estranged, and we would not become friends again until many years later. (David Raksin, "Life With Charlie," Quarterly Journal of the Library of Congress, Summer 1983) 

(David Raksin, "Life With Charlie," Quarterly Journal of the Library of Congress, Summer 1983)