Tony Thomas:
"Film Score - The Art & Craft of Movie Music" p. 285-295
1991, Burbank, California

Jerry Goldsmith

There was little surprise in the Hollywood community when the 1976 Oscar for the best score went to Jerry Goldsmith for The Omen. The feeling was that it was long overdue. His track record has been astonishing for its consistant quality, and for his ability to continually devise new ways of making musical comment in films. Goldsmith has been more productive than any other composer in recent years, and he seems to thrive on being busy. In the same year as The Omen, he also scored Logan's Run, The Cassandra Crossing, Twilight's Last Gleaming and Islands in the Stream. Each contains a substantial score that is quite distinct from the others.
Born in February of 1929, Goldsmith is one of the few film composers actually born in Los Angeles. Goldsmith displayed no unusual musical aptitudes until the age of 12, when his skill with the piano led his parents to believe he might have a future as a musician. He studied with the distinguished teacher and concert pianist Jacob Gimpel, through whom he was able to meet a great many of the European musicians and composers who had left Europe because of the Nazi era. Among them was composer Maria Castelnuovo-Tedesco, who took young Goldsmith on as a pupil in composition, theory, and counterpoint. His interest in composing replaced his earlier interest in being a concert pianist, especially when he realized that performing required more technique and stamina than he felt he had. After completing normal schooling he enrolled in Los Angeles City College, and at the same time he attended classes on film composition given by Miklos Rozsa at the University of Southern California.
In 1950, at 21 and a newly married man, Goldsmith was able to land a position as a clerk-typist in the music department of CBS in Hollywood. The head of the department, Lud Gluskin, took an interest in Goldsmith and invited him to join the studio musical workshop. After a couple of years he was given minor assignments in radio, and in time he was put in charge of providing music for such radio series as Romance, Suspense, Escape, and CBS Radio Workshop. Goldsmith recalls the assignments as being modest because of the small budgets.
In 1955, he graduated to television and started to work on Climax, which was the first live dramatic program to come from the CBS Los Angeles studios. They were also modestly scored because of funds. Goldsmith was required to write a score each week and to perform it as live accompaniment. This called for a certain amount of ad-libbing in order to meet the timings and cover errors by the performers and technicians. He played in the small orchestra, performing on piano, organ, and novachord, occasionally improvising while on the air. It was far from easy, but it was an education such as no aspiring composer today can have, since all scoring now employed in television is prerecorded.
Goldsmith stayed with CBS until 1960, having acquired a reputation as a dramatic composer with his scores for the acclaimed series The TwilightZone. He did his first feature film score in 1957, Black Patch, and two similarly modest features in 1959, City of Fear and Face of a Fugitive, with the more impressive Studs Lonigan the following year. Goldsmith was hired by Revue Studios in 1960 to score their Thriller television series, which furthered his reputation and made him known to the more important musical figures in Hollywood, such as Alfred Newman. Newman phoned Goldsmith one day to tell him that he was impressed with his work and would see to it that opportunities would come his way. Newman persuaded Universal to hire Goldsmith for what would be his first important film, Lonely Are the Brave (1963). Later the same year he went to Rome to record his score for John Huston's Freud. It is still a remarkable composition, stark in character, contemplative in its shifting moods, gentle, sad, eerie, and somehow entirely suitable to this account of the early years of psychiatry.
Alfred Newman brought Goldsmith to Twentieth Century-Fox in 1963 to score The Stripper, the first of the composer's pictures with Franklin Schaffner. When not working for Fox, Goldsmith has been hired by other studios, such as Paramount for Seven Days in May (1964) and MGM for A Patch of Blue (1965), both of which were aided by his music but in very different ways. The first required a dry and searing kind of music to back up an almost emotionless story of political chicanery, while the other needed a gentle and delicately toned score to underline the love between a black man and a blind white girl.
In 1966, Goldsmith scored two epic adventure films: The Blue Max, a grandly heroic picture of first World War aviation, and The Sand Pebbles, a tragic story of U.S. Naval affairs in Chinese waters in the twenties. In 1968 he scored The Planet of the Apes, with a pulsating symphonic score, a major element in the success of that bizarre fantasy.
Goldsmith received wide acclaim with his score for Schaffner's Patton. The main theme, a jaunty march, captured the bravura of the American general; but it was a particular device that made its mark in this score-a solo trumpet fanfare in triplets which echoed across the screen, fading out, and used to pinpoint Patton's thoughts on the history of warfare and his belief that he had lived in previous times. It is both heroic and slightly eerie, and skillfully underlines an important aspect of the famous soldier's character.
Like all composers, Goldsmith has written interesting scores for films which did not find favor with the public, pictures like The Illustrated Man (1969) and The Ballad of Cable Hogue (1970), he considers both among his best efforts. He also wrote the Mephisto Waltz (1971), Klute (1971), Papillon (1973), the rollicking western The Wild Rovers, the television film of The Red Pony (1973), the swashbuckling adventure film The Wind and the Lion (1975), and the successful horror yarn The Omen (1976), a film which would be not nearly so frightening if it were not for Goldsmith's score. It gave the film an atmosphere of tension that was quite missing in the film prior to scoring. The contribution of composers like Goldsmith can truly be gauged only by those who have had the opportunity to see the films with and without the scores.
Throughout the Seventies and Eighties he produced five or six films each year, most calling for intensely dramatic music, such as Damnation Alley (1977), The Boys from Brazil (1978), Alien (1979), the TV mini-series Masada (1981), Poltergeist (1982), Under Fire (1983), Gremlins (1984) and Warlock (1988). Nothing has so far strained Goldsmith's inventiveness.
The late Franklin Schaffner, with whom Goldsmith worked for the last time on Lionheart (1987), said, "Jerry Goldsmith is an artist who meets all the demands upon the composer in films. He communicates, integrates, subordinates, supports, and designs with discipline." His contribution is in other words precisely what film scoring is all about.

Jerry Goldsmith on Film Music

I compose music for films, which makes me a film composer. Which is fine except that the tag "film composer" in this country has come to have a kind of second-class ring to it. This is ridiculous. People have never tagged Paul Hindemith or Arnold Schöenberg as "professor composers," with the implication that it was a lesser rank. Some men who write music earn a living by teaching. Others pay their bills by winning grants and commissions. Still others, like me, make our way by working in films. We are all composers. I tackle every assignment just as seriously as if I were aiming it at a concert hall. The fact that a great many of the films themselves are second rate is beside the point. Hundreds of films are made; the odds are against every one of them becoming a masterpiece or even a minor classic. But I would be cheating the audience and myself if I tried to judge a film's place in history before I decided whether to give it my best effort, or only half an effort.
If a film story is less than inspiring, I find something in it to challenge me. I create a musical problem and then try to solve it. If my work is successful it adds a special dimension to the movie, even though I know right from the beginning my contribution is certainly not the single most important element, the glue that binds it all together. I don't want to sound falsely modest. I like to think that I have a hard-eyed recognition of my role. If ego is the fuel that keeps the engine running, I have plenty of it. Without ego I would be depressingly unproductive. But ego has to be controlled in any field, and most particularly in the performing arts, where, there is a constant risk of getting drunk on th e strong brandy of applause. Too many compositions in the concert hall suffer from lack of control by the composer. Some pieces sound like a child throwing tantrums. At times the same lack of discipline shows up in painting and literature. A close rein would work wonders. Perhaps that is the one advantage that film composition has over the other forms of music-it cannot be anything else but disciplined. The composer has to abide by strict rules, he has to work fast, and he must write music that is direct and effective.
I believe discipline is vital for creative people. If left to their own devices, they sometimes flail around, not knowing what it is they really want or how to get there. They speak vaguely about inspiration. Writing for films doesn't allow for any such doubtful luxury. Waiting for inspiration to strike is like waiting for one's ship to come in-it rarely does. I am not comparing myself to Stravinsky, but his style of work set a good example for me. He was highly disciplined. Every morning at eight he was in his study writing music, or at least putting notes on paper. He would stop for lunch and a brief nap, then go back to writing for a long afternoon. Whether he produced a litle or a great deal was beside the point. What counted was the disciplined act of sitting there, day in and day out, trying to be creative. It takes on special importance for the composer because music is, I believe, the most difficult of the creative arts. A painter begins with identifiable colors, a palette, a brush, perhaps a model. A writer begins with a large vocabulary and some real-life characters, perhaps disguised but nonetheless real. A composer has almost nothing to start with. There are twelve different tones and that is all he brings to the game. So each assignment for me begins with an agonizing experlence. Where shall I begin? What notes shall I play? What combination of sounds will be at once so melodic and original and attention-grabbing that the audience will be hooked? To me, ninety-five per cent of the agony is finding a point of departure, a place to begin.
I have heard some of my colleagues say that the music writes itself, but I'm skeptical. My guess is that creative people are reluctant to admit they suffer in the process of creation. But I see suffering as an inescapable part of the experience. I agonized for a month looking for an approach to scoring Logan's Run. Once I found it, the music took off like a racehorse. I may stumble through a lot of false starts, but that is part of the discipline of sitting there at the piano and working. Everything I do takes a tremendous amount of feeling my way around dark corners, like a blind man in a curved tunnel. When I was a student, I had to fight discouragement because I was unbelievably slow. Over the years I have developed technique, but I still haven't found an easy way to be a composer. And when some snide critic refers to film music as if it were a breeze, I am as angered by their ignorance as their impertience.
I consider myself a serious composer. I know that much of the driving force in the studios over the years has been for popular music and that in recent times a good many serious film composers have been passed over in favor of the pop sound. But this does nothing to change my own views on film scoring. This is not to say that there isn't a place for popular music in films. It clearly has a very real place in what is largely a popular medium, and particularly in those films which deal with contemporary issues and scenes. I agree that Easy Rider had the right kind of music. The score for Midnight Cowboy was excellent; I can't imagine a better way to do it. What I object to is the forcing of pop music in scores for blatantly commercial reasons. It ignores the real function of scoring, which is to support the film's impact on the mind and the emotions of the audience.
I have no tolerance for the critics who put down film music. The film composer today functions in much the same way as did Mozart, Haydn, and Bach with their weekly commitments to the church or their patrons, except that we haven't yet produced a Mozart, a Haydn, or a Bach. But it can happen. Just because one is composing for films doesn't mean that one has to write inferior or unimportant music. The possibility exists for excellent work, which is something our lofty music critics apparently don't even want to admit. But I consider my own efforts in film composition to be serious, and I encourage other composers to take the medium seriously.
I look upon film scoring in terms of fabric. It's a composition tailored for a film, and all its elements must relate to one another. Thematically there must be something that ties the score together; you can't just write a string of unrelated pieces. This is where I think the seriously trained composer is of more value, simply because part of the study of composition is the concept of musical relativity and development. I also think the serious composer is likely to be able to make statements more precisely and economically than the musician from the pop field.
Economy is a strong factor in my own theories about scoring. I feel less is better than more. Music should be used only when it is really necessary. However, that was not the guiding force in the pioneering days in Hollywood scoring, partly because the old films lacked reality and were steeped in fantasy-and as Jack Warner said, "fantasy needs music"-and partly because studio heads like Jack Warner loved to have their pictures afloat in music. The reason so many of Max Steiner's scores are long is that Warner demanded they be that way. Steiner often argued that the pictures would be better with less music but he was overruled. Today we don't have any Jack Warners, which is good in one way, but far worse in another. A man like Warner knew how to run a film factory. Today we have studio heads and producers who barely have any understanding, or interest, in music at all.
But to get back to economy. My main interest in scoring is in examining the characters in a film and making comment on them, and I think you can only do that if you use music sparingly. Patton, for example, is a three-hour film, but it has only about thirty minutes of music. The longest score I have done is The Sand Pebbles, which has about an hour, or one-third of the running time. One of my most talked about scores is Seven Days in May, and that has only about ten minutes, and A Patch of Blue has less than half an hour. So I can't help but feel that most of my best scores are those that use the least amount of music. I strongly feel that music is a problem in our time. The ear has become numb to it. We hardly exist without it-in elevators, in restaurants, in supermarkerts, in doctor's waiting rooms. It's going on all the time, and the whole value of music in films is being vitiated by this surfeit of music in which we all live. So if music is to be used in a film it must be used not only sparingly but with calculated effect.
A good film score requires two elements: it must have compatibility, and it must have musical quality. It's hard to come to terms about the latter, but in the former I would say the composer must realize his job is not to dominate. The job is to supply additional understanding to what is being said or what is being done. If, for example, you were writing an opera, you would need a subject so profound that no other form of expression was possible. The same should be true of a film and its score. The composer must wait for those moments in the picture where there is a scene so special, where there is something to be said that only music can say. Then the presence of music will bring that extra element you need, and, if it's done right, it will elevate the scene.
As an example of this: in Patton there is a scene in which the general demands that his chaplain write a prayer for victory. The prayer is then read against a background of battle. It seemed to me to be a really vital scene and one in which I could make a comment that was counter to the almost overpowering visual. I saw it as an antiwar scene-in fact I think the whole film is a statement against war-and I wanted to play up the sadness and the sorrow and the irony of it all. Visually, you see the brutality of war, and yet you hear this prayer to God while men are being blown to bits. I decided to make my statement for solo violin. This brings up another important point: I was working for a man who was totally understanding of the function of music in film, Franklin Schaffner. We had the kind of rapport that encourages good work. As long as there are men like that and films like that, there will be opportunities for serious composers in the picture business.
All that I can say about my method in writing music for films is that it is intensely persorial. I work completely emotionally. I cannot intellectualize about the role of music in film. I decide if it should be there purely by my emotions. My reaction to what I see and hear in other people's films is also entirely emotional-and sometimes painful. I remember seeing Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey and cringing at what I consider to be an abominable misuse of music. I had heard the music Alex North had written for the film, and which had been dropped by Kubrick, and I thought what Kubrick used in its place was idiotic. I am aware of the success of the film but what North had written would have given the picture a far greater quality. The use of the Blue Danube waltz was amusing for a moment but quickly became distracting because it is so familiar and unrelated to the visual. North's waltz would have provided a marvelous effect. He treated it in an original and provocative way. It is a mistake to force music into a film, and for me 2001 was ruined by Kubrick's choice of music. His selections had no relationship, and the pieces could not comment on the film because they were not a part of it. So I come back to my theory that a score is a fabric which must be tailored to the film.
There is a danger in writing music for films year after year in becoming repetitive and not developing one's skills and technique. We all worry about that. In my own case I think I could have grown more, but I also think I have become more skillful over the years and broadened my reach in terms of style. At least, I'm consdous of trying. There are lots of areas left to grow in. The main drawback of writing for films is that it is restrictive. You have to hold yourself back. Most concert composers, like Stravinsky and Schoenberg, could not write for films because their ego would always get in the way. They would not condescend to stop the flow, the natural flow of creativity to accommodate the needs of the picture. You must recognize that limitation when you write for the screen. On the other hand, film does teach you to say something quickly and concisely, which is a lesson all composers should learn.
My hope is that audiences will improve. If they do, then directors and writers and composers will have to improve. I see signs of it. The whole range of musical literature is available to the public today, and their ears are attuned to everything. It's possible to use almost any style of film scoring and not shock audiences. A Generation ago Le Sacre du Printemps was considered way-out. Now it isn't. Avant-garde music is readily available and so is electronic music, and all these forms can be used in scoring. However, I would caution would-be composers to be careful about becoming tricky with devices. The message is what counts. I've noticed that despite all the sophistication of our times, the greatest device of all remains the simple, straightforward melody. Using it in a sparse and simple way is still the best way. I'm, also wary of the overuse of electronics in scoring, because it tends to have a depersonalized sound. People seem to think I used a lot of electronic instruments in The Planet of the Apes. Actually there wasn't a note of it in the whole score. I still feel that the standard orchestra has many untapped resources. I took conventional instrumentation in that score, but did unconventional things with it. For example, I used the French horn and had the player take off the mouthpiece and just blow air through it. There was a bass clarinetist who at one point didn't play notes, but just clicked the keys. I also used a ram's horn. In other words I achieved a wide range of effects outside of orthodox music, but within the range of a normal orchestra, which has almost no limits.
It's nice to think about the Golden Age of Hollywood, with the big studios and their fabulous music departments and the hundreds of films coming out every year. But it's gone. In some ways the composer today is more fortunate, provided he can find a good film, because he can attempt more than he could two decades ago. Twelve-tone music was unheard of during Max Steiner's heyday, as were any other avant-garde techniques. Finally, the future of film music rests with the composers themselves. lf they take their work seriously and turn out the best that is within them, then perhaps we can persuade not only the public, but the filmmakers that good music is valuable in films. The public is not stupid. If our music survives, which I have no doubt it will, then it will be because it is good.