20,000 Fathoms (1953) to a hideously tentacled creature who rose from the depths when It Came From Beneath the Sea (1955). A fantastic Venusian lizard was martyred on a perilous journey that began 20 Million Miles to Earth (1957).
A Valiant sailor took us along with him on The 7TH Voyage of Sinbad (1958), as well as his later Golden Voyage of Sinbad (1973), while Jason and the Argonauts (1963) bravely sought the golden fleece, all played majestically to the spectacular musical accompaniments of Bernard Herrmann and Miklos Rozsa.
We survived calamitous shipwreck on a deadly Mysterious Island (1961), and ventured courageously through space among The First Men in the Moon (1964). Invaders from another galaxy waged a war for survival in a frightening battle pitting Earth Vs. The Flying Saucers (1956). We became lost in The Valley of Gwangi (1969), while somehow immersed in immortal combat amidst an awesome Clash of the Titans (1981).
Although technology has inevitably improved and advanced over these past forty years, and "stop motion animation" has given way to sophisticated computer generated imagery, there might never have been the advances that we've all come both to demand and respect in modern films without the profound pioneering efforts and legacy of such craftsmen as Willis O'Brien and Ray Harryhausen upon the flickering image known as motion pictures.
These comments comprised a portion of my introductory remarks on August 11th, 1990 at the Fanex film conference in Baltimore, Maryland when I hosted, and shared the stage with this special effects titan for "An Afternoon With Ray Harryhausen."
The event, attended by hundreds of enthusiastic fans whose lives had been transformed by Harryhausen's work, became one of the most cherished experiences of my own life, as well. I had literally grown up in the 1950s under the magical influence and spell of Famous Monsters Of Filmland Magazine, and the wondrous films of Ray Harryhausen.
My brother Erwin and I had been sheltered by our parents, and by my mom in particular, during these tender years. While all of my boyhood friends congregated weekly at The Benner Theater in Philadelphia for that cherished rite of passage...the Saturday Matinee...Erwin and I had been forced to miss many seminal moments in our childhood development, due to the overly cautious and protective wings of our parents.
Consequently, the stories related by my boyhood pals who were permitted by their parents to go each Saturday became all the more precious to me.
Their tales of a mad sculptor creating wax representations of his unfortunate victims in a macabre House of Wax, coupled with stories of gigantic mutant ants marauding the sewers and streets of Los Angeles in Them! filled my dreams and waking thoughts with highly visceral imagery that easily took on a life of its own. Rather than stifling my imagination, the mental visualization of these forbidden fruits whetted my youthful appetite for more of the same, thereby unwittingly shaping the interests and direction of my life to come.
When Columbia Pictures released 20 Million Miles to Earth in 1957, I listened in enraptured detail to the lurid stories related by my friends of a strange alien reptile transported to Earth aboard a crashed rocket ship, a Venusian stranger in a strange land, shot down from his perch atop a crumbling column in the Rome Colosseum.
My imagination ablaze, I raced to the back of The Benner Theater and leaned my ear against the door. I could hear the frightened roar of the cornered Ymir, struggling in vain to evade the deadly ammunition searing his flesh while he clung ferociously to life. My heart was beating rapidly. Perspiration flooded my brow as I listened to the frantic death scream of the reptilian creature, creating the sequence in my mind as only a child's imagination could. I closed my eyes and I was inside the darkened theater. I closed my eyes, and I was in the Coliseum shooting at the poor, stricken creature clinging to life above me.
This momentously frustrating interlude was, perhaps, my introduction to the world of Ray Harryhausen.
Like most children of the period, I'd grown up watching the George Pal Puppetoons on television. In the years prior to his own big screen adaptations of science fiction classics such as Destination Moon (1950), When Worlds Collide (1951), War of the Worlds (1953) and The Time Machine (1960), Pal had endeared himself to children with a collection of filmed fairy tails produced in Stop Motion Animation, the very same procedure that had brought King Kong so lovingly to life in 1933.
For many of these wonderful short films, a young animator by the name of Ray Harryhausen had performed the technical wizardry bringing these fairy tale characters to life. Ray had gone to see King Kong at his local movie theater in 1933, and the experience had changed his life forever.
Borrowing his mother's fur coat, he cut the garment into sections in order to clothe his own animated creatures with realistic body fur. He then began making his own animated shorts in his parent's garage.
In 1949 when Merian C. Cooper and Willis O'Brien were preparing their affectionate serio-comic tribute to King Kong, "Obie" hired an apprentice he'd befriended to achieve eighty five percent of the animation for the pictureMighty Joe Young was released by RKO in 1949 and, while the supervising animator on the picture was the seasoned O’Brien, the bulk of the stop motion work in the picture was performed by the young Ray Harryhausen.
Ray had grown up in Los Angeles during the 1930s and, with his boyhood chums-Ray Bradbury and Forrest J Ackerman-had fallen in love with the worlds of science fiction and fantasy. Each had attended the very first World Science Fiction Convention in 1936, and each had vowed to take the arts by storm, creating a place for themselves within the creative framework of the genre.
Ray Bradbury was already writing speculative fiction with an eye on becoming published. Ackerman would become an editor and writer. Harryhausen aspired to create a celluloid world inhabited by other worldly creatures and mythological monsters inspired by the film that had set his own heart and youthful imagination ablaze, Merian C. Cooper’s King Kong.
With the success of Mighty Joe Young, Harryhausen decided to go out on his own. Warner Bros. had purchased the rights to a story by Ray Bradbury that had recently appeared as a serial in The Saturday Evening Post (1951). The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms wove the fabric of an eerie tale in which a prehistoric reptile awakens from sleep in the depths of the ocean, and is drawn to the source of the miraculous "song" serenading the sea, as would a lonely creature seeking one of its own in a world of strangers.
Thinking a nearby lighthouse a sympathetic animal like itself, the solitary remnant of a lost world is drawn to the brooding edifice as one would conceive a lover during mating season. The sequence was retained for the film version, and both Warner Bros. and Ray Harryhausen found that they had a hit on their hands with the release of this film in 1953. Bradbury later changed the title of his original tale to "The Foghorn." It would appear under its revised title in several collections of short stories by the celebrated author, most notably The Golden Apples of the Sun.
Partnering with producer Charles Schneer, Harryhausen formed his own independent production company and joined forces with Columbia Pictures to make a series of relatively low budget science fiction films in order to capitalize on the then thriving monster movie craze of the 1950’s. While the budgets for these films may have been small, the creative inspiration behind their making was as huge as the fertile imagination of the special effects titan at their artistic helm.
The first in this inspired series of low budget gems was It Came From Beneath the Sea (1955), a wildly imaginative and entertaining classic about a giant sea squid terrorizing the docks of San Francisco Bay. Following this surprise hit came, in rapid succession, Earth Vs. The Flying Saucers (1956), 20 Million Miles to Earth (1957) and the wildly popular cult fantasy adventure The 7TH Voyage of Sinbad (1958), among the first and finest representations of full color stop motion animation in film.
With the insatiable demand by television for film product, the films of Ray Harryhausen became a staple of 1960's afternoon and late night programming. Long before the advent of home video, these wondrous fantasy adventures gained renewed popularity as they were introduced to a brand new generation of science fiction enthusiasts weened on TV and that magic living room box.
I’d at last attained a respectable age by which I was permitted to see these fantasy classics as they were released at my old haunt, The Benner Theater in Philadelphia. The films that I had missed during their initial release were now becoming available on the small tube,and I was rapidly discovering new old friends on The Early Show, The Late Show, and in the cherished, if yellowing, pages, of Forrest Ackerman's Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine.
It was in 1965 that Bantam Books published the first paperback edition of the novelization of King Kong, written by Delos W. Lovelace, based upon the treatment by Merian C. Cooper and Edgar Wallace, and the screenplay by James Creelman and Ruth Rose.
Shortly after the book's publication, I wrote to the publisher and asked that my letter be forwarded to Merian C. Cooper who was still among us, and living in Santa Monica, California with his wife, Dorothy. Thus began an intense, intimate correspondence with the creator of King Kong that lasted until his death in 1973.
Early in our correspondence, I asked General Cooper if he had remained in touch with Ray Harryhausen after their collaboration on Mighty Joe Young in 1949. To my delight and wonder, "Coop" volunteered to put me in touch with Harryhausen who was living in London. And so, during the latter months of 1966, I first encountered my boyhood hero, the legendary animator Ray Harryhausen, in what would become a cherished friendship for the next forty seven years.
My first communication from Ray occurred in the late Fall in a letter dated October 22, 1966. The return address was 418 Via De La Paz in Pacific Palisades, California. It began:
| Dear Mr. Stephen & Erwin Vertlieb:
Many thanks for your most complimentary and sincere letter
of October 3rd. It was just forwarded to me here in Los Angeles
where we are visiting until the first of the year.
There is little I can say in regard to your letter except thank you
for taking the time to let me know of your enjoyment and more
intimate feelings for my work. Needless to say we enjoyed making
the films almost as much as you seem to enjoy viewing them.
I shall look through my files while in America to see if I have any
photographs. If not, I will send one to you from London after our
return in January.
With every good wish to you both,
Ray Harryhausen |
True to his word, I received an additional letter and autographed photograph from Ray dated January 31, 1967 in which he expressed the hope that we might enjoy his forthcoming production of One Million Years B.C. which he thought would see release in the United States sometime in May.
After that, his letters began increasing in both length and regularity and it wasn't long before we realized that we shared many of the same interests and addictions.
Among our shared passions was, I found, a love and reverence for the film music of Hollywood’s golden era.
In a letter dated March 22, 1972, he wrote of his collaboration with Bernard Herrmann:
| Yes, we are once again embarking on a new Sinbad adventure- Sinbad's Golden Voyage. The production should start sometime in mid-summer. The cast, to date, has not been set nor has the composer of the music. Bernard Herrmann is, of course, the ideal man for any suspense or fantasy film but unfortunately, due to many different problems which manifest themselves during production, it is not always possible to incorporate the ideal situation.
We are of course most interested in your concern for hoping for the very best end results. It is rather interesting that you picked up a similar pattern in the Jerome Moross (Gwangi) score which is very strong in Herrmann's music. They both studied at the same Music Instititue in New York, and about the same time. |
In a subsequent letter dated July 18, 1973 he wrote the following:
| Your long and news filled letter is greatly appreciated. The Golden Voyage of Sinbad has literally annihilated time for me. The effects and animation have just been completed this week with scoring and dubbing to take place within the week. We have been working with Dr. Rozsa and are looking forward to an impressive score from him. At the present it is too early to tell if his music will be released on a record but I should think it would be. Dr. Rozsa's albums are very popular in the record field. He recently presented to me a very treasured recording of his Violin Concerto which he wrote for Heifetz. Last year he presented an evening of film music at the Albert Hall with John Barry.
I think it is best for me not to comment on what I think of The Golden Voyage of Sinbad at this time as it is incomplete and I have been living with it for far too long. I do know that it has some unusual things in it. We of course set out to make a different type of picture within the limits of modern day picture making methods. I believe we have achieved something distinctive. As to how it is received by the public remains to be seen.
A friend of mine brought over two copies of the new Max Steiner album. It was a pleasure to hear the Fountainhead score, although it was not orchestrated quite the way Max Steiner would have wished it to be. It is still a magnificent score in spite of the slow pace of conductor Gerhardt. The Kong suite was a let down but, as you pointed out in your letter, it is such a rarity to hear it at all. I'm looking forward to the new Korngold album. The last one was excellent. |
There was, of course, an original soundtrack recording of The Golden Voyage of Sinbad released on United Artists Records, and the composer conducted his music as performed by The Rome Symphony Orchestra. In personal conversations with Miklos Rozsa in Bloomington, Indiana in 1979, he discussed his unhappiness with the recorded score.
As with most Ray Harryhausen film productions, the budget was understandably tight. The number of musicians hired by the producer was reduced in order to cut costs for the recording. Consequently, although Rozsa had written a full blown, colorful orchestral score, the resulting performance for the film ultimately sounded thin and somewhat threadbare. Per the composer, the members of the orchestra performing for the soundtrack were disinterested in their work, and playing quite sloppily.
Rozsa remarked that rather than studying the orchestral parts, members of the ensemble appeared more interested in reading the racing scores in the daily newspaper. Producer Charles Schneer had everyone on a restricted leash, balking at many retakes or lapses into overtime hours.
Rozsa at last had had enough and scolded the assembled musicians. "You all claim to be religious," he admonished them. "Well, music is our religion, and I'm asking you to pay strict attention to your work and play as though my music meant at least as much to you as those racing reports that you’ve been studying."
Harryhausen shared the composer's frustration. However supportive, his own hands were tied by the film’s suffocatingly narrow budgetary restrictions.
Ray and I had been corresponding with increasing degrees of regularity and intensity for fifteen years but, since he lived in London and I in the United States, our getting together seem a fairly remote possibility. He did, of course, spend some of his vacation time each year in the states but those interludes were generally spent among the denizens of Los Angeles.
Then, in 1981, I received the stunning news that Ray would be traveling across America in order to promote his new film The Clash of the Titans for MGM. Upon further research, I discovered that his travels would take him to the campus of Temple University in Philadelphia. I could hardly contain my excitement.
I was working at the time as a film editor at a television station in town, but I resolved to take a vacation day in order to finally meet my life long hero. I decided not to write him but, rather, to permit our first official meeting to be a complete surprise. As the day approached my exhilaration was becoming palpable. Finally, the day that I'd dreamed of for a seeming lifetime had arrived. I was all of thirty five years old, and I had loved Ray since I was twelve.
I was so nervous driving to the university that I took a left turn where such a move was prohibited by law and, upon completing the turn, I noticed those familiar, if ominous, flashing lights in my rear view mirror. I explained to the officer quite earnestly that I hadn’t noticed the "No Left Turn" sign hidden so discreetly on the other side of the street, but he was unsympathetic to my dilemma and issued me a ticket. It was not an auspicious start to my trip.
By the time I reached Temple University and found a parking spot, I was perspiring profusely and extremely nervous. When I walked through the doors to the auditorium in which Ray was scheduled to appear, I spotted a large crowd of adoring fans waiting to meet him. Somewhat understandably, I would have preferred a more private first meeting with Ray and so I decided to play detective and find the entrance to the proverbial "Green Room."
It wasn't difficult to locate but, as I walked toward the doors I noticed a rather imposing campus security guard wearing a gun, and standing somewhat menacingly in my way. As I approached him, his hand moved instinctively toward his weapon. I somewhat timidly explained that I wanted to see Ray alone before he granted an audience to the fans waiting patiently in line on the other side of the corridor. He told me that I'd have to wait in line along with everyone else.
I attempted to reason with him, and so I told him that Ray and I were friends. He didn't buy it, however, and seemed to be growing more tense. Finally, in a bold, yet courageous act of sublime stupidity, I told the officer that he could walk right behind me once inside the green room, and that if Ray had no idea who I was, that he could throw me bodily out of the building.
I knew that I was taking my life into hands. What if Ray didn't remember me? What if he didn't want to be bothered until performance time? Somewhat suspiciously and grudgingly, I thought, the guard opened the door to the inner sanctum, and I was escorted in. It was a large room, as I recall, and as we walked through the doors I could see a man and a woman seated together at a small table, conversing and sipping coffee. I recognized Ray immediately. The woman with him was, I assumed, his wife, Diana.
As I approached the table I could feel the presence of the nervous security guard quite literally breathing down my neck.
Ray noticed us coming, and arose from the table. "Mr Harryhausen," I said. "We've been corresponding for many years."
He looked at me, and asked "What's your name?"
"Steve Vertlieb," I replied. Ray's face lit up with a broad smile, and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Steve Vertlieb!" he bellowed enthusiastically. Turning to his wife, he exclaimed quite boisterously "Oh, my God, Diana! This is Steve Vertlieb!"
I sensed the security guard backing away from us from behind me, and walking out the door. I had been saved. Everything was going to be all right. Ray invited me to sit down and join the two of them at the table where we chatted excitedly until show time. We walked out together into the waiting crowd, and Ray greeted his adoring public. For me, however, the moment that I'd dreamt of had not only been realized, but become golden.
Our getting together at long last proved, however, to become bittersweet for it was here, during our private meeting away from the crowd, that he told me of his intention to retire from films. I was stunned by his matter-of fact-announcement. For me it was a near horrific statement. His films had occupied such an exalted, magical place in my heart for so much of my life that it was nearly impossible to believe that it was coming to an end.
"Why?," I asked him with a lump in my throat. "You're still a young man, Ray. You're far too young to retire."
The truth was, he explained, that he was simply tired and burned out, and that he wanted to devote the rest of his life to being with Diana, and traveling together.
Shortly thereafter, Ray would make the news public-but I sat in stunned silence as he earnestly explained his intention to stop working to me. It's been said that every cloud has a silver lining, however and, with this eloquent statement, Ray opened the flood gates to personal access to his life, and to his world for the remainder of his days. With this simple act of retirement, his devoted fans, friends, students, and admirers would now be permitted unprecedented admission to the once mystical world of this legendary screen magician. Ray began attending conventions and film festivals all over the world, and now his millions of adoring children would find grace, and unexpected serenity sitting quite literally at the feet of their cherished hero.
I would have many opportunities to see and spend time with Ray in the years that followed. Perhaps the most gratifying of these was in the late Summer of 1990 when Ray was announced as a special guest at Gary and Sue Svehla's Fanex Convention in Baltimore, Maryland. Ray was scheduled to appear as the solo attraction in what was billed as the convention's most noteworthy weekend event, "An Afternoon With Ray Harryhausen."
Knowing of our very special relationship over the previous quarter century, Gary asked me if I'd be willing to host the program, and share the stage with Ray. I was delighted by the offer and accepted without the slightest hesitation. And so, on the afternoon of August 11th, 1990, I stood proudly on stage before a generously assembled room filled with fans of this beloved artist, and introduced "My Friend, Ray Harryhausen" to the packed audience.
Ray walked onto the stage to thunderous, enthusiastic applause. After a few brief remarks, we introduced a reel of film clips taken from notable moments in his astonishing career. When the clips ended, Ray and I took to the stage once more and we chatted about his work, as well as memorable moments from his long career. As both Ray and I were both passionate enthusiasts of music for the movies, I took advantage of my role as host of the afternoon, and asked him to share his thoughts about composers Bernard Herrmann, and Miklos Rozsa...both of whom had worked for him.
Ray adored both gentlemen and had only the highest praise for their extraordinary work in film. He saved his highest praise, however, for the late Max Steiner whose score for King Kong had helped set the stage for the direction of his own life. It was during this memorable conversation that Ray confessed that his own favorite motion score was actually Steiner's music for another Merian C. Cooper/Ernest B. Schoedsack production, the 1935 version of She. For the remainder of the well remembered program in Baltimore, I happily took questions from the enthusiastic audience, and then turned over the microphone to Ray.
When the segment had ended-much too quickly, I thought-I helped Ray place his cherished models back into their protective case, and walked together with him out into the lobby where hundreds of adoring fans awaited him. Respectful of both his legacy, and the many admirers waiting to speak with him, I discreetly moved away from the crowd and told him that I would see him later in the evening.
Ray walked to his left, while I walked away from the assemblage and to my right. As I did so, I was quickly approached by a small family of Ray's fans. There was a gentleman, his wife, and their little boy. The man walked up to me and politely asked "Are you the man who was up on stage with Ray Harryhausen?" I said that I was, indeed, that fortunate individual. The man continued, "You both spoke of Bernard Herrmann?" Once again I nodded "Yes, we did."
The man stepped gracefully aside and introduced the woman and small boy standing along side him. Pointing to them, he said "Well, I’d like to introduce you to Bernard Herrmann's daughter and grandson."
I gasped aloud, clutching my chest. "Oh, My God," I remember yelling. Wendy Harlow, the youngest of Bernard Herrmann’s two children (Author, and Helen Keller biographer, Dorothy Herrmann, was his eldest child) had come to Baltimore with her husband and son to introduce the boy to the legendary figure who had worked so closely with his grandfather.
"Come with me," I said, as I led the threesome over to Ray where he was immersed in answering questions for the fans. I placed my hand on his arm, and he turned around. I pointed to Wendy and her son and said "Ray, this is Bernard Herrmann's daughter and grandson."
Just as I had done a moment earlier, Ray's eyes widened, he clutched his chest, and yelled out "Oh, My God." After introducing them to Ray, I quietly left and re-joined my then wife, Maria, who had been waiting patiently for me in the corridor. All in all, it had been quite an emotional roller coaster ride of an afternoon.
During the late Fall of 1992, Ray appeared as a guest at Philcon, the annual convention of The Philadelphia Science Fiction Society. The convention was being held at the Adam's Mark Hotel up on City Line Avenue.
I wanted to see Ray, but I was going through a particularly dark period in my own life as the convention grew near. I'd lost my career in television, and had found myself in serious financial difficulty. My marriage was in a chaotic state as mounting bills from creditors were beginning to take their psychological toll. I didn't feel much like socializing, and the added expense of convention membership didn't appear realistic or economically responsible.
I felt badly about not seeing Ray, but wanted at least to touch base with him. I telephoned the hotel, and asked for his room. He wasn't there when I telephoned, and so I left a polite message explaining, somewhat improbably, why I was unable to make it to the festivities. It was Sunday, November 15th, 1992, when my home telephone rang. When I answered the phone somewhat dejectedly, I heard Ray’s voice on the other end of the line. He asked what was wrong, and I told him.
"Look," he said, "why don't you drive out anyway? You don't have to buy a ticket. Let me know when you get here, and I’ll come out into the lobby to meet you."
So, on a dreary Sunday afternoon at the close of the convention, I drove up to the hotel and met Ray in the lobby. We hugged, and he spoke affectionately of our long friendship. It was wonderful to see him. We spoke only for a few special moments, but being with him again even for a short time lifted my spirits considerably, and I felt good about having seen him once more.
It was several months later when I found myself in Crystal City, Virginia for the Famous Monsters of Filmland Convention. I knew that Ray was scheduled to attend the festivities, along with old friends Robert Bloch and Ray Bradbury.
It was as exciting a film-elated weekend as I've ever attended, all presided over by the proverbial Pied Piper of Fandom, Forrest J Ackerman. I'd first befriended "Uncle Forry" in 1964, and had even had him as a guest in my home a few years later. Robert Bloch had been a cherished friend since 1970, and Ray Bradbury since 1974. This was an unprecedented opportunity to share a quality weekend with numerous lifelong heroes. As I strolled through the hotel corridors on that opening Friday I thought that I noticed Ray Harryhausen sitting in a chair, surrounded by adoring fans.
As I approached, I could see the back of Ray's head as he held court. He sat in an isolated chair in the middle of the corridor, as countless fans sat before him on the hotel carpet, enthralled by his presence. I had no desire to disturb him, or to interrupt an ongoing fan event, and so I determined to walk past the crowd and not be rude. As I walked beyond the conclave, I heard Ray's familiar voice booming out behind me.
"Steeeeve!" he yelled.
I turned around, and there was Ray, grinning like a little boy and waving at me to join him. I walked toward him as he reached out his hand. I told him that I was simply attempting to be respectful, and not horn in on an on going conversation in mid sentence. He said that he understood, and appreciated the courtesy and that we would meet up later in the day.
I ran into Ray sometime later in the evening, and then again on Saturday. We found each other in the hotel lobby somewhere approaching the dinner hour. He and Diana were going out to a pre-arranged gathering, and I wished him good food and conversation.
He asked if I'd be around later in the evening, and I assured him that I’d likely be in the hotel bar after dinner, talking with friends into the wee small hours. As they walked out of the hotel and into the evening, he said that he'd look for me there upon their return from dinner. Some hours later, I found myself surrounded by friends at a table in a far corner of the bar area. My chair was crunched against the wall, and so I was literally a prisoner within the finite constraints of our isolated table.
Somewhere around nine or ten in the evening I heard someone at our table say "Hey, there's Ray Harryhausen. He seems to be looking for someone."
I said "Yeah, I think that he's looking for me."
A friendly chorus of gentle sarcasm erupted all around me as my drinking pals all chimed in with comments ranging from "You're delusional," to "Oh, sure, Ray Harryhausen is here looking for you."
Lovingly humiliated, I refrained from any further conversation and stared politely into my waiting drink. I found myself in the lobby once more the following morning making my way toward the front desk in order to check out of the hotel. I noticed Ray nearby, making his own way to the desk with similar intentions. I walked over to him, and said "Good Morning."
He looked up, and smiled. "Steve, where were you last night? I walked into the hotel bar looking for you after we returned from dinner, but I couldn't find you. Finally, I gave up and went back to our room."
"Yeah, I know," I said. "I saw you, but I was trapped in a corner, and couldn't get up. I waved from the distance, but I guess you didn't see me."
After a few moments more of friendly conversation, I hugged him affectionately and wished them safe travel back to London.
It was a remarkable weekend.
Over the years Ray would often suggest that if I ever finally made it over to England that he would be happy to put me up as a welcome guest in his home. Having never been to England, I was never able to accept his most generous and loving invitation. I've always regretted that, but I'll forever cherish his mentioning it.
During our many wondrous decades of friendship, Ray would often write me long and fascinating letters about his films, as well as his travels around the world. In one of my most remarkable exchanges with Ray, I confessed that I had always wondered whether the final sequence in Merian C. Cooper's King Kong was actually animated in Obie's Stop Motion process or if, for just an incalculable fragment of seconds, the famous climb up the side of the Empire State Building had been achieved by photographing a man in a suit.
For some reason, I'd always felt uncomfortable about that sequence, and had wondered why the ape "suit" had looked so baggy. It just didn't look to me like the remaining animation in the film. Ray believed that the sequence had been filmed with a model, via Stop Motion Animation, and even went so far as to hand draw an illustration (with notes) of how he felt the shot might have been achieved. That drawing remains among my most precious possessions.
On Saturday, April 24th, 2004, Ray appeared together with Ray Bradbury as a guest of The Los Angeles Festival of Books, where he happily signed copies of his newest volume about the art of Stop Motion Animation. Although I'd signed many of my letters to Ray with my brother's name, along with my own, Erwin had never actually met his life long hero.
Having lived in Los Angeles for many years, he decided to finally stand in the long autograph line, and ask Ray to sign his book. When he approached Ray, seated at his table, Erwin said that he and Ray had shared a mutual acquaintance...his own brother. When Ray asked his name, and Erwin replied "I'm Erwin Vertlieb," Ray threw back his head with a huge grin, laughed heartily, and proclaimed for all to hear, "Ah, the other Vertlieb!"
Ray, along with his life long pals-Ray Bradbury and Forry Ackerman-had nurtured and nourished their uncommon years of friendship with reverence and joy. When my Rondo nominated article about Forry ("The Most "Famous Monster" of Them All") was published by The Thunder Child Science Fiction and Fantasy webzine after his passing, Ray wrote me a heart felt letter expressing his love for his friend, and sharing his sadness that some of Ackerman's later court battles, involving his cherished copyrights, had taken their toll on him.
Similarly, when Ray Bradbury passed away, and my personal tribute to him ("I Sing Bradbury Electrric") was published by Roger Hall's Film Music Review, I mailed a copy of my work to Ray in London.
Now in his early nineties and growing frail, Ray was physically unable to continue our long correspondence himself. I would continue to hear from him periodically through his co-author and literary partner, Tony Dalton. Ray expressed his emotion filled gratitude to me once more, through Tony, for the loving sentiments I’d written about our mutual pal Ray Bradbury in my published remembrance. My own tears of grateful appreciation flowed quite generously with the receipt of Tony's communication.
During the Summer of 2012, a few months after the death of Ray Bradbury, Erwin and I joined writer/producer Arnold Kunert for lunch in the Kodak Center complex in Hollywood, the home of the annual Academy Award ceremonies. Arnold had arranged for the placement of a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in Ray's name, and had been an instrumental influence in the long overdue awarding of a special Oscar given to Ray by Tom Hanks for his lifetime of technical wizardry in the craft of motion picture special effects. After lunch, the three of us walked across the street, opposite the legendary Grauman's (now Mann's) Chinese Theater, where Ray's star had so lovingly been placed. It was a very special moment for each of us.
On Tuesday, May 7th, 2013, while driving to work, Ray was on mind. I don't know why I'd suddenly thought about him, but it sadly occurred to me that his 93rd birthday was rapidly approaching and, remembering Ray Bradbury a year earlier, I couldn't help wondering how much time my dear friend would have remaining to him. I left my Blackbery phone in the car, and went in to my job.
Somewhere around six that evening, I left work and turned on my cell phone as I entered my car. While driving home I absently-mindedly glanced at some of the messages that had been left for me during the day, and there it was, the awful news that I'd been dreading for so long: "R.I.P. Ray Harryhausen."
I gasped, and cried out "Noooooo!"
Ray had passed away peacefully at his home in London. He was 92.
The world of film, and film magic, had been brought to its knees…crushed by the terrible, if inevitable, news that the man who had inspired our dreams and imaginations had left us to walk this Earthly realm alone. How would we go on? How could we go on without the gentle soul who had so wondrously set our hearts and souls ablaze from childhood to maturity?
Maybe, in dreams alone, would he remain…alive, vital, and creative. Perhaps we might conjure him still by lovingly placing our hands upon an enchanted lamp, and prayerfully summoning the genie from The 7TH Voyage of Sinbad for there, in "The Land Beyond Beyond," Ray Harryhausen walks across the sand, casting an imposing shadow once more...a giant among mere Lilliputians, strolling comfortably beside his creatures in a magical world created just for children...and for the child exquisitely alive, and forever young, within each of us.
Steve Vertlieb, May 2013
.
.
