The third agent slid onto a couch in the corner of the office. Koster cleared his throat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He is a portly man with thinning hair slicked down on the top of his head and a thick middle-European accent. At one time he had directed a number of pictures for the Studio. “I have a story for you, Dick,” he said.
Zanuck nodded. No one spoke for a moment. Koster wiped his forehead again and mashed the handkerchief in his hand.
“I have wanted to bring to the screen a story of great music,” he said, “ever since I first came to this country and made
A Hundred Men and a Girl
.” He looked to Zanuck for encouragement. “With Deanna Durbin,” he added.
Zanuck picked up the bronzed baby shoe behind his desk and began to turn it around in his hands. His eyes did not catch Koster’s.
“We fade in on Moscow,” Koster said. “Behind the credits, we hear one of the world’s great symphony orchestras playing—Shostakovich would be good for Moscow. The orchestra has a flamboyant, tempestuous conductor—I think Lenny Bernstein will love this idea. As we finish the credits, we come on on the orchestra and then we close on the cymbals. It is obvious that the cymbal player is sick. The orchestra is supposed to leave Moscow that night for a charity concert in New York.” Koster paused for effect. He was sweating profusely. “For crippled children.”
One of the Morris agents was examining his fingernails.The head of the agent on the couch began to nod.
“When the concert is over, we find that the cymbal player has a contagious disease,” Koster said. He wound the handkerchief around his palms. “We can work out the disease later. The orchestra must be quarantined in Moscow. All except the Lenny Bernstein character. I think we can work out that he had the right shots. Anyway we can get Lenny out of Moscow and back to New York. Now here is your problem, Dick. The charity concert must be canceled.”
The agent on the couch had now fallen asleep. An abortive snore jolted him awake.
“Unless,” Koster continued. He smiled benignly. “There is a youth orchestra in New York and they can take the place of the symphony at the concert. We have, of course, tried to get the Philadelphia and the Cleveland and Ormandy and George Szell would love to do it, but they have commitments. So the Lenny Bernstein character goes to hear the youth symphony and he says, ‘No, I cannot conduct them, they are not good enough.’ He will not yield, the concert must be canceled, there will be no money for the crippled children.” Koster’s voice softened. “But then the president of the charity comes to plead with him against cancellation.” Koster’s head swiveled around, taking in everyone in the room. “In his arms, he is carrying a small boy—with braces on his legs.”
Buckner seemed to sense that Zanuck’s attention was wavering. “We have a love story, too, Dick,” he said.
Koster picked up the cue. “Yes, we have a love story,” he said. “There is a beautiful Chinese cellist who does not speak a word of English and a beatnik kook whoplays the violin.” The words rolled over his tongue. “They communicate through the international language of music.”
“Don’t forget the jazz,” Buckner said.
“We can get jazz into our story, Dick,” Koster said. “You see, the concert is only five days away and there are not enough players in the youth orchestra, so the conductor—the Lenny Bernstein character—goes out and hunts them up in a bunch of weird joints.”
“Jazz joints,” Buckner said.
The top of Koster’s head was slick with perspiration. His voice began to quicken. “Working day and night, the conductor molds these untutored players into a symphony orchestra. In just five days.” Koster’s face grew somber. “Then we get word from Moscow. The quarantine has been lifted. The orchestra can get back to New York in time for the concert.”
Zanuck gazed evenly,
Zanuck nodded. No one spoke for a moment. Koster wiped his forehead again and mashed the handkerchief in his hand.
“I have wanted to bring to the screen a story of great music,” he said, “ever since I first came to this country and made
A Hundred Men and a Girl
.” He looked to Zanuck for encouragement. “With Deanna Durbin,” he added.
Zanuck picked up the bronzed baby shoe behind his desk and began to turn it around in his hands. His eyes did not catch Koster’s.
“We fade in on Moscow,” Koster said. “Behind the credits, we hear one of the world’s great symphony orchestras playing—Shostakovich would be good for Moscow. The orchestra has a flamboyant, tempestuous conductor—I think Lenny Bernstein will love this idea. As we finish the credits, we come on on the orchestra and then we close on the cymbals. It is obvious that the cymbal player is sick. The orchestra is supposed to leave Moscow that night for a charity concert in New York.” Koster paused for effect. He was sweating profusely. “For crippled children.”
One of the Morris agents was examining his fingernails.The head of the agent on the couch began to nod.
“When the concert is over, we find that the cymbal player has a contagious disease,” Koster said. He wound the handkerchief around his palms. “We can work out the disease later. The orchestra must be quarantined in Moscow. All except the Lenny Bernstein character. I think we can work out that he had the right shots. Anyway we can get Lenny out of Moscow and back to New York. Now here is your problem, Dick. The charity concert must be canceled.”
The agent on the couch had now fallen asleep. An abortive snore jolted him awake.
“Unless,” Koster continued. He smiled benignly. “There is a youth orchestra in New York and they can take the place of the symphony at the concert. We have, of course, tried to get the Philadelphia and the Cleveland and Ormandy and George Szell would love to do it, but they have commitments. So the Lenny Bernstein character goes to hear the youth symphony and he says, ‘No, I cannot conduct them, they are not good enough.’ He will not yield, the concert must be canceled, there will be no money for the crippled children.” Koster’s voice softened. “But then the president of the charity comes to plead with him against cancellation.” Koster’s head swiveled around, taking in everyone in the room. “In his arms, he is carrying a small boy—with braces on his legs.”
Buckner seemed to sense that Zanuck’s attention was wavering. “We have a love story, too, Dick,” he said.
Koster picked up the cue. “Yes, we have a love story,” he said. “There is a beautiful Chinese cellist who does not speak a word of English and a beatnik kook whoplays the violin.” The words rolled over his tongue. “They communicate through the international language of music.”
“Don’t forget the jazz,” Buckner said.
“We can get jazz into our story, Dick,” Koster said. “You see, the concert is only five days away and there are not enough players in the youth orchestra, so the conductor—the Lenny Bernstein character—goes out and hunts them up in a bunch of weird joints.”
“Jazz joints,” Buckner said.
The top of Koster’s head was slick with perspiration. His voice began to quicken. “Working day and night, the conductor molds these untutored players into a symphony orchestra. In just five days.” Koster’s face grew somber. “Then we get word from Moscow. The quarantine has been lifted. The orchestra can get back to New York in time for the concert.”
Zanuck gazed evenly,
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