Klaatu Barada Nikto!: The Day the Earth Stood Still

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Klaatu Barada Nikto!: The Day the Earth Stood
Still
On the eve of Bernard Herrmann’s 100th birthday, a musical analysis of his
seminal sci-fi score.
By Ross Care
Tension between post-war optimism and post-nuclear pessimism can be found in
much science fiction of the 1950s, the latter an understandable anxiety fanned by
the dawn of the nuclear age in 1945. Robert Wise’s The Day the Earth Stood Still
(1951) is not so much a paranoiac as an earnestly cautionary meditation on the
necessity of keeping mankind’s more aggressive tendencies in check. But while the
film is obviously made in the shadow of Hiroshima, its vivid visualization of such
classic icons as flying saucers, robots, and disintegration rays, not to mention its
definitively futuristic musical score, also make it one of the best and most
intelligent films influenced by the distinctive pulp sci-fi of the era.
Bernard Herrmann was Wise’s personal choice as composer for Day, mainly on the
strength of their association on Citizen Kane, which Wise had edited. Wise had also
edited the now-infamous recutting of Orson Welles’ The Magnificent Ambersons,
which resulted in such a butchering of Herrmann’s score that the composer had his
name removed from the film. But apparently he bore no ill-will towards Wise, who
respected Herrmann’s work and gave him carte blanche to “do something special”
with the music. Today, The Day the Earth Stood Still remains one of the most avant
garde and least commercial scores ever created for a mainstream Hollywood film.
In the following analysis of Herrmann’s score, the cue titles are based on the
composer’s original manuscripts located in the Herrmann Papers at the University
of California, Santa Barbara, and on the cue list as printed in the liner notes for the
1993 20th Century-Fox Film Scores CD (07822-11010-2), one of the key releases in
the short-lived “Classic Series” of re-issued Fox scores produced by Nick Redman.
After the classic pre-CinemaScope Fox fanfare, the “Prelude” opens with a brief but
terrifying passage unlike anything heard previously in a Hollywood score, and
notated in an equally unorthodox fashion. Instead of conventional notation, the
one-page “Prelude” is essentially a diagram for an electronic realization of a cue
that will actually be created in the recording studio. Four “clusters” of sounds are
notated on the page along with two lists of instructions for their overlay in the
recording process. The clusters (or tracks) are indicated by letters. The top cluster,
X, consists of two pianos and a battery of four percussion instruments notated on
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eight staves. The percussion includes three groups of chimes, each playing two
notes (with steel mallets), and one large cymbal. Cluster Y is three vibraphones,
while cluster Z is four rolled cymbals. The final cluster, W, is indicated by two
descending glissandi for two “thermins” [sic].1 A sidebar at the bottom of the page
indicates the format in which the four clusters are to be superimposed in the
recording process, namely that tracks X and Y are to be played backwards while W
and Z are to be heard in normal forward mode.
Without a break the second cue and main title proper, “Outer Space” immediately
follows the “Prelude.” Against visuals of outer space starscapes backing the credits,
the first motif commences, a typical Herrmann progression of two imposing chords,
essentially D minor and E-flat minor, under two wailing theremins. As the visuals
begin, a slow forward truck and the title’s secondary motif, a rising trumpet figure,
sounds, and the backgrounds of the credits become a concise visualization of
Klaatu’s interstellar journey to earth from deep space. This second motif, composed
of an ascending fifth followed by an ascending fourth, is an almost exact replication
of Richard Strauss’ brass “Superman” motif that opens his grandiose tone poem,
Also sprach Zarathustra.
Though Stanley Kubrick would use the actual opening of Zarathustra in 2001: A
Space Odyssey, Herrmann’s homage to the Strauss “Superman” theme is also a
perfect, if somewhat rarified (for 1951), reference. The variation of the Zarathustra
theme is a simple extension by varying Strauss’ three notes (C, G, C) with four,
Herrmann simply repeating the second note (the top of the fifth interval) to create a
subtle but effective transformation (or disguise) of the original motif (C, G, G, C).
Both chords and the “Superman” motif are repeated and subtly varied to create a
thrilling evocation of both the wonder and dread of outer space.2
Much of Herrmann’s original score is notated on “G. Schirmer Imperial Brand no.
4—24 Stave” manuscript paper. But the first page of “Outer Space” takes up 27
staves, most of which are crammed full of either swirling 16th-note figures
(Hammond organs, pianos, harps, vibes) or sustained whole notes (theremins,
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brass, studio organ). The two top staves are for theremins I and II playing sustained
whole notes in octaves. Below these are nine staves for three organs—two
Hammond organs and one “studio” organ. Each organ part is notated on three
staves, for left and right hands and pedals. Below the organs are pianos I and II and
harps I and II. The brass section is for 10 players: three each of trumpets and
trombones, and two each for tuba and contrabass tuba. Below the brass are two
vibraphones and two glockenspiels, tamtam (gong), and the electrified string
section composed of violin, cello, and electric bass. Two addendums are penciled in
on the first page, probably for the later re-recordings: Moog (synthesizer) I and II
for the theremin part, and Fender bass for the electric bass.
Though seemingly complex to the eye, the result as a whole is relatively simple. The
motifs are organized in symmetrical four-measure phrases that are repeated and
varied. The time signature (cut time) never changes. Sonically, the electric violin
doubles the theremins (which are playing in octaves), and the cello and bass double
organ pedals. The sustained massed chords are played by the trumpets and
trombones doubled by the studio organ. The tuba section provides the only
counterpoint, a descending triadic figure also in octaves.
1
2
Herrmann spells theremin “thermin” on his manuscript scores. I will use the former spelling in this article.
The first page of the full score to “Outer Space” (and other score excepts) may be found in the book Off the
Planet Music, Sound and Science Fiction Cinema, Philip Hayward, editor, John Libbey Publishing, Perfect
Beat Publications, London; distributed in America by Indiana University Press, 2004. Rebecca Leydon’s
article, “Hooked on Aetherophonics: The Day the Earth Stood Still” (see page 33), also provides many
fascinating and in-depth details about the harmonic and technical aspects of Herrmann’s score.
As the credit backgrounds shift to a view of a distant earth from the edge of the
moon, the matte paintings give way to photographed scenes of the earth’s
atmosphere and the score’s third cue, “Radar,” begins as various international
sources track Klaatu’s ship circling the globe, a sequence that sets up the global
consequence of what is to follow. Herrmann’s instrumentation here is especially
terse and effective, the brittle staccato sound of two pianos creating a kind of techno
ostinato to the scenes of various news reports of the ship’s arrival (the sounds of
which unfortunately mask a good deal of this inventive cue). The use of multiple
pianos also enables one of the cue’s distinguishing characteristics: the abrupt,
almost instantaneous leaps between the upper and lower registers of the piano
keyboards.
How precisely Herrmann structured the use of the multiple pianos can be noted in
the composer’s own re-recording of excerpts from the score on London Records, the
stereo recording placing the pianos playing the lower passages on the left and those
playing the middle/high range passages on the right. The cue tempo is marked as
“Allegro mysterioso” (fast and mysterious) and is notated on nine staves (though
two are blank). The piano I part is written in the treble clef while piano II is written
in the bass. Both parts are marked “sharp and staccato” and “no pedal.” The two top
staves are for vibes I and II playing four-note chords marked ppp (very, very soft),
which is probably why they are barely heard in the film. There is also a part for
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electric bass marked “pizz.” (plucked) that is also nearly inaudible.
The landing in Washington, an impressive shot of the saucer descending on a large
baseball field just in front of the White House, concludes the cue. The reactions to
the saucer are depicted in a pseudo-documentary sequence of Washington scenes,
and the various media reactions by radio/television commentators (including Drew
Pearson) is equally naturalistic.
As Pearson offers the by now all-too-familiar litany that there is “no reasonable
cause of alarm” the camera trucks into a vintage television set for a transition to an
on-the-spot view of the emergence of the alien, Klaatu (Michael Rennie). The only
music heard in this transitional sequence is a 22-second spot, “Danger,” when the
saucer is heading for Washington.
The next music cue, “Klaatu,” commences as a runway silently slips out of the
saucer. The suspenseful scenes that ensue are a superlative example of director
Wise’s background as an editor. As Herrmann’s repetitively tentative music gives an
unnerving impression that anything might happen, Wise sets up brief shots that
delineate the varying reactions of the collective crowd: grinning children with
Brownie cameras eagerly pushing through apprehensive adults, tense soldiers
nervously training their guns on the runway. The crowd scenes also give a collective
view of realistic ’50s types, and do not exclude shots of middle-class African
American observers.
In contrast to the quick cuts in the editing, Herrmann’s tense but subdued cue
repeats its almost maddeningly single-note motif under Klaatu’s descent down the
runway, his visage hidden in an eerie space helmet resembling a fencing mask. The
tension peaks when he unexpectedly (and unwisely) snaps open a telescope device,
a gift for the president, and is shot by a nervous soldier.
The shooting marks the end of “Klaatu,” a cue that manages to generate a
considerable tension by simple repetition, rather than through an overbearing
increase in mass and volume. It is cut off (without any climax) by the rifle shot that
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wounds Klaatu, and after a brief interlude of crowd noise, more aggressive music
begins as Gort, Klaatu’s robot, is seen at the door of the saucer (“Gort”). Wise
himself expressed some apprehension about the visual realization of Klaatu’s
metallic protector/associate, and as the creature rather clunkily descends the
runway it must be conceded that in this case it is Herrmann’s music, rather than the
visuals that generates a true sense of terror. (The impact of the scene is also
somewhat negated by the speeded-up shots of the crowd rushing away in panic.)
However, Gort is much more menacing when seen in static close-up as he prepares
to turn his disintegration ray on the massed weaponry to Herrmann’s chilling “The
Visor.” The medium close-up of his faceless visage, the visor opening to spark the
incandescent white disintegration ray, all backed by Herrmann’s abrasive brass is
truly one of the defining moments in ’50s cinematic science fiction. (The cue also
suggests a hint of the muted brass timbres that Alfred Newman would use to
suggest the menace of imperial Rome in his later score for The Robe.)
The music continues under the attack on the weapons (which leaves the soldiers
unscathed) with jolts of brass and electronic zaps. (Only on the Fox CD can listeners
hear the odd brass interludes that are covered by the sound effects in the film.)
Scene and cue both subside and conclude with Klaatu calling off the robot, and his
being sent to Walter Reed Hospital for treatment, concluding of one of the great
establishing sequences in ’50s sci-fi-dom.
The ensuing sections of the film, as Klaatu gradually becomes acquainted with the
“strange, unreasoning attitudes” of earth people, are played mostly without music.
After an official relays the negative responses to Klaatu’s request for an all-inclusive
international meeting, Klaatu determines to familiarize himself with the people of
earth for himself and escapes from his locked room. To a short transitional cue,
“Escape,” an agitated variation of the “Outer Space” with a swirling piano obligate
sandwiched between material heard earlier in the “Danger” cue, Klaatu is seen
walking the nocturnal streets of Washington as radios blare hysterical reactions to
his disappearance. Ongoing media commentary, both on radio and television, is a
continuing aural obligato to the first half of the film. He finds accommodations in a
middle-class rooming house with a cross-section of American types including the
attractive widowed Mrs. Benson (Patricia Neal) and her son, Bobby (Billy Gray).
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When Klaatu later spends a Sunday afternoon with young Bobby visiting his
father’s grave at Arlington cemetery, the alien learns about the folly and persistence
of earth’s wars. But his opinion of earthlings is also elevated by a visit to the
imposing Lincoln Memorial, where they read the words of the Gettysburg Address.
Both cues quietly but potently suggest the stirring, now almost nostalgic idealism of
the original American Dream. The notation takes up only six staves: for solo
trumpet in C, solo horn in F, and three trombones (on two staves), the latter
providing simple triadic (three-part chord) backup harmonies for the solos.
Underneath the top solo trumpet part are two more staves for Hammond organ,
also playing triads.
Both cues take up only one page each of Herrmann’s original score. In “Arlington,”
the tempo indication is “Lento, molto tranquillo” (slowly, very tranquil). The
trumpet is marked “muted.” “Dolce” (sweetly) is also written under both the
trumpet and horn solos. The opening of the “Lincoln Memorial” cue, marked
“Moderato, molto tranquillo,” begins a bit stronger with the trumpet playing “senza
sord.” (without mute) and f (loud). (It is interesting to observe that Herrmann uses
the English term “muted” in the first cue, and the proper Italian term “sord.”
(abbreviation for “sordino”) in the second cue. The “Lincoln” cue concludes quietly
and again “dolce,” with the trumpet accompanied by organ in the concluding
measures. Timing indications are written over the top trumpet part and measure
numbers beneath the bottom third trombone. At measure 9, also indicated by a
rehearsal letter A, the timing is 19 and 1/3 seconds, indicating the precision with
which even these brief cues are synced to the film.
The ensuing section of this pivotal sequence of the film is played also without music
as the business of setting up the climactic sequence unfolds. After visiting the
Memorial, where Klaatu is reassured that great men and minds do exist on earth, at
Bobby’s suggestion they visit home of the physicist, Professor Barnhard (Sam
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Jaffe). While there, Klaatu anonymously leaves the solution to a problem in
celestial mechanics.
Having left the address of his rooming house, Klaatu is soon summoned by the
professor and explains his mission in detail: to prevent earthlings from
transporting their primitive experiments in atomic energy to other planets. Klaatu
emphasizes that there is no alternative to this demand, other than the total
destruction of earth, and the awed professor offers to assist in assembling the
leaders Klaatu demands. But first Barnhard asks for a sign that will establish the
gravity and validity of the situation beyond any doubt. Klaatu agrees, asking if the
day after tomorrow around noon will be suitable.
Back at the rooming house, Klaatu borrows a flashlight from Bobby, who then
follows when he sees the spaceman leave, a sequence that motivates an involved
and varied set of cues, a continuous “suite” divided into five sections. “Nocturne,”
scored for Hammond organ, three trumpets, vibraphone, chimes, and harp (first
playing harmonics and later extremely low notes) is heard as Bobby follows Klaatu
out of the house to the mall, where only a few soldiers are guarding the saucer. (The
“Nocturne” is especially interesting for the fact that several of the instruments in
this odd ensemble are noticeably out-of-tune.) Klaatu signals Gort with the
“Flashlight,” a frightening duet for two theremins above sustained notes from
electric cello, bass and gong. The reanimated creature knocks out the soldiers (“The
Robot” with equally eerie brass and timpani glissandi) allowing Klaatu to enter the
spaceship. In the eerily lit interior he arranges his demonstration of power (“Space
Control”). The latter is a welcome respite into the glittering high-register sonorities
of vibes, bells, harps, piano, and celeste with an eerily human-sounding theremin.
Back at the rooming house Mrs. Benson and her fiancé (Hugh Marlowe) hear
Bobby’s story, setting up the plot’s final complications. The next day Klaatu seeks
out Mrs. Benson at her office and they are trapped alone in the building’s service
elevator (“The Elevator”) as power is cut off around the globe for a half hour
between noon and 12:30. Another documentary-like episode shows the global
impact of Klaatu’s demonstration, scored with “The Magnetic Pull,” an amazing cue
that again utilizes various tracks of sonorities played backwards.
Motivated by Klaatu’s demonstration, plans finally get underway to establish the
conference in Washington (“The Study,” “The Conference”). Mrs. Benson’s
opportunistic fiancé takes the gemstones that Klaatu gave Bobby (in lieu of money
when they were touring Washington) to a jeweler (“The Jewelry Store”), verifying
his suspicions that Mr. Carpenter is indeed the escaped spaceman.
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As more “Panic” grips Washington the Army encases Gort in a new impenetrable
plastic and launches intensive efforts to apprehend Klaatu “alive—if possible.”
Klaatu intuitively realizes his danger and gives Mrs. Benson a message to deliver to
Gort should anything happen to him. When he is shot down on the streets of
Washington after an attempt to reach Dr. Barnhardt, Gort disintegrates his casing
(“The Glowing”) and two guards (“Gort’s Rage”). As the terrified Mrs. Benson
approaches the robot (“Alone”) she manages to speak the key phrase (“Nikto”)
before, in an iconic ’50s sci-fi image, being carried into the saucer (“The Captive,”
“Terror”) and left there as Gort goes off to rescue Klaatu.
After disintegrating the wall of cell where Klaatu lies dead (“The Prison”) the robot
carries him back to the ship. Before the amazed Mrs. Benson Gort brings Klaatu
back to life (“Rebirth”). Just as the army, assuming Klaatu is dead, starts to disband
the international meeting about to begin outside the ship, the unlikely trio emerges
on the runway of the saucer (“Departure”) and Klaatu delivers an oration that
tersely sums up his ultimatum to earth: essentially a choice between a cessation of
earthlings’ primitive aggressive tendencies or obliteration. As the film’s tagline
says: “From out of space…a warning and an ultimatum!”
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A final brief but telling cue echoes Herrmann’s noble music for the Arlington/
Lincoln Memorial scenes, creating a subtle musical link between Klaatu and the
founding creed of the fathers of the United States. With a fond gesture to Mrs.
Benson (“Farewell”) the ship takes off and returns to the deep space from whence it
came (“Finale”).
Herrmann himself commented on the score: “The film with the most avant-garde
technique was the picture I did for Robert Wise. At the time, we had no electronic
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sound, but the score had many electronic features which haven’t become antiquated
at all: electric violin, electric bass, two high and low electric theremins, four pianos,
four harps, and a very strange section of about 30-odd brass. Alfred Newman said
the only thing we needed was an electric hot water bottle, which he supplied.”3
In the 1985 edition of his excellent book on genre scoring, Musique Fantastique,
Randall Larson accurately sums up Herrmann’s less-is-more approach: “The
dominant element of The Day the Earth Stood Still was one that ran through
almost all of Herrmann’s fantasy scores, its origin going back even to parts of
Citizen Kane: a multitude of variations upon a relatively simple two-note phrase,
repeated in various shades and textures, growing and diminishing and providing a
marvelously apprehensive atmosphere.”
Larson also quotes Paul M. Sammon’s 1977 Photon article, “Farewell to the
Master,” another analysis of Herrmann’s fantasy scores: ‘“Certain chord structures
were used in basic combinations throughout much of his music, and his singular
‘sound’ was, at times and to the uninitiated ear, tiringly repetitive. Yet, with
attention, Herrmann’s apparent flaws fade beside the very real, very exciting, very
imaginative complexity his film compositions brought to the mass audience. And,
as Alfred Hitchcock once said, self-plagiarism can also be defined as ‘style.’”
Whether or not one agrees with these justifications of the aesthetic “flaws” of
Herrmann’s compositions as absolute music, there is no doubt that the technique
works marvelously well in the films. On CD some extended cues seem almost
tedious. But in the film itself each one perfectly paces and enhances the scenes for
which they were created. (Once upon a time there actually was a notion, now
heresy, but even seconded by some film composers, that film music should not be
heard away from the films for which it was composed!)
The Day the Earth Stood Still itself is not “just” another 1950s science fiction opus.
One of the first in the genre by a major studio, the film partakes of all the quality
production values that were a part of any major studio production of this era. In
addition, the screenplay expounds upon an ahead-of-its-time pacifistic/antinuclear message while including, as Jon Burlingame notes, “a rather daring Christ
parallel in Klaatu’s death and resurrection.” As a cautionary tale of humanity’s too
persistent tendencies towards isolationism, aggression, and hysterical paranoia, the
film remains—unfortunately—more relevant than ever more than half a century
after it first appeared, as does Herrmann’s endlessly fascinating and mysterious
genre score, which continues to both probe and define the true meaning of
“cinefantastique.”
—FSMO
The author wishes to express special thanks to David Seubert, Curator of the
Special Collections in the Davidson Library at the University of California, Santa
Barbara.
3
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Bernard Herrmann in interview with Ted Gilling, Sight and Sound, Winter, 1971-72.
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