The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,14
that was the first change I made: I thought that hurt the reality of it—radio has an immediacy. Sure, we can go back to the foggy London of Sherlock Holmes and lose ourselves there; or to Treasure Island with Long John Silver and Jim Hawkins. But to do science fiction, something futuristic, that’s set forty years back? I don’t think so.”
“So, then, you’ve modernized it?”
“Yes—it’s happening today, and it’s happening in America, not London.”
“Ah!” Gibson stubbed out his Camel in a glass ashtray, with CBS in it. “So where do the Martians land, now? Times Square?”
“Actually, I thought somewhere out in the obscure countryside would be better. Something rural, where the contrast would be great...and where an invading army might logically deploy itself.”
Nodding, Gibson said, “I like that. You’ve thought about this, really thought it through. Sounds to me you’re doing fine—where exactly then did you have them land?”
“Grovers Mill, New Jersey.”
“Where?”
The radio writer patted the air with both hands, his tone apologetic. “Let me explain—Monday’s my only day off. I was making a quick trip up the Hudson, to see my family, and I was on Route Nine West—”
“Which took you through New Jersey.”
“Exactly. Anyway, I stopped at a gas station and picked up a road map of the state, knowing the next day, at work, I’d have to be figuring out my...or I should say the Martians’...battle plan. So back in my office in New York, getting down to it, I spread the map out on the floor, closed my eyes...and dropped a pencil.”
“On Grovers Mill.”
“Right. I liked the ring of it—sounded like the real place it was. Plus, it’s near Princeton, and I have this astronomer character in the show, called Professor Pierson, who works out of the Princeton Observatory.”
“Luck was on your side.”
“We’ll see.” He spread his hands out in the air, his eyes gleaming, suddenly. “I can tell you that that map became my best friend. There I was, deploying the opposing forces over an ever-widening area, wreaking havoc like a drunken general...making moves and countermoves between invaders and defenders.”
“It’s good to be God.”
“You’ll have to check with Orson for the answer to that one! But...I did enjoy destroying New Jersey.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
He chuckled, like a kid about to share a terrible, wonderful secret. “If you hang around to listen, Walter, you’ll find I also demolish the very Columbia Broadcasting Building we’re seated in.”
“Wishful thinking, no doubt. Howard, why are you recording this rehearsal?”
“Well, I’m not doing anything—I’m just the writer. I’m somewhere about ten rungs in importance below Ora Nichols, the sound-effects gal. Why record it in advance? Timing, for one thing—Paul will be sitting by his script in the booth next to us, stopwatch in hand, to see if we’re long or short. But mostly it’s so Orson can attend without attending—so he can listen to the acetate tonight and make his notes for me to do revisions, and to make production demands of Paul, even music suggestions to Benny—Benny Herrmann, that is, our in-house maestro.”
With Koch seated at his side, Gibson listened to the rehearsal and went through several more Camels; because they were recording, no stops could be made—the invasion from Mars went forward even with flubs.
The adaptation of the Wells novella began imaginatively enough with a news bulletin interrupting a remote broadcast of a dance band. Then a second bulletin took reporter Carl Phillips (former Shadow, Frank Readick) to the Princeton Observatory to interview Professor Pierson, played by a small man with a big voice. Soon the two men were at the scene, and a more or less conventional fantasy melodrama played out.
When it was finished, director Stewart emerged from the adjacent control booth to speak to Koch, with Gibson still at the radio writer’s side.
“Well?” Stewart asked.
“It wasn’t terrible,” Koch said.
“No,” Stewart admitted. “It was worse than terrible: it wasn’t good.” The director pulled a chair up. He looked to his guest. “What do you think, Walter?”
“I don’t know that my opinion matters.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“Well, you don’t have the sound effects perfected yet....”
“No,” Stewart granted. “We’ll be doing that on Saturday. Ora’s the best—the effects’ll be first-rate by air.”
“Good. And that one actor was obviously filling in for Orson.”
“Yes. Bill Alland. He always sits in for Orson on these rehearsals.”
“He’s not bad, but Orson’s a star, with the greatest voice in radio. He’ll sell this.”
Stewart nodded. “What works for you? What doesn’t?”
Gibson shrugged. “It starts out great. Those news bulletins are compelling. I like the bit, after the