There was so much going on those first weeks—costume fittings, hair and makeup tests, rehearsing and recording the musical numbers—not to mention getting to know the rest of the cast and crew.
Dorothy Jeakins, one of the finest costume designers in Hollywood, had designed such films as Friendly Persuasion, South Pacific, and The Music Man. Her costumes for The Sound of Music were exquisite in their materials, texture, and authenticity. As I had done with Mary Poppins, I found myself absorbing the character from the outside in, sensing the nuances of Maria’s personality from the images that confronted me in the mirror when I put on the nun’s habit, or the rough, shabby dress that even “the poor didn’t want.”
Dorothy said to me, “I think once Maria gets married, she becomes more of a woman.” Therefore, the soft, girlish dresses in the early part of the film gave way to more mature outfits, such as beautifully tailored suits, all of which helped me understand the evolution of Maria’s character.
Then there was the issue of my hair. Having cut it short during Mary Poppins to accommodate the wigs, I had kept it that way ever since. I had added a few highlights to enliven my mousey brown, but on camera the back of my head was still too dark. Bob decided that I should have more highlights, which was fine with me. Unfortunately, there was a mistake in the color processing, and I ended up with a bright orange mop. My hair had to be cut even shorter, and what was left of it was dyed pure blonde. As luck would have it, this gave me a more Austrian look. Initially it was a shock to be so yellow-blonde, but I got used to it. Having it so short was actually more convenient, especially whenever I needed touch-ups on location. That close cut was also more authentic in terms of playing a nun, since most novitiates kept their hair short under the wimple.
Prerecording the songs for the film was one of the most enjoyable parts of the entire project. The music was recorded in a vast studio at 20th Century Fox. To walk in through the heavy door and see and hear seventy musicians tuning their instruments, practicing a phrase, leafing through a score, is enough to make your stomach somersault with nerves—but it’s also a thrill. For me, there are few pleasures greater than singing with a large orchestra.
For the first run-through of every song, I stood next to Irwin Kostal, to hear the layout of the orchestration. For the recording itself, I went inside a small, soundproof glass booth. I had a view of the orchestra, and Irwin on his podium, and I could hear the musicians through my headphones. I prayed that I could come up to their level of brilliance.
Because we’d already learned the choreography for our musical numbers together, the children and I were able to imagine what it might really be like when we actually shot the scenes—when we would be skipping, marching, and so on. But singing the solo title song that opens the film was a different thing altogether. I had no idea—and I’m not sure Bob, Marc, or Dee Dee did either—which field or which mountainous area we’d be filming in, and what movements would be required. In fact, the sweeping turn that I make at the beginning of the song was an idea Bob only came up with once we were on location, so in recording the song I had to rely on my imagination and instinct. Irwin’s orchestrations were gorgeous, and as the score climbed to my opening phrase, I intuitively sensed—and the music indicated—the grandeur of the landscape around me. I knew that the moment had to be thrilling. I simply shut my eyes and let the music be my guide.
Oscar Hammerstein’s lyric for “The Sound of Music” tells us so much about Maria herself; her love of nature, her loneliness, the things that make her heart sing. To convey all of this through my vocal interpretation before we’d even shot a single scene felt like an impossibility. I hung on to the words and the images they conjured for me as best I could—though I will confess that “a lark who is learning to pray” is an image that has always eluded me. My solution there was to push through that line and topple into the next phrase and associated image as quickly as possible. I hoped that what I had laid down on the track would suffice when the time came to shoot the scene, several months later.
PRINCIPAL PHOTOGRAPHY FINALLY commenced at the end of March, with the scenes in Maria’s bedroom and the song “My Favorite Things.” I was very nervous. I’d never worked with Robert Wise before, but I knew that his impressive résumé included Somebody Up There Likes Me and West Side Story. I had also never worked with seven children before, but I imagined they might be even more nervous than I was. I spent as much time as I could telling them stories, making faces at them behind the camera when Bob needed a good close-up, and generally trying to put them at ease. The adorable grin I elicited from Duane Chase in “Favorite Things” was reward enough. Even though Mary Poppins hadn’t been released yet, the children had heard about it. They kept asking me to say “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” for them, which I did—and then to their delight, I said it backwards.
Ernest Lehman, our screenwriter, had written the screenplays for such films as West Side Story and North by Northwest. He disliked when characters in musicals burst into song without warning, and he wanted to avoid having to write clichéd dialogue to facilitate a segue to the music. So he suggested that I simply speak the first phrase of “My Favorite Things” as a continuation of dialogue, then once the orchestra established itself, ease into singing. I was very pleased, because it felt more real to me when the song grew organically out of the story.
I have always enjoyed singing “My Favorite Things.” It has such a strong and spare chord structure, and its lilting melody is irresistible. “I’m in Love with a Wonderful Guy” has the same compelling drive. I feel Richard Rodgers stands alongside the Strausses and Henry Mancini as one of the great “waltz kings,” and Oscar Hammerstein’s brilliant lyrics render these songs unforgettable.
Incidentally, there’s something I want to set straight. Rumors abound that I was the author of a tasteless send-up of “My Favorite Things,” which I supposedly sang at an AARP benefit at Radio City Music Hall. I’d like to state for the record that I never had anything to do with it. I didn’t write it, I didn’t sing it, and I have no idea where it came from. I have never sung at Radio City—and more importantly, why would I denigrate such a beautiful song, which I was so honored to sing?
The “Favorite Things” scene concludes with the arrival of Captain von Trapp, played by Christopher Plummer. Our paths had crossed only once or twice during my time on Broadway, but I knew Chris to be an esteemed classical actor, which I found intimidating. My background was in vaudeville, the complete opposite of “legit” theater, which Chris had done so much of. I thought, “How can I match up?” He had initially struck me as a surprisingly dark choice for the Captain, and I’d heard that he almost hadn’t accepted the role. On that first day of filming, I realized he’d been brilliantly cast. He just was Captain von Trapp.
The first piece of direction I recall receiving from Bob Wise was when I was kneeling at the bedside praying, while Liesl creeps into my room through the window. Bob demonstrated the image he had in mind for Maria in that moment: hands clasped, elbows on the bed, head bowed. It sounds like such a simple thing, but the posture felt instantly right, and it cemented my trust in our director.
Bob was gentle, patient, and considerate. Whenever Emma came to the set, he would lift her onto his knee while I was doing a scene and let her watch with him from behind the camera. He also allowed me the freedom to improvise occasionally, and only reined me in if he felt I had gone too far.
At the end of the “Lonely Goatherd” sequence, for instance, there’s a shot of me staggering around the corner of the little puppet theater, exhausted. I initially hammed it up to such an extent that Bob burst out laughing. I said to him, “But Bob, I think she would be that exhausted! Why wouldn’t she show it?” He replied, “It’s wonderfully funny, Julie, but it’s too much . . . Bring it down.”
For that number, we all had to learn how to operate the marionettes; no easy task. I’d prerecorded some of the extra voices, including a goat, which was great fun. However, the one thing I c
ouldn’t do was yodel. In the original Broadway production, Mary Martin yodeled brilliantly. Although I practiced and tried my best to make the required “break” in my voice, I don’t think I fooled anyone. Having spent so many years working with Madame Stiles-Allen on trying to erase any vocal “gear-changing,” it was hard for me to put a glottal shift back in. In the years since, I’ve heard a great deal of authentic yodeling in Switzerland and Austria, and I’m always impressed by the skill it requires.
Bob taught me a great deal about how to perform on camera. He said to me, “Julie, when the camera is in a tight close-up, and you’re looking at someone, try not to move your eyes back and forth from one side to another. Onstage you’d never notice, but on the big screen it’s very distracting.” I learned to either focus on the space between the eyebrows of my fellow actor, or simply look at the eye closest to the camera. Bob also encouraged me to blink less. Neither of my previous directors had mentioned these things, and I now realize it was probably because Poppins and Emily were filmed in 35 mm, whereas The Sound of Music was shot in 70 mm Todd-AO—a much wider format, making every facial tic more apparent.
THE WEEKEND BEFORE I traveled to Austria to commence location shooting, Tony and I managed to meet up in New York City for just two nights. It was precious little time together, but we were happy to have even that. His sweet, familiar presence always made me feel safe again. Tony was taking production meetings for the upcoming musical of Clifford Odets’s Golden Boy, starring Sammy Davis Jr., for which he would be designing sets, costumes, and projections. The show was to have a long tryout period in Philadelphia, Boston, and Detroit, before opening on Broadway. I was immensely proud that Tony’s career was taking off in such meteoric fashion, but I don’t think either of us yet grasped how long we would have to be away from each other, or how these extended separations might take a toll on our marriage. We’d known each other for almost seventeen years and had often been apart for work-related projects. At this point in our relationship, it seemed natural to allow for each other’s professional commitments. We couldn’t always expect to work together as we had done with Mary Poppins. I hoped Tony would be able to visit me in Austria.
Emma, Kay, and I traveled from New York to Salzburg on April 21. I had never visited Austria before, and it was exciting to see the historic city where Mozart was born, and its beautiful surrounding mountains. The film company had housed the cast and crew in several different hotels. I was in the rather staid Hotel Österreichischer Hof—the name itself was daunting—now called the Sacher. Chris Plummer was in the ritzier and more popular Hôtel Le Bristol. I think the studio felt that the Österreichischer Hof would be quieter and more comfortable for Emma, Kay, and me.
The day after I arrived in Austria, we shot the massive wedding scene inside the Basilica St. Michael by the lake of Mondsee. It had taken our cinematographer, Ted McCord, and his crew several days to light the exquisite church. The scene was made all the more challenging by the number of locals who’d been brought in to act as spectators, dressed in their traditional Austrian finery. It took quite a bit of crowd control.
Maria’s wedding dress, designed by Dorothy Jeakins, was one of the most beautiful costumes I have ever worn, before or since. As I walked down the center aisle, clutching my bouquet and matching my steps to the soaring musical playback, it was thrilling to glimpse the camera through the magnificent archways, dollying sideways along a separate aisle to keep me in frame. I could see Chris waiting by the altar at the top of the steps, and as I climbed to join him and reached out to take his hand, I was reminded of my aunt Joan’s lessons in graceful arm extensions and “finishing the line.”
We moved from the church to the Felsenreitschule, or Rock Riding School, which is the amphitheater where the Salzburg Festival is held each year. The arena is carved out of stone, and the long nights that we shot there were perishingly cold. My heart went out to the more than one thousand extras, who had to simply sit in the audience and couldn’t retreat to a warm trailer. In a bizarre twist, someone had assumed that the song we were all to sing, “Edelweiss,” would be known by Austrians. In fact, having been written by Rodgers and Hammerstein, the song was new to the locals, and the assistant director had to take up valuable time teaching it to them and rehearsing them between takes.
“Edelweiss” is the last song Oscar Hammerstein ever wrote, and it is my favorite song in the film, despite the fact that I only sing it with the von Trapp ensemble. I have, however, sung it many times in the years since. To me, it’s an anthem that speaks to one’s homeland, no matter where that may be, and it moves me deeply. I spent so much of my early life trying to unify my need for home with my commitment to work. These days, I’ve come to realize that home is a feeling as much as it is a place; it is as much about loving what I do as being where I am.
SOMEONE HAD EVIDENTLY forgotten to mention to our production crew that Salzburg has Europe’s seventh-highest annual rainfall. Since we had shot most of our interiors at the Fox studios in L.A., most of our locations in Austria were outdoors. The rains began in our first days there, and from then on, our budget and our schedule were totally governed by the weather. The crew had found cover sets to grab a few additional interior shots if needed . . . but those were quickly used up. At that point, we had no choice but to go to one of our exterior locations, which were sometimes miles away, and wait—and wait—for the weather to clear.
For the alpine scenes, our equipment trucks were parked at the foot of whatever mountain we were filming on. There were no roads, just fields and rutted tracks, so the camera equipment had to be carried up on an ox-drawn cart, and the rest of us had to walk. It was always cold in the Alps, and walking up wasn’t easy. On one particularly chilly day, the wind was blowing hard and there was a lot of mud. Bob said to me, “Sit on the ox cart, Julie, with the cameras. We’ll give you a lift.” I climbed into the cart, and off we plodded. I happened to be wearing a fur coat (it was the 1960s, after all!), and the humor in the contrast between my attire and the mode of transport wasn’t lost on any of us.
Once we reached our designated location, tracks were laid, and cameras were set up, then temporarily covered with tarps. We actors would settle somewhere, under a tent, or in a barn if there was one, to wait out the weather. When nature called, we went into the woods—not easy for us women!
The fields where we filmed were owned by various Austrian farmers, who had been paid for our use of their land. One of them had been specifically asked not to cut the lush grass, but we arrived to discover that it had been reduced to stubble. Perhaps it was the language barrier. We had to find another field, another location, wasting precious time.
A different farmer was apparently a little overstimulated by having “Hollywood” come to visit. He accosted me with a lascivious leer and let fly a stream of obscenities. He was speaking in German, yet there was no doubting his intent. The local members of our crew were outraged, and he was henceforth kept far away from me.
Sometimes a kindly farmer would provide us all with homemade schnapps when we wrapped at the end of the day. It tasted like nectar after the damp, blustery working conditions.
Many days went by when we only got a single shot—two if we were lucky. To pass the time, I’d run lines with the kids or practice my guitar. I’d been taking guitar lessons, learning basic fingering and simple chords so that I’d appear to know what I was doing. (Sadly, I didn’t stick with it, though I wish I had. I guess it just wasn’t my instrument.)
Saul, Marc, Dee Dee, and I would occasionally indulge in singalongs. We called ourselves “the Vocalzones,” after the throat pastilles I always carry. Whenever the meal wagon showed up, it felt like a momentous event.
Ted McCord would regularly produce his viewfinder and peer up at the sky. “Everyone stand by! In about five minutes, we may get a glimpse of sun!” When the moment came, we’d throw off our blankets and dash out, only to do about two seconds’ worth of filming, if we were lucky, before the weather closed in ag
ain. We had to be in a constant state of readiness in terms of makeup, hair, and costumes.
To meet Ted, you would never have guessed he was a cinematographer. He was always pressured, often irritable, and not at all social. However, he had an extraordinary eye, and his lighting was magnificent. He was “old school,” and fretted about shooting me after 5 p.m., worrying that there’d be unflattering shadows under my eyes. (If only he’d been around later in my life, when I had to shoot television close-ups at two-thirty in the morning!)
I’ll never forget the day he proudly showed me his lighting scheme for the scene where Maria leaves the abbey for the von Trapp villa. Standing in shadow in the dark courtyard of the abbey, she says, “When the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.” She then pushes open the gate and comes out into bright sunlight, mirroring the physical and emotional transition she is making in her life. Once Ted pointed that out to me, I was able to internalize it in my approach to the scene.
I DIDN’T SEE much of Chris Plummer beyond the workday, as he spent most of his spare time at the Bristol. Word spread that he was becoming renowned for his late-night performances at the piano in the hotel bar. In his youth, he had trained to be a concert pianist, and he was very good indeed. He apparently spent his evenings at the bar getting quite smashed and playing Rachmaninoff or Tchaikovsky until the wee hours. That said, Chris was the glue that held us all together; the one who always kept us from going too deep into the saccharine side of the story. He was so disciplined in his acting, so knowledgeable, that he was appropriately imposing as the Captain. Yet he was very gentle, and constructive, too. He’d make suggestions as to how we might play a certain scene. For instance, when we worked on the argument between the Captain and Maria after the children have been boating, he said, “Don’t be afraid to really let me have it!” He’d even come up with a good ad-lib in the heat of the moment.
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