By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
Ardent yearning permeated the big theater at George Lucas' Skywalker Ranch one balmy evening in July. It felt like artistic homesickness. Walter Murch, the renowned film editor and sound designer, was making an audacious presentation to a few dozen filmmakers, journalists, broadcasters, and trusted friends. George Lucas himself took time off from his Star Wars prequels to host the event for Murch, a pal and creative partner for more than 30 years. Indeed, the occasion was almost a gathering of the clan for the San Francisco Bay Area's best directors. And perhaps even a restatement of faith.
Philip Kaufman (director of The Right Stuff) and Carroll Ballard (The Black Stallion) were there; so was that relative newcomer to the area, Barry Levinson, who hit the Zeitgeist jackpot with Wag the Dog. (The only member of this once close-knit group who couldn't make it was Francis Ford Coppola.) They showed up to honor Murch, who established audiovisual experimentation as a hallmark of San Francisco filmmaking. Murch is the master of a special kind of synesthesia--making a movie's sound enlarge or color its imagery (and vice versa). A supreme example of his art occurs when Michael Corleone readies himself to commit a double murder in Coppola's The Godfather: As he sits in a family-style Italian restaurant with his imminent victims, the roar of an elevated train takes over the soundtrack and hurtles us into the torrent of his brain. (Murch also did the sound for The Godfather Part II.)
The Godfather (1971) wasn't even a ray on the horizon in 1969. That's when Murch, Lucas, and their fearless leader Coppola formed the core of a caravan that journeyed from Los Angeles to San Francisco to found Coppola's pioneering film company, American Zoetrope. But Murch's abilities were immediately felt in American Zoetrope movies such as Coppola's The Rain People (1969) and Lucas' THX 1138 (1971). And Lucas' American Graffiti (1973), and Coppola's productions of 1974's The Conversation and '79's Apocalypse Now (for which Murch edited both picture and sound) became milestones of movie sound design. In 1996 Murch took home unprecedented twin Oscars for editing and sound as part of the Academy sweep for Berkeley-based producer Saul Zaentz's The English Patient.
In the '90s, film restoration and rereleasing have ranged from the sacred (Vertigo) to the absurd (Grease). What Murch was unveiling at Lucas' ranch, however, was a radical and unparalleled project--the re-editing and restoration of an odd, flawed masterpiece, Orson Welles' Touch of Evil. As if to celebrate its 40th anniversary, Murch structured its images and sounds according to the dictates of an extraordinary 58-page memo Welles wrote after seeing a studio-decreed cut released despite his objections in 1958. Murch was pulling off a final, critical polish for a director who was deceased.
At age 55, Murch cuts an imposing figure--tall, bearded, and angular. He has a resonant voice, a steady gaze, and an unpretentious, philosophical manner. Before the film started, he stood up and broke the ice: "We will show no film before its time," a sardonic reference to the wine commercial that made Welles' Q rating jump in the years before his 1985 death. Then Murch went on to explain the torturous history behind one of the freest, riskiest, and raciest movies ever financed by a Hollywood studio.
With one energizing flourish after another, Touch of Evil takes viewers on a jolting ride through a seedy town on the U.S.-Mexico border. At every turn, the glamorous stars--Charlton Heston and Janet Leigh, as a determined Mexican prosecutor and his wife--come up against a couple of charismatic grotesques: a baggy-pants crime boss named Grandi, played by Akim Tamiroff, and a tainted American police captain named Quinlan, played by Welles himself.
Pseudo-insiders might ask: Was this a job for Walter Murch? After all, when Murch pops up in Movie Brat biographies or the occasional interview or profile, he's usually portrayed as an austere, workaholic intellectual. But there's something else about Murch--a blend of passion and showmanship. I first met him in 1986 at the Saul Zaentz Film Center in Berkeley, where he was editing Philip Kaufman's masterpiece, The Unbearable Lightness of Being. He had filled an entire room with mounted 35mm stills of every major shot in the movie. Though it was a useful tool for him to play with the imagery, there was also something impresario-like about his pride in it; in the cramped world of film editing, that room was a DeMille-like gesture. (He continues to use still photos, though he's never again had the luxury of putting them in a separate room.) He has also invented an invisible splicing system for standard wide-screen movies that makes the running of early cuts less jarring. And he takes untold care with temporary mixes: He and his colleagues spent a 140-hour week preparing the sound for the epochal screening of the unfinished Apocalypse Now at Cannes, three months before its American premiere. In short, he sweats to display a film at peak impact even at the earliest stages.
At Skywalker, what Murch had to say pierced the knowingness of his audience. It wasn't his blend of lucidity and enthusiasm as he ran through the ways Welles had taken a decent potboiler and cooked up an exhilarating cinematic incubus. It wasn't his coolly indignant account of how Universal executives snatched Touch of Evil away from Welles during postproduction, ignoring his audio innovations and blunting its edginess and bold, pre-New Wave narrative leaps. It was Murch's own emotional identification with the Welles who made Touch of Evil and was poised for a studio comeback after a 10-year exile in Europe. The Skywalker crowd gasped when Murch recounted the scene in which Welles, a tarnished supercop on his last legs, begs Marlene Dietrich, a gypsy madam, to read his future. "You haven't got any," she answers. "Your future's all used up."