Issue link: https://digital.copcomm.com/i/1545099
nce upon a time— before the term "sound designer" had likely ever been spoken—there was a man in a small RKO sound room quietly inventing the future. Murray Spivack did not simply create the sound of King Kong in 1933—he established the foundation for cinematic creature sound. There is a direct conceptual line from his early experiments to the emotionally charged, physically convincing roars that would shake theaters decades later in films like Jurassic Park. Gary Rydstrom's T-Rex represents the technological sophistication of the 1990s, but its underlying philosophy— the idea that a creature's voice should feel organic, layered, and alive—can be traced straight back to Spivack. It's easy to forget how radical King Kong was in its time. The film is remembered for its stop-motion animation, its sweeping Max Steiner score, and its iconic imagery. But the sound—the breath, the roar, the sonic identity of Kong himself—was something audiences had never encountered before. In 1933, synchronized film sound was still in its infancy. The industry was less than a decade removed from the transition to talkies, and most studios were still focused on solving basic technical challenges such as dialogue clarity and camera noise. At MGM, figures like Douglas Shearer were refining recording techniques and workflows. The idea of constructing a creature voice from scratch—designing a sound with no real-world equivalent—hadn't really taken hold yet. Spivack approached the problem from a different direction, drawing not only from engineering, but from music and experimentation. Murray Spivack was born in 1903 in Russia and immigrated to the United States as a child, growing up in New York City during a time when recorded sound itself was still a developing medium. He trained as a percussionist, developing a sensitivity to rhythm, impact, and tonal color that would later inform his work. Before entering film, he worked in radio and early recording environments, gaining practical experience at a time when the language of sound reproduction was still being written. By the early 1930s, Spivack had joined RKO Radio Pictures, where he would eventually become head of sound effects. At a studio known for its willingness to experiment, he found an environment that encouraged creative problem-solving. His role, however, was not clearly defined by modern standards. He functioned simultaneously as engineer, editor, performer, and inventor—working in a discipline that had not yet been formalized. When RKO assigned him to King Kong, they weren't handing him a defined task so much as an open-ended challenge. There were no creature sound libraries, no established methodologies … and no precedent for what a giant ape should sound like. Spivack had to invent the entire process from the ground up. He began by recording animals— lions, tigers, and other large mammals—reportedly sourcing material from various institutions, including sessions at the Bronx Zoo. From there, he manipulated the recordings using the tools available at O