It was 1988. I was 21. I’d moved to New York two years earlier, and I loved coming back to New Orleans to visit my dad at his uptown home.
“June! Meathead’s on the phone,” he called from the other room. He loved kidding around with me.
“Hey, Meathead,” I said into the phone.
“Harry? It’s Rob Reiner.”
I don’t remember everything he said — visions of Mike Stivic from All in the Family were buzzing through my head. I do remember him telling me about the new film he was working on, Harry, This Is Sally (as it was still being called then).
I couldn’t run fast enough to the other room to tell my dad that I’d just been invited to Los Angeles by Mr. Reiner to play some solo piano underscoring for the film. I had no idea what that meant, but I couldn’t get to L.A. fast enough.
The studio was massive — a classic L.A. soundstage that seemed bigger than a city block. At one end, a huge screen hung from the ceiling. Aside from that, the only other thing was a Steinway Concert Grand anchoring the middle of the room.
“Look at the screen,” Mr. Reiner told me as I sat at the piano. “When the scene starts, you’ll see a green strip move across the screen. That’s when you start.”
“Start what?” I asked. “What am I playing?”
“Anything you want.”
“How will I know when to stop?”
“When the red strip reaches the end of the screen.”
He disappeared into the control room, leaving me alone on piano island.
“OK,” he said over the talkback mic. “Here we go.”
I put my headphones on. When the scene began, there was something austere about Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan’s performance. They were terrific, but there was space around them. As the green strip appeared and tracked across their faces, I understood: There was no music. Holy crap. This was my job.
I placed my hands on the keys and waited for the strip to disappear. It was probably two seconds, but I had an eternity to decide precisely what I was going to play. I don’t remember what Billy and Meg were discussing, but suddenly I found myself playing notes that needed to shadow their conversation. The red strip appeared at what felt like the perfect moment. It glided across and slipped away as Billy and Meg finished up, just as I played my last notes and chords. How did Mr. Reiner know that would work? How did he know I would work?
I played improvised pieces for scene after scene. Mr. Reiner guided me through each one, pushing and pulling me to connect with what was unfolding on the screen. I was scared of him — he was so precise with his vision — but he was also kind, patient, and clear.
The next assignment was to sing with the orchestra. I was originally asked to perform only one song (“It Had To Be You”), but because of some contractual hiccups, I ended up singing and playing every song featured in the film.
I remember “Winter Wonderland.” Ray Charles’ performance was used in the film itself, but Mr. Reiner wanted me to play it on the soundtrack album. I recall asking him how he wanted it to sound.
Again, “Whatever you want,” he said.
I played a New Orleans piano-style version and waited for his response.
“Great. Let’s move on,” he said.
Who was this man? He was letting me sing and play anything I wanted. Was every film like this? Did every director work this way? Turns out, no. He was the rarest of rare.
It was time to sing “It Had To Be You.” We’d recorded the music with the orchestra earlier in the day, so I stood alone at the microphone in the center of the room for the vocals. I could see Mr. Reiner in the control room through the glass as I sang. When the song ended, he spoke to me through the headphones.
“Can you end on the high note?” he asked.
That’s a high F. That’s really high for me, I thought. “Sure. No problem,” I said.
I did another version, this time sucking up as much air as my lungs could hold right before the last note. I could see Mr. Reiner smiling as he pressed the talkback button.
“That’s it!” he said. “That’s the one!”
That night, I called my dad from my room at the Sunset Marquis. I held one side of my Sony Walkman headphones up to the phone and played the music for him. He loved it.
“What did Mr. Reiner think?” he asked.
“I think he liked it,” I said. I was giddy.
Rob Reiner was a gentleman — a brilliant, generous gentleman. I’ll always remember him in the studio that day — loud and strong, precise and deliberate.
“If you ever want to do anything in this business, do it yourself,” he said. “Don’t expect anyone to do anything for you.”
True, unless it involved Rob Reiner. He did something for me — he changed my life — and I’ll be forever grateful.
Thank you, Mr. Reiner. You’ll always be in my heart.
Love, Harry
Dec. 18, 2025