Tendrils of smoke rise extend from the Lucky Strike balanced precariously on the edge of the ceramic ashtray, casting a suffocating haze in the already-stuffy room. The ashtray sits atop a three-legged table, which stands to the side of the ginormous CBS microphone smack-dab in the center of the room.

Gregory Peck stares at the well-worn, stained script in his hands. It's silent in the room. The walls are padded--an asylum? Close: a recording studio. The tall actor moves to sit on the edge of the table, yelping quietly as it tilts.

Quickly adjusting himself, Gregory balances the table and picking up the cigarette. He takes a drag, crosses his legs, licks his thumb and uses it to flip the page of the script.

Every visit to the recording studio was mundane, the days long and breaks short. So, to remedy this, the crew came up with running gags to help pass the time. Every time Gregory showed up to the studio to record, he donned a completely different smattering of facial hair. One day he was clean-shaven, the next, he had a beard. Today, he had a mustache. It was chic, elegant. He looked like a refined man with taste.

Clearing his throat, the actor stands up and meanders over to the silver microphone. He taps the microphone. Not hearing any feedback, he taps it again.

"Is this thing working?" he asks to no one in particular.