Marlene Read online

  This conversation took place in Paris at the German embassy. I had been pleading with the American authorities to let my German passport expire, but they had insisted that all my papers had to be in order if I wanted to become an American citizen. So I had to apply for an extension of my passport. I went to the German embassy, of course, to attend to this formality. Von Sternberg knew nothing about it. And I had turned down my husband’s offer to come with me to the embassy. I was afraid that his short temper would get the better of him. I had to act diplomatically and couldn’t allow myself to be carried away by my feelings.

  So I ventured into the lion’s den, the occupant of which was Count von Welczeck, Hitler Germany’s ambassador to France. Alongside him stood four tall men who were introduced to me as the Princes Reuss. All these dignitaries remained standing, as though nailed behind the high armchairs. The ambassador explained that the extension of my passport would be granted immediately and added that he had still another special message to pass on to me. I should return to Germany and not try to become an American citizen. As an inducement, he promised me a “triumphal entry into Berlin through the Brandenburg Gate.” End of quote. I thought of Lady Godiva and suppressed a smile. I was extremely polite, gave my contract with von Sternberg as an excuse for my hesitancy and explained that if they would ask him to make a film in Germany, I would be more than glad to accept their offer.

  There was an icy silence, which I finally broke: “Do I rightly understand that you refuse to have Mr. von Sternberg make a film in your country (I said: ‘your country’) because he’s Jewish?” Suddenly they all began to stir and to talk at the same time: “You are infected by American propaganda. There is no anti-Semitism in Germany …”

  Then and there I realized it was time to go. I stood up and said: “Well, then we’re all agreed. I’ll wait for the result of your negotiations with my director, and I hope the German press will change its tone toward Mr. von Sternberg and me.”

  As the ambassador (his Czech name confused me) let me know: “A single word from the Führer and all your wishes will be fulfilled, if you are ready to return.”

  Escorted by the four princes, I walked through the long corridor to the exit, and I was trembling when I set foot on French soil again, on the street on which my husband was nervously pacing up and down. He took me by the arm and helped me to get in the car.

  On the next day the duly extended passport was sent to my hotel. These “gentlemen” knew everything. They knew when my contract with Paramount would expire and when the next one would come into force. They were up to date on everything. I seemed to have pleased the horrible dwarf. What an honor!

  My friends and my family jokingly, would often ask me whether I wouldn’t like to return to Germany and kill him—another form of gallows humor. I never felt up to a mission of this kind, intellectually or physically. Today I’m sure I was right. But at that time I always acted on my gut feeling in which I had confidence, the good gut feeling of a Berliner. According to Noel Coward I am “a realist and a clown.” I know the realist; I also know the clown, but he makes only an occasional appearance. I can sometimes play the clown and be very funny, but this is a characteristic that often remains hidden. The clown comes to the surface when I feel embarrassed by something or when I learn something essential about life. But the clown departs the moment my feelings begin to run deep. Then I am helplessly vulnerable to all possible offenses—even to a voice on the phone with an odd ring—and I can let myself drift, leave myself exposed to a world alien to me in the hope that somewhere someone will emerge from out of nowhere and save me. That’s how I am, a creature whose character has been shaped by loving people, from my mother all the way to my husband and to my daughter, people who protected me.

  I grew up surrounded by love throughout my whole childhood, and even as a young girl life was a game—guided by a star of sympathy and understanding, which was far more important than all we learned in school, went beyond the traditional commandments, and was surpassed only by my experience as an adult.

  Before von Sternberg took me in hand, I was utterly helpless, I was not even aware of the task awaiting me. I was a “nobody,” and the mysterious energies of the creator breathed life into this nothingness. I’m not entitled to the least recognition for the roles I played in his films. I was nothing but pliable material on the infinitely rich palette of his ideas and imaginative faculties.

  The films that von Sternberg made with me speak for themselves. There is nothing, and there will be nothing in the future, that could surpass them. Filmmakers are forever condemned to imitate them.

  Many books have been written on his work. But none offers a truthful picture of his extraordinary talent. None of them originated “live,” so to speak. As for me, I was there and saw everything. I saw the magic, even though I was still young.

  Von Sternberg looked for a very definite figure to play the male hero in The Scarlet Empress—filmed in 1934—and the type was not to be found in Hollywood. So he decided to pick the lawyer John Lodge. John Lodge was the proverbial gentleman: refined and well educated. He had never acted before, yet he corresponded to the concept von Sternberg had in his head, and he proved to be very convincing in this role. Von Sternberg didn’t want to subject him to any sound tests and contented himself with shooting a short scene. He designed a magnificent, though perhaps not all too authentic costume, and Lodge conquered the hearts of all American women. He was the Russian hero, the romantic figure par excellence. On the first day of shooting John Lodge, who had never seen a camera aimed at him, began to stutter. Since von Sternberg wanted to spare him a humiliating failure, he asked me to perform all alone and no longer to depend on a partner, and he himself taught John Lodge how to behave in front of a camera.

  John Lodge became our friend, and he won von Sternberg’s unlimited respect. He made few films after The Scarlet Empress, but I’m sure he was never sorry to have had the experience of being an actor. He’s too intelligent a man to regret the past.

  Now to get back to me: so von Sternberg had me perform “all alone.” This was asking a lot. At first, I refused, but I soon understood what von Sternberg wanted and I obeyed. Today The Scarlet Empress is a classic. In 1934, however, it didn’t enjoy the hoped-for success. But now we know that this film was ahead of its time; certainly this is the reason why it is shown in film museums, in programs and film workshops, and also why millions of moviegoers see it on the silver screen throughout the world. The younger generations rave about The Scarlet Empress. Young people write me, and talk about the costumes—particularly about my boots, which moreover were white!—and other impressive details of the work they seem to understand thoroughly … much more than the public of that time. They are also fascinated by the artistic direction, which, of course, was in von Sternberg’s hands. But he didn’t believe wholeheartedly in The Scarlet Empress. Once he told the members of the cast: “If this film is a flop, it will be a grandiose flop, and the critics will rage. But I prefer to see you in a grandiose flop than in a mediocre film.” Von Sternberg was to be proved eminently right. The critics’ rage was immense.

  I didn’t attach any great importance to their reactions. First of all, because a film gradually fades as a phenomenon once it’s in the distribution process, and then also because I never read even one article on The Scarlet Empress, nor did I follow the film’s box office receipts. Work on a new film had begun; I spent hours on fittings and was concerned with keeping as close as possible to the new image that von Sternberg wanted to create. With him my roles were always different.

  I constantly ran the risk of letting my roles or my profession slip into my private life. That was unavoidable. Despite this I’ve always taken great pains to keep these two spheres of my life apart. As I’ve said earlier, I was utterly indifferent to the opinions of others, save von Sternberg’s.

  The studio publicity people kept on trying to bring about an association between my roles and my person. Indeed, their work primarily consi
sted in hatching stories for the press and the countless large-circulation movie magazines that were not read by intellectuals. The life I led in Hollywood was not a good hunting ground for these characters hell-bent on piquant anecdotes. That’s why I can’t really reproach them for having fabricated an “exciting” life for me. I wasn’t familiar with their articles, but when I think about it, I figure that these publicity agents must have really loathed me. Yet even had I known about it at that time, I wouldn’t have cared. I complied with the terms of my contract. When I was scheduled to give an interview, which did not happen often, I learned to politely sidestep inappropriate questions.

  The alleged “myth” or “legend” is still very much alive, and day and night it mobilizes hundreds of prospective reporters and writers. I could well do without them. When the new adventure of my life began, “the stage,” I thought I could destroy the “myth.” In a certain way I succeeded, since I was in direct contact with the public. Yet my so-called “biographers” were not to be dissuaded.

  In their confused heads The Blue Angel was a von Sternberg creation, while he had merely brought to life on the screen a character of Heinrich Mann’s novel Professor Unrat. Neither von Sternberg nor I invented the woman who ruined the poor professor. Naturally, von Sternberg and the two other scriptwriters Carl Zuckmayer and Liebmann made some changes (that always happens when a novel is filmed), but nevertheless, they preserved the characteristic features of the main characters.

  I should like once more to repeat: The roles I have played in films have absolutely nothing to do with what I really am. It’s stupid to associate these roles with myself. For a time I was busy compiling excerpts from the films von Sternberg had made with me for the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Most of my admirers were flabbergasted by the result. In contrast to the widespread opinion that I am always the same immovable creature who is looking over her left shoulder, who hides her face under hats and behind veils betraying no emotion whatsoever, and who doesn’t see anything outside the range of the camera, this compilation showed an actress who contradicted all these clichés.

  Although I edited the film myself, I must say that it’s outstanding, unfortunately, I didn’t keep a copy or even a list of the scenes. I edited according to a sense of proportion and feeling. From all my films I chose settings that, instead of meshing like the parts of a puzzle, contrasted with each other in relation to the person, the atmosphere or the camera angle, the lighting conditions or the costumes. I vaguely remember that the film was again cut apart since we had used some material belonging to the sacrosanct MCA. I don’t know why I didn’t receive a copy before the originals were given back. It must have been a question of money, as always.

  That reminds me of another episode, certainly a “classic” for an enthusiastic younger generation of directors or cameramen. My second film in Hollywood, X.27 (Dishonoured), was made in 1931. The choice of a film title was always an occasion for terrible controversies between von Sternberg and his producers. He very seldom agreed with the decisions of the studio officials and battled to change them step by step with more or less success. In the case of Dishonoured the producers were firm: They refused to back down. The struggle must have been bitter and endlessly long because I remember that the Paramount top brass threatened to “turn off the money faucet.”

  I had already changed my clothes and was waiting to be called to the studio when von Sternberg stormed into my dressing room to discuss this problem with me. In addition, he had to find a solution for the sequence of the great ball scene which was to be shot that day. He wasn’t getting enough extras? Under no circumstances would he cut this decisive sequence! Loges were to be set up around the huge ballroom like balconies in an opera house. I sat in my dressing room and listened to my director without saying a word, without any idea occurring to me that might have been of some help to him. And yet at that time my head and hands were free of other concerns. Maria was still in Germany with my husband, nobody in Hollywood was giving me any trouble, and von Sternberg was watching over me.

  My makeup artist Dot, my hairdresser, and I decided to go for lunch. When we came back from the studio canteen, I resumed my wait in the dressing room. Suddenly von Sternberg’s assistant summoned us to the studio. Dot put the last touches to my face, the hairdresser fussed for a second or two over my still unruly hair, and then we went out. There were almost no structures on the set except for two theater loges placed one on top of the other, slightly raised, which could be reached by a ladder.

  I was to take my place in the lower loge. Above me were men and women with confetti and pockets bulging with New Year’s Eve trimmings. They had already received their instructions. As I sat down, I saw a huge mirror behind me, also slightly raised. Six couples were dancing in a tiny circle that was marked in crayon on the floor.

  Their image was also reflected in the mirror in which innumerable male and female dancers appeared pressing very closely against each other. The confetti rained down in front of me, the music came in, set the rhythm and, suddenly, I noticed that the scene to a hair resembled a giant ballroom in which thousands of people whirled around the dance floor. Von Sternberg had achieved the desired effect despite the cutbacks the studio had imposed on him. I was young and inexperienced, but I admired his flair for magic, that faculty I was to see at work for so many years. In the course of the shooting period, with an ever-growing admiration, I learned everything from Josef von Sternberg, that conjuror of the thousand-headed serpent called “film.”

  Beyond that, von Sternberg also had to concern himself with me: photograph me, make me laugh, dress me up, comfort me, advise me, guide me, coddle me, explain things to me, and much more. The responsibility he assumed for the actress that he wanted and for the woman that had come with him was something enormous. And, as always, he managed to do this despite the pressure of the Paramount top brass. He battled them tenaciously.

  Paramount tried several times to separate us, but since my contract stipulated that “I could choose my own director,” they gave up. “Why should we be content with one box-office success, when we can have two?” figured the Paramount executives. Von Sternberg’s name was famous and so was mine. I battled, he battled and we won! In 1933, he permitted me to make Song of Songs with another director. The film, of course, was a flop.

  In 1935, after his return from a long trip, von Sternberg began preparations for The Devil Is a Woman based on the novel The Woman and the Puppet by Pierre Louys. I knew that this would be our last film together, and I was as restless as a sack of fleas. Von Sternberg noticed this and once more tried to reassure me. I played the part of a girl who worked in a cigarette factory. At his request I had taken lessons and learned to roll cigarette paper around a little stick. I also learned to make the empty paper rolls swirl around in front of the camera, catch them again and stuff them with tobacco. That was not easy, but I was a good pupil. It wasn’t these little tricks that worried me most, however, but the fact that I absolutely didn’t look Spanish. The Spanish lace blouse and the pleated skirt didn’t convince me. There was nothing “Iberian” about my blue eyes and blond hair! But my biggest worry were my eyes. I thought that all Spaniards had dark if not black eyes. My hair was rubbed with Vaseline so that it looked dark enough to me. Von Sternberg said that I was really stupid (as always) because there were plenty of blond women in northern Spain. How was I supposed to know that? So I continued with preparations for the film; I tried on the costumes sketched by von Sternberg and worried further about the color of my eyes. Finally, I visited an eye doctor whom my makeup artist had recommended. He prescribed drops that widened the pupils so that they would appear black on the screen. Then he gave me a second bottle containing a liquid that would restore the pupils to their normal size.

  On the way home I pressed the bottles against myself as though they were made of gold. I took them with me to the studio, explained their use to my makeup artist and my hairdresser. The Vaseline had been rubbed into my hair, the carnatio
ns (which had increased in number in the course of the shooting) were pinned on, and I felt I had been transformed into a genuine Spanish woman. Apart from my eyes. But stupidly I believed I could remedy this annoying minor detail.

  With swaying dress, combs in the sticky hair between the artificial carnations, my face made up darkly (which made me more attractive than ever), I arrived punctually at Studio 8 at nine o’clock in the morning. I remember exactly. I used my little bottle only after the rehearsal. I went to my dressing room, sprinkled the drops in my eyes, and returned to my place, ready to shoot the scene. I looked for my essentials, the paper and the stick. But they were no longer there!

  Von Sternberg shouted to the cameraman: “Let it roll!” and I just stood there and could no longer find my tiny stick and paper, everything was functioning perfectly except my eyes. I acted as though everything was in order, but von Sternberg immediately noticed that something was wrong. “Cut,” he roared.

  The hairdresser and the makeup artist ran over to my dressing room and brought me the other little bottle with the drops that were supposed to restore my pupils to their normal size. I dripped the liquid in my eyes and resumed my place on the set. The whole thing hadn’t lasted for more than five minutes. I again sat down at the table from which I had suddenly stood up in a daze. I saw everything as from a great distance, a very great distance—the technicians, von Sternberg. … But no matter what I did, it was impossible to recognize anything directly in front of me. No stick. No paper. No tobacco.

  Von Sternberg sent us all out to lunch, but before that he took me by the hand and pulled me away from the extras and technicians, out of earshot and he said: “Now tell me what’s the matter.” I told him everything. I wasn’t seeing things normally, I simply couldn’t help crying. “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted black eyes?” he asked me.