Marlene Read online

  I didn’t know what to answer.

  “Do you want black eyes?” he persisted.

  I nodded.

  “Fine, then you’ll have black eyes, but don’t ever use anything like these drops without first asking me.” He made my eyes look darker, simply by the way he played with the light.

  Some of my “biographers” stubbornly claim that The Devil Is a Woman is an autobiographical film. In Europe where the Louys novel is well known, no one has dared to make so improbable an assertion, all the more so because the story has often been filmed. Yet, although the film sticks strictly to Pierre Louys’ story, several periodicals in the United States gave the impression that von Sternberg had drawn his inspiration from his life and mine.

  Von Sternberg, annoyed over all the fruitless discussions, had had enough: He decided to separate himself from me. Naturally, I protested strongly against his intentions, became angry, and decided I would leave Hollywood and never come back. But he told me, loud and clear, that such a prospect was out of the question, that if I wanted still to be his friend, I had to stay in Hollywood and make films without him. These words broke my heart, but I obeyed, as always. At what price? I was like a rudderless ship. I realized that no fame could replace the security that he had given me, that nothing could compensate for his extraordinary intelligence, his professional ethics, the fascination that he exercised …

  But von Sternberg didn’t abandon me completely. He secretly supervised the mediocre films I made subsequently, sometimes he would even sneak into the studio and cut out particular settings or make changes. I myself organized the nightly exploratory forays. Von Sternberg’s “resignation” stood to reason: He had enough of scandals, attacks, of the behavior of the Paramount executives.

  If only I had had a presentiment of all the problems with which he wrestled, I would have been more understanding. But he seldom took me into his confidence, he didn’t want to involve me in his disputes with the Paramount executives. He let me go my own way and attend to my own work, normally and calmly

  This is the story of my collaboration with von Sternberg. Is that all? No. Before I finish this chapter, I would like still to mention what I feared most in him: his contempt. A shocking experience. Several times during the day, he would send me back to my dressing room so that I could cry in peace. After talking to me in German, he would turn to the technicians and say: “Smoking break. Miss Dietrich is having one of her crying fits.” Bathed in tears, I would flee to the dressing room with my makeup artist and my hairdresser.

  I have never reproached von Sternberg for his sharp tone. He had all the right in the world to it. Because he was my protector. Because he was also my friend. What he said was always right. He was always right. I will never be able to thank him enough for it.

  I’m sure he would fume if he were able to read these lines. I can almost hear him shout: “Cut!” But how can I be silent about such things when I’m talking about him, when I’m trying to explain what he meant to me and what no actress, even if she were led by the greatest of all directors, ever will experience? It’s impossible to forget the days and nights in which we worked together side by side without his showing the least sign of impatience or fatigue. He was always there for me, he forgot himself, his own wishes and needs.

  A master.

  End of the panegyric. Excuse me, Joe! But I had to write that. I’m sure I can give no better portrait of you than anyone else working with you could have done. I simply remember you, all the years that I lived in your shadow. Yesterday …

  I’ve grown older, and I’ve learned to realize the burden of the loneliness of your efforts and of your thoughts, your responsibilities with regard to the studio and, above all, with regard to me. And I can’t do anything else, I simply must cry: “Nevermore,” quoth the raven, “nevermore.” Josef von Sternberg was an unparalleled genius, a singular genius in his generation and in the world of films.

  He, who stayed so close to me and my family, was also the friend of all film fans. He was a workaholic, and the mediocre persons in his entourage detested him. His authority and knowledge are irreplaceable. His death has left a great void.

  HOLLYWOOD

  HOLLYWOOD—THE MOST DISREPUTABLE AND most mythical place in the world.

  I never went to the wild parties in Hollywood, never experienced those aspects which make it famous.

  For me Hollywood (I use its name although this is geographically incorrect) is a place where you work as hard as anywhere else. You get up early and speed off in a train or car to get to the studio and clock in on time.

  As early as six-thirty in the morning the actors and actresses had to show up at the hairdresser’s to have their hair washed, dried and set. At nine we were in the studio. This means we had been on our feet since five o’clock. Certain professional groups are used to such hours. It’s somewhat different for an actress, a woman who must always appear impeccable. I’ve known actresses who can be enchanting from five o’clock in the morning on, but you can count them on the fingers of your hands. Most of the time you’re utterly exhausted on your way to the makeup artist; you slip inconspicuously into the booth and wait for a sympathetic word or two. A big thank you for all the men and women who helped me get to the studio at the right time.

  At that time the unions were incredibly strict in the matter of regulations. As a result makeup artists, hairdressers and dressing room assistants were always there on time. Nobody was allowed to interfere in the next person’s activity. I remember a hairdresser who was almost fired because she had drawn my attention to the fact that the seam of my stocking was crooked. I thought that was unjust, and that’s why I hired her to work for me. Nelly Manley was present at all my films in Hollywood and Europe. She wept with me, hated my enemies, and untangled my hair during lunch breaks, foregoing her own snack. She remained with me up to the end. She was rather short and wore worn-out tennis shoes long before they became fashionable … which didn’t prevent her from transforming herself later into an elegant lady who was accoutered by Schiaparelli.

  Nelly Manley performed a dual function for me as friend and personal “guard.” She didn’t have an easy life in the studio where everybody was jealous of everybody else. But she survived. On the way out of the studio, we would often go by Bing Crosby’s dressing room, and if I came to a halt to listen to him, she would push me forward. Perhaps she already saw the next day’s headlines: “Dietrich in Bing Crosby’s Dressing Room!” I wasn’t a great fan of the famous singer, but I liked to listen to Richard Tauber records as much as Crosby did. The crooner confided to me that Tauber had taught him how to breathe properly and how to modulate his phrasing. This common passion brought us together.

  Mae West’s dressing room lay between the studio and my dressing room. What a remarkable woman! She was very friendly to me and often gave me good advice. She gave me the strength I lacked with a sensitivity that astonished me. But I wasn’t the only one. The Paramount executives were just as captivated and carried away by her. She was never a “mother” to me, since she wasn’t the motherly sort. For me she was a teacher, no, a rock to which I clung, an intelligent woman who understood me and who divined all my problems. At that time I don’t think she was aware of what a great influence she had on me. I was so bad in expressing my feelings.

  When I read Ernst Lubitsch’s screenplay for Desire, I was horrified: The film was to begin with a close-up of my legs. My legs, always my legs! Yet for me they have only one purpose, they make it possible for me to walk. I didn’t want so much fuss made over my legs. But Mae West advised me to take another view of the matter and to let the producers have their way. She always had a thousand good reasons for her opinion, and I listened to her. So the film Desire begins with a close-up of my legs. It’s an extraordinary film and could have dispensed with such a beginning.

  Mae West was wonderful, intelligent, shrewd, and understood her metier. She never was seen at Hollywood parties. Probably only starlets went to them. We never attende
d them. It was already difficult enough to screen off our private sphere, to attend to the day-to-day demands of our job, to spend a few relaxing hours with the few friends we had.

  “GLAMOUR STARS”

  No lexicographer has yet succeeded in exactly defining the word glamour. It just cropped up one day, but nobody can explain it or trace its etymology. I’ve often been asked about the meaning of this word and have always had to throw up my hands.

  The greatest “glamour girl” was Mae West. Then came Carole Lombard. And then Dietrich. At any rate according to Paramount’s view. MGM, of course, also had its glamour girls in Jean Harlow, Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford … At that time there were no “sex symbols.” In my opinion this notion first came into being with Marilyn Monroe. Sex then was taboo. “We must do all that only and exclusively with the eyes,” Mae West explained to me one day. And we all stuck to this. There was no scene in which we undressed or appeared semi-nude, nothing improper. I must confess I prefer that method to what you see on the screen nowadays. I don’t like it, and I’m sure the public shares my dislike.

  Today sex is tremendously important. It’s the only thing that has something to offer people. Everybody is so frustrated that the pursuit of pleasure has become a veritable sickness. That’s why “shrinks” are so popular, many people pay horrendously exorbitant sums to their “shrinks” for their life-supporting therapy (all the better for the “shrinks” when they can become rich that way!). Despite that, I feel sorry for people who need such a deceptive form of assistance.

  The word glamour means something indefinite, something inaccessible to normal women—an unreal paradise, desirable but basically out of reach.

  I find all that pretty stupid. Of course, we’re beautiful in the photos and also in life, but we were never so extraordinary as the image that was sketched of us. We clung to this image because the studio demanded that we do so. But none of us enjoyed it. To us it was a routine job, and we just did it well. If one had asked the Harlows, the Crawfords, the Lombards for their opinion, I’m sure they would have said the same.

  Marilyn Monroe was an authentic “sex symbol,” because not only was she “sexy” by nature but she also liked being one—and she showed it. And she came at a time when the censorship to which we all had to submit (cheerfully, I would say) no longer existed. The skirts rose to the hips, panties became visible and the eye of the public was riveted on them. The performance no longer counted.

  The directors of the thirties respected us and didn’t demand that we show our “derriere.” They attached no importance to it. We had to do without “tricks” of this kind. And what we did we did very well. We stimulated the imagination of the public all over the world; we awakened dreams and filled the movie houses.

  But we also played serious roles in which the notion of being “fatale” simply never came up. The films with Garbo and with me have made history. When today’s young people come to see us decked out in boots and fancy robes and behold our so-called “hot” love scenes they become enthusiastic and love us. Perhaps because of something else …

  I came to Hollywood too late. I would have liked to live there at another time. The anecdotes about the days of the silents made my mouth water. At that time a kind of rickshaw would bring the stars to the studio. If two stars couldn’t stand one another, the rickshaw drivers had to take care that their paths never crossed. I heard that such was the case between Pola Negri and Gloria Swanson. There was also music in the studio. A small orchestra played a melody suitable to the scene being filmed. Since sound recording did not yet exist, the orchestra played while the camera was running so that the actors wept and laughed to the rhythm of the music. That must have looked very strange. The moment the actors and actresses opened their mouths, one heard a “Cut!” coming to the rescue and the words would appear in beautiful script on the screen before they resumed their performance in the next scene.

  At the time of the silent films all Hollywood reverberated with talk of famous, notorious wild parties. The great stars would remain there till late at night. On the next day they could nonchalantly appear four or five hours late at the studio. Just to make an appearance was all that mattered. Nobody would have dared to reprimand them, to bawl them out. These men and women ruled over the studios, they could indulge all their whims, they could exhibit their mistakes, their defeats, their dubious behavior, their bad performances, in short, all that was later to be labeled “bluff” in Hollywood.

  I learned these stories from the truck drivers who helped me climb on the tailgates of their vehicles and brought me to the studio when my costumes were too bulky for me to sit with them in a passenger car. “Hold on, sweetie,” they would call out to me before starting off slowly for fear I might fall off. These drivers, the technicians, the makeup artists and dressing room assistants who showed the same patience I did during the hours-long fitting sessions were my best friends.

  I never saw the big studio bosses. I was looked on as the recognized queen of Paramount Studios, a distinction of which I wasn’t aware, of course, and I was not supposed to be bothered. So my not too extensive fan mail was received by personnel especially appointed for that purpose who always lamented that I didn’t get more letters. That made me suspicious, but later I learned that the people who liked my films were not the type who wrote fan letters “to his or her favorite actress.”

  I even had to get used to the previews. They were often held in the little town called Pomona. There the films were shown to a public that had no idea what it would be seeing. The poster simply read: “Major Studio Preview.” A strange custom. In addition, cards were distributed in front of the movie house on which the public was invited to express its opinion of the film. These cards were then passed on to the studio and evaluated.

  You don’t have to have a Ph.D. in psychology to realize that a chance moviegoer who is asked to transform himself or herself into a critic will do his or her best to highlight mistakes, gaps, errors, etc. Nevertheless, the studio people conscientiously evaluated the cards and even forwarded them to the director and proposed certain changes to him. The directors I knew immediately threw them into the wastebasket. But I also remember a good example of the stupid influence of these previews.

  After Josef von Sternberg finished shooting his first film for Paramount, Morocco, the film, as usual, was shown in Pomona. Gary Cooper played the leading male role. After the first half of the film, the auditorium was emptied. Finally, we watched the remainder of it all by ourselves. I asked for permission to leave, convinced that this showing signified the end of my Hollywood career. I began to pack my trunks the moment I got home. During my absence my big shepherd dog had almost devoured the black doll that had been my little mascot since The Blue Angel. I read it as a bad omen and packed my things even more feverishly. I wasn’t sorry for myself but for Josef von Sternberg and all the others who had believed in me. On the other hand, I was somewhat relieved that now I wouldn’t become a movie star and could go back to my family in Germany.

  I didn’t sleep a wink the whole night, as one can easily imagine, and I was ready to take off in the morning. At half-past nine von Sternberg phoned and asked me to see him in his office. There, I imagined, I would be told of my dismissal.

  He had me sit down on the other side of the desk and threw or handed me a newspaper. “Read it,” he said. There before my eyes was a short article by a Jimmy Star—a name I didn’t know. After giving a summary of the film the reporter wrote: “If this woman doesn’t revolutionize the film industry, then I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  I sat there, flabbergasted, and said: “But I’ve already packed all my trunks, I’m ready to go home now. I thought that I might have disappointed you.”

  “You can go back to Germany whenever you please,” replied von Sternberg, “but surely not because you think you’ve failed here in America.”

  He was calm, as usual, his look, which I knew so well, rested on me. A faint cigarette smell hovered in the air
, von Sternberg looked indifferent. I was as though paralyzed. Again, my overly proper upbringing and its imperatives. What should I do now? To me “to revolutionize the film industry” simply meant that I wasn’t the flop I thought I was. How does one get up from a chair? How does one leave a room? I no longer knew. I remained seated, motionless.

  “You can go now,” he said, “but let me know your final decision.”

  I went back to the house I had rented. There I met my housemaid. I was restless. What should I do? The feeling of security I drew from obedience had disappeared. This time no one was giving me orders; I was torn in this and that direction and waited nervously for my husband’s phone call. As usual, he would tell me what to do. Finally, late in the night, his call came through: “Here everything’s going fine. Come to Berlin whenever you wish. But your film will be a huge success, don’t give up the studio.”

  I went to bed and immediately fell asleep, something that had not happened for a long time.

  Why had the audience left the movie house on that memorable evening? First of all because they had been disappointed by Gary Cooper—who up to then had played only cowboy roles—and his new style. In Morocco he was never seen on a horse. Besides, it was time to light the stoves on the orange plantations of Pomona. The artistic merits of Morocco were not the issue. Meanwhile, previews have been given up, this stupid custom that has angered many great directors and whose passing nobody mourns.

  ACTORS’ STYLES

  John Barrymore was a master in every way. When I came to America, he was the most famous actor of all time. His name exercised a great magic even on us Europeans. I heard Barrymore on the radio and saw him on stage. He was superb. Years later when I made a radio broadcast with him, he was no longer the same, and we had to support him throughout the performance. He thanked us, aware of his weaknesses. When he left the studio, we all had tears in our eyes.