Marlene Page 19

But that’s not all. He also lent me money when I needed it.

  He was very ill, and when I came back from Europe, I learned that he was hospitalized in New York. The doctors, who had diagnosed an ulcer after operating on him, had figured they could do nothing, and like good surgeons, they sewed him up again. I spent two terrible days at his bedside, while the famous doctors of the university enjoyed their peaceful weekends outside New York, where they could not be reached.

  Since I wasn’t related to Harold Arlen, it was difficult for me to make a decision, or to make any demands. I felt terribly useless. After his family, who had been waiting to see whether his condition would worsen, was informed, I called Dr. Blackmore, the great ulcer specialist, from a phone booth, and asked him to hold himself ready, which he did in keeping with professional ethics.

  “If we can stop the bleeding in less than a quarter of an hour,” he said, “he’s saved.” He succeeded and the bleeding stopped.

  I didn’t move from Harold’s bedside. “Come back, Harold, don’t go away, come back,” I murmured into his ear. He heard me and soon was out of danger.

  I became friendly with the nurse, a wonderful girl who tended to his countless transfusions. At the end of the day, when it was no longer possible to find a taxi, we would walk home, arm in arm.

  Harold Arlen, who owed his life to Dr. Blackmore’s imaginative intervention, has since died. He was a great man, a great composer, unmatched and unmatchable.

  ARTISTS

  SINATRA

  FRANK SINATRA, THE UNCHALLENGED King of Popular Song, is in contrast to what is generally said about him, a very charming man. That’s understandable, since to sing as he does requires an extraordinary sensibility and a truly educated heart. The press has created his public “image.” It absolutely does not fit him. I know him well. He doesn’t need reporters. Nor has he ever needed them, these types who stick their noses in other people’s private lives and falsify all information on command.

  Sinatra has a great advantage over us women: He can physically defend himself against reporters. We would also like to do that, but it’s much more difficult for us, although some women do have the requisite courage. Sinatra hits out only when he’s forced to; yet his Italian temperament makes it difficult for him to conceal his anger.

  Photographers act like wild beasts, particularly at airports. They try to take photos of people at the least favorable moments. I’ll never forget the day when I had asked for a wheelchair because I didn’t want to walk for miles to my plane. I was suffering from the effects of a serious accident and didn’t want to exert myself unnecessarily. But after the assault of all the photographers and reporters who stormed the airport, I decided to walk and rid myself of this horde. My plan worked. The “gentlemen” had wanted to see me in a wheelchair. They were uninterested in pictures of me walking to my plane on foot, and disappeared, deeply disappointed.

  Sinatra treats them the way they deserve to be treated, and he does that well, as in everything he undertakes. He tackles a song like a poet his text. His intonation, his breathing technique, his arrangements, are famous. His professionalism, his generosity, his loyalty—everything about him is famous. This brilliant genius can do without reporters.

  NAT KING COLE

  Nat King Cole was a shy, forthright man.

  I got to know him in Las Vegas. At that time I was still new in the profession into which I had entered so suddenly.

  Nat Cole was of the opinion that I shouldn’t sing in that city, that I should perform in theaters, go abroad. And he advised me to begin with South America.

  We met again when he sang at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco, and I had a contract with the Geary Theatre. I had come there from Texas and didn’t know that so many musicals were being staged in the city while good musicians were really not available anymore.

  Nat Cole visited me during an audition. He took me aside and gave me some advice: “You shouldn’t be working with second rate musicians because your arrangements are difficult. You should always consider two things. Numero uno: Fish around for the best musicians in every field. Numero due: Look for your impresario long in advance so that he can engage the best musicians, at the right time, for a definite date, in a definite city.”

  As his evening’s performance at the Fairmont was drawing to a close, I hurried there to hear him sing “The Joe Turner Blues” again. He was holding the stage curtain in his hand while he sang the last refrain. Nat King Cole was a wonderful man who expressed his feelings with great reserve, but he was never shy when he had good advice to give. Without him, I probably would not have made the transition from nightclubs to theater. How unjust that he had to die so young! I believe that God loved him, even though it seems impossible that God loves those who die young.

  MY FRIEND PIAF

  Horrified, I looked on as she exhausted her energies and took on three lovers at once. It all made me feel like a country cousin. She didn’t notice that at all. Around the clock she was concerned only with her feelings, her profession, her belief in all kinds of odd things, with her passion for the world in general and for certain people in particular.

  In my eyes, she really was The Sparrow, the little bird whose name she bore. But she was also Jezebel, whose unquenchable thirst for love must have been due to a feeling of imperfection, her “ugliness,” as she put it—her delicate, scrawny body, which she sent forth into combat like Circe, the Sirens and Lorelei, the temptress, who with her incomparable vitality promised all the pleasures of this world. She made me dizzy with all her lovers, whom I had to hide or lead to different rooms of her dwelling. I did what she demanded of me. I did many favors for her without ever understanding her enormous need for love.

  She liked me; perhaps she loved me. But I believe she could only love men. Friendship was a vague feeling whose shadows sometimes scurried through her head and heart. She had no time to dedicate herself exclusively to friendship. And she was right, since her energies were not inexhaustible. I helped her dress at the theater and at the Versailles, the New York nightclub in which she sang. When the tragic accident occurred, I took over the practical problems of her life. We were to pick up Marcel Cerdan at the airport; she was sleeping when I heard that his plane had crashed over the Azores and that he was dead.

  I had to wake her up at the scheduled time and tell her the news. Then came the doctors and the medications. I was sure she would cancel the appearance at the Versailles, but when I spoke to her about it in the afternoon, she said she had no intention of breaking her contract. I must add that she considered it absolutely necessary to ask the orchestra conductor for an intermission during the performance and to omit the “Hymne à l’amour” (“Hymn to Love”) Then, with the house electrician, I adjusted the spotlight to a softer light. I went to her dressing room again; she was calm and determined. She had decided to sing the “Hymne à l’amour.”

  All of us were afraid of one particular passage in this song: “Si tu meurs, je mourrai aussi” (“If you die, I shall die too”). But she stuck it out. She went through her repertoire as if nothing had happened. In fact, she didn’t even seem to bow to that harsh law of show business, “The show must go on.” She made use of her grief, of her mourning, so to speak, to sing even better than usual.

  On succeeding evenings we sat in her dark hotel room and held hands across the table. She was inconsolable, and tried with all her will to bring Cerdan back. Suddenly she cried out: “There he is—don’t you hear his voice?” I put her to bed, knowing that this lunatic despair would pass.

  And it did pass. Long after these events, Edith Piaf announced that she was getting married. This storm, too, I let pass over me. The ceremony had to take place in a church in New York, and I was to be the witness to the marriage. Since I’m not a Catholic, Piaf procured a special dispensation for me. She returned to the land of remembrance and to her cherished superstitions, and on a dark New York morning I helped her dress. When I came to her room she was lying naked on the bed, as was her
custom. The “custom,” of course, was connected with her belief that in this way happiness would never abandon the young pair. Around her neck she was wearing a chain with a tiny emerald cross I had given her. She looked lost in this gloomy room, thousands of miles away from her country.

  Afterward, she went back to France. We had a tender relationship, but it was not love. I have always respected her attitude and her decisions. Very much later, when she became a drug addict, I broke faith with her, it was more than I could bear. I knew my limits, even when I understood that she needed the drugs. To understand does not always mean to approve. What could I do? All my efforts to help Piaf ran into an unconquerable wall: drugs. I was inconsolable. Drugs, at that time, were not as dangerous as now—heroin was not as widespread, nor other similar atrocious substances. But anyhow, it was a matter of drugs, and I gave up helping her. My love for her remained constant, but it had become useless. She wasn’t alone. As was to be expected, a devoted young man was at her side.

  I gave Edith Piaf up like a lost daughter whom you forever mourn, whom you always shed tears over, whom I shall always carry in the depths of my heart.

  RUDOLF NUREYEV

  I’ve never known a vainer man. He certainly had good professional grounds for it. Perhaps one would have tolerated his attitude if he were not as conceited in private life as on the stage.

  I got to know Nureyev through my friend, Margot Fonteyn. After their appearance, I would dry both of them off behind the giant, cold “wings”—if you can still call them “wings”—of the Parisian Sports Palace.

  Nureyev is a loner, and, at the same time, an extrovert, an astonishing mélange that surprises anyone who comes in contact with him. But that is precisely his intention.

  I often saw Nureyev in London, since we were neighbors. He constantly complained about his legs, which he considered “too short.” My job was to assure him that this was not the case, that he was perfect on stage. The great dancer Erik Bruhn was his guru. Bruhn never left Nureyev’s loge, and only the approving nods of his head could satisfy Nureyev. Since I had never seen Bruhn dance, I can say nothing about his talent, and must rely on Nureyev’s judgment. He must have been the greatest, although he in no way looked like a dancer. He looked very serious, and seemed to be alien to the theater and to the dance.

  When I see Mikhail Baryshnikov, I always think of Nureyev and his fixation about having legs that are too short. Baryshnikov didn’t have to worry about such things. He has beautiful, long legs, and the face of a young god. He didn’t have any inferiority complex. I think he owes this remarkable balance to the fact that he loves women. He’s not a loner, not even in his art. He’s healthy, thank God!

  ELISABETH BERGNER

  Elisabeth was the idol of millions of people and, even before The Blue Angel, the idol of my youth. As I’ve said earlier, she was very kind to beginners. But I was afraid of her.

  Each time you stand opposite an important personage, you’re seized with fear. That’s always the case with me. It has often happened to me. And when the person concerned is also a great actress, the fright increases tenfold. As always, in the late twenties, Elisabeth Bergner was a sensation on the stages of Europe. She was the queen of the theater, often imitated but never matched.

  She was an impressive phenomenon, neither man nor woman. She was Bergner. She had a wholly special way of speaking German, with an unusual accentuation of the syllables. The lock of hair that fell on her forehead, the “Bergner lock,” was the ne plus ultra of fashion. She also began to wear her hair short when young German girls were still letting their hair grow down to their shoulders. Elisabeth Bergner fascinated her audience, enchanted them like a sorceress. We became friends many years later in Hollywood and in England.

  AFTER THE DEVIL IS A WOMAN

  JOSEF VON STERNBERG’S DECISION, against my will, to terminate our collaboration—to which the studio executives probably also contributed—marked for me the beginning of a long series of mediocre films. “If you leave Hollywood now,” said von Sternberg, “the whole world will believe you have done so only because of pressure from me. You must continue to work here.”

  I made the films that followed without great conviction, to put it mildly.

  Rouben Mamoulian was a very good friend and took me as I was. Others, too. The only film I need not be ashamed of is Desire, directed by Frank Borzage and based on a script by Ernst Lubitsch. I found Gary Cooper a little less monosyllabic than before. He was finally rid of Lupe Velez, who had been at his heels constantly throughout the shooting of Morocco.

  Desire became a good film and, moreover, also proved to be a box office success. The script was excellent, the roles superb—one more proof that these elements are more important than actors. But even before Desire became a hit at the box office, we made another film (that’s how it is in the film business), one that was not so good: Angel. Ernst Lubitsch was responsible for the script and was the director. Our morale was restored when Desire was shown in movie houses all over the world.

  THE GARDEN OF ALLAH

  In 1936, when I was still under contract to Paramount, David O. Selznick wanted to make a color film based on Robert Hichens’s successful novel. He negotiated with Paramount and borrowed me for the duration of the shooting. David Selznick’s situation in Hollywood was quite unique. Through his extraordinary knowledge of the mechanics of power and his skill at achieving his aims by listening attentively to his interlocutors, he had created his own empire in which his every word was a command. I liked working for him very much, since I knew exactly what he wanted from me. Naturally, he wasn’t infallible. But he could generously make up for his mistakes, and he was also very liberal with money for his own productions.

  Selznick and I had the same views. Like me, he detested garish or too powerful colors. Since he always knew what he was about, he let Ernest Dryden design my costumes. That was a tough job for Dryden. My role was that of a woman at once mysterious and convincingly real. The action took place in the desert, and Selznick didn’t want an Amazon running around in pants and boots. He was pleased with the idea of keeping the costumes in sandy colors, and we began to try different materials while Dryden continued to sketch. Despite all the stories that have been told about this film, and although Josh Logan and his anecdotes became the center of attention of quite a few parties, The Garden of Allah remains the most beautiful color film ever made.

  Charles Boyer played a monk who has broken his vows, and I, an odd creature whose reactions are unforeseeable. I bore a ridiculous name, Domini Enfilden, and I was supposedly seeking “peace of mind” in the desert. I found it exciting to be participating in the first great color film. Selznick attached great importance to the real-life character of my role, and he would listen to me with infinite patience when I explained my ideas regarding the costumes to him. I had decided to choose shades of color that would harmonize with the desert sand.

  Dryden, a very talented costume designer, agreed with me, and we created some wonderful outfits. Pastel tones were used for the first time in the history of color film, and the takes were superb—which is saying a lot, since up until then, the great cameramen of black and white films had never been concerned with the special problems of color.

  A young man, Joshua Logan, arrived from New York (at that time he had the job of “dialogue director”). Later, he wrote a book on our experiences, and scores of people at parties were entertained by his anecdotes of the shooting of The Garden of Allah. Although these stories do not always correspond to the truth, they are quite amusing.

  We went to the Arizona desert, where we camped in tents with countless scorpions. The heat was awful. The makeup ran down our cheeks, but the greatest disaster was Charles Boyer’s toupée.

  In the early afternoon when the light of the still-scorching sun was already changing color, we hurried to complete the scene before the yellow rays could no longer be photographed, and the light no longer corresponded to the shadings of the morning. At that time nobod
y paid special attention to Boyer’s toupée.

  One day, when we were shooting the great love scene of the film, Boyer bent over me to kiss me when suddenly his toupée loosened. The sweat that had accumulated under it poured all over my face. General panic. Makeup artists and hairdressers ran around frantically. The sun sank lower and lower, and became more yellow than ever. The cameraman shouted: “That’s it for today!”

  Selznick sent the whole team back to Hollywood, where we were to await further instructions. In the meantime, the desert was recreated in a giant studio. Trucks brought sand from the shores of the Pacific. Huge ventilators were installed to simulate light breezes. The production company spent a real fortune.

  Finally, we had to reshoot the scene ruined by the temperamental toupée, as well as the scenes following them.

  At that time, it took several days before you could see the results of all such efforts on the screen. Again a disaster. The verdict read: “Wrong sand color.” And, in fact, the sand from the Pacific beaches does have a different color from that in Arizona.

  We were sent home again. While we were waiting, the “wrong sand” was removed and replaced by the “right” sand from Arizona. (Selznick was the greatest perfectionist I have ever known.) Yet, despite all the changes in the script, he could not save this film, even though it remains one of the most beautiful color films from those pioneer days. To our great regret, The Garden of Allah is no more than that. We all gave it our best to ensure its success. But the miracle was not wrought. Nobody can foresee what will please the critics. Every artistic activity is, and always will be, a poker game.

  COSTUMES

  Anyone with a modicum of knowledge of photography knows that there is a great difference between the human eye and the lens of a camera. The great artists who designed the costumes of film stars knew the technique of photography from the ground up. They knew the value of color and the effect of every material, even before the costumes took form in the tailor shops. Nevertheless, costume and makeup tests always took place before the beginning of the actual shooting. The tests showed the cameraman what problems he had to cope with, so that he could position the lighting accordingly.