Marlene Read online

  As soon as it was clear that I would be a member of the cast, I set to work under Josef von Sternberg’s direction, and the legend of our creative association was born. You can never know whether the film you’re making will someday be called “a classic.” That’s something that posterity must decide. You can never know beforehand what importance this or that film might ultimately achieve. That, at any rate, was the way it was back in those days. Today, stars invest their own money in a film and speculate on the anticipated profits that are expected to make their pockets bulge all the more.

  The Blue Angel was the first great sound film following the First World War, and as such, it has all the imperfections of its time. Its success was due exclusively to von Sternberg’s direction.

  There were countless technical difficulties. For example, it was not possible to cut film carrying sound, which considerably prolonged the shooting period. And four cameras had to film each scene simultaneously to provide options for the final cut.

  I found all this terribly exciting. To watch the great master at work was a boundless pleasure.

  I was always ready when he called on me. However, I held myself a little to one side so as not to disturb anything, or to get in the way of the other actors. But I paid the strictest attention to the slightest sign from Mr. von Sternberg ordering me back onto the set.

  In addition to Jannings, the cast included many other famous actors. They were, incidentally, all very nice to me. Poor Marlene, they must have thought. If she only knew what was in store for her after this …

  But I had no idea of these ominous thoughts. I was still the nice, well-bred little girl who dutifully obeyed the instructions of her lord and master. He would not forsake me, I was sure. I was there for him, and he was there for me. Or so I told myself at any rate.

  And I wasn’t mistaken, as it turned out. Von Sternberg made two versions of the film—the German and the English—simultaneously.

  Dubbing had not yet come on the scene. Von Sternberg introduced me to his American wife who, he said, would speak my lines if I had any trouble with English. All I would have to do is move my lips.

  His proposal, with its underlying assumption that I might fail at something, shocked me. And I hated failure of any kind. So it was up to me to prove my worth, that I could do it.

  We began the shooting. Each scene was filmed first in German and immediately thereafter in English. I was as good as in my best times at the Max Reinhardt Drama School—perhaps even better—thanks to the English I had learned at home.

  But Josef von Sternberg wanted only American English. Panic on board. I didn’t know American English. Von Sternberg undertook to make up for this difference. He didn’t call on his wife’s help. Nobody, I believe, could fault my pronunciation. Only my role counted.

  In contrast to what the Max Reinhardt Drama School had demanded of me, von Sternberg did not want me to speak with a lower voice. He wanted it high and nasal. This was supposed to emphasize the Berlinese, which is quite similar to London cockney.

  Von Sternberg, the magician, worked this miracle and sent his wife home. I don’t think this entailed any great difficulties because, in fact, they had just been divorced. Von Sternberg never disclosed anything about his private life. Only much later when I came to Hollywood did I learn that his ex-wife never forgave him for the separation and that he understood her bitterness.

  Von Sternberg had a most definite idea of what Lola in The Blue Angel should be like. He knew everything about her voice, her movements, her behavior. He influenced the choice of my clothes and encouraged me to make even further costume sketches, which I relished doing. I decked out my costumes with top hats and worker’s caps, replaced my trinkets with ribbons, tassles, and braids—everything that in my opinion was within the means of a B-Girl in a sleazy, waterfront saloon.

  One day von Sternberg said to me: “Seen from the front you should bring to mind Félicien Rops, from the rear, Toulouse-Lautrec.” That was a concept that I could easily work with. I always liked clear instructions. Nothing is more pleasant than to know what’s expected of you in life, in work, and in love.

  “I didn’t discover Dietrich,” von Sternberg would often remark. “I am a teacher,” he elaborated, “and this beautiful woman came to that teacher’s attention.” He shaped her appearance, high-lighted her charm, minimized her defects, and molded her into an aphrodisiacal phenomenon.”

  There is nothing worse than the blurred, confused direction of performers when a director relies too heavily on his actors. At the time of the filming of The Blue Angel, it was not customary for young actresses to design their own costumes: Directors didn’t have enough confidence in them. But under von Sternberg’s sharp scrutiny I could do my own thing, and very well. The costumes that I wore in The Blue Angel have become a symbol for both my personality and the decade that placed its stamp on the film. At the time it appeared, the setting had already become somewhat dated. Though the film was shot in 1929 and 1930, its action referred to the beginnings of the twenties and even earlier. The fact that we could make our own costumes helped us to re-create the atmosphere, like conjurors. This is all the easier, the farther you revert into the past.

  The word fashion had only a negative meaning for von Sternberg. He himself had designed the set for the tavern called “The Blue Angel.” Together with several German writers, he had based the script on Heinrich Mann’s novel, and he had the final say in everything—cast, lighting, props. His all-embracing culture fascinated me. He had an answer for every problem and no contradicting argument could upset him.

  The experience of making this film awakened in me an ever greater interest in everything that went on both before and behind the camera. “The world behind the camera” became a virtual source of inspiration for me. Von Sternberg allowed me a great deal of latitude and generously passed on to me and everyone else he worked with not only his knowledge but also the secrets of his art.

  He was the greatest cameraman the world has ever seen. Am I exaggerating? Not at all! Compared to films today, the cost of his amounted to no more than “a bag of peanuts” (if I may use the expression). Even for a film like The Blue Angel, the budget at his disposal was low and the shooting time strictly limited. One of his greatest talents lay in making everything appear opulent and radiant when in fact he worked on a very thin shoestring. He bubbled over with ideas, and the objections of producers that might have panicked less gifted directors left him completely cold. He always found ways to achieve the effect desired with less cost and never wasted time arguing with his employers of the moment.

  He was also a superb editor and could work behind the cutting machine for several nights in a row without a break. He taught me how to cut and splice scenes together. Since my mind was being shaped by him, I had no idea that some directors couldn’t do this work and had to rely on film cutters. Von Sternberg allowed me, his zealous pupil, to share his experience, granting me fleeting glances into the dark imaginative figments floating about in his mind, to which I, too, seemed to belong.

  But this kind of close collaboration began only much later, in Hollywood. In Berlin, while shooting The Blue Angel, I was never allowed to see the rushes, a privilege reserved for the stars! But I didn’t care one bit. I was happy enough to sit in and listen next morning when von Sternberg would comment on the work that had been done on the day before.

  I simply wasn’t ambitious, nor have I ever been. Perhaps that’s what allowed me to survive all those years in Hollywood. It was the least of my worries. I just obeyed and did what I was supposed to do and felt quite good about it all. My German upbringing helped me to cope with sudden fame. I went on doing my duty without asking for any privileges. This continues to be one of my self-imposed limits. I have never—and I hope I never will—asked anyone for the slightest favor. As the well-behaved little girl I’ve always tried to be, I’ve lived exclusively on my own talents. I’ve had my share of bad luck, and sometimes I’ve been through hell, but I’ve always
emerged from the pits, radiant I might add.

  “Radiant, irradiant”—that brings me back to von Sternberg. Von Sternberg was creator, Lord of Light, an incomparable technician, the commander in chief of the film world. In the studio or on the set, he was a bulwark against bothersome intruders from reporters to office boys, the Almighty God to whom you looked up and whose voice you obeyed.

  He knew it and accepted it.

  When you’re a consummate master in your field of work, you can draw a justifiable pride or even vanity from it. In Hollywood he would later say: “People should just leave us alone!” He was a director in the true sense of the word. He, in fact, directed everything and everybody, the electricians, the technicians, the makeup artists, whom he hated, the extras, whom he loved, and all the rest of us at his service.

  My “healthy common sense,” as he called it, surprised him. He considered me beautiful (which was far from being the case) and, consequently, stupid. He accorded me no special attention outside working hours. He was charming, understanding. And since he knew exactly how easily I could fall into any kind of a trap, he would also counsel me as best he could—which, given my young years, was no small thing.

  I thought The Blue Angel would be a flop. I found it very ordinary and vulgar—two utterly different concepts in my view, but which here complemented each other perfectly.

  On the set, at least that’s how I imagined it, four cameras, turning simultaneously, stared at each of my steps (I say this only with the greatest disgust). And yet that’s just how it was! Whenever it was my turn, I had to lift a leg, the left or the right, and the cameras were constantly riveted on me.

  In the evening we all went home, took care of our children, led our own routine lives, and on the next day we went back to work. We were in the studio and shooting The Blue Angel but were all utterly indifferent to it. In the final analysis our attitude proved to be eminently correct. If you take your work too seriously, you become critical, something which most directors (von Sternberg among them) didn’t appreciate very much. Von Sternberg was content to use me as a “springboard,” as a living dictionary, and as an expert (so he believed) on Berlinese, which he, an Austrian by birth, didn’t know very well.

  How could a girl “of good family” be familiar with so indecent an idiom as Berlinese? I was very interested in this colorful, graphic jargon spoken by the denizens of Berlin’s working-class quarters. I also liked their special humor. Humor, after all, is not a typical German trait. By nature we are more prone to solemnity. But Berliners are an exception, their humor is unique. Although it’s not exactly black humor, it bears a slight resemblance to it. It’s a kind of “gallows humor,” plain and simple, as Ernest Hemingway described it, making it his own.

  My social background, by definition, forbade my using this notorious gallows humor, but somehow I acquired it anyway, learning to regard myself with a certain ironic detachment, and accepting with an air of resignation the tribulations that each day visits upon us.

  Von Sternberg, who had spent almost his entire life in America, was totally obsessed with “this typically Berliner sense of humor.” Between takes, he would spend long periods of time studying the way I used various expressions and turns of phrase that he wanted to incorporate into the film.

  Thanks to his logical bent, von Sternberg filmed The Blue Angel according to the laws of logic, transforming me into an American vamp. He made the other actors speak English to me. None of them knew English, so he taught them their lines. But at the same time, he insisted that they retain their German accent, just as he insisted that I retain my “American” accent.

  Although the English version, which continues to be shown around the world, is not as good as the German one, it proves convincing because it is authentic and not falsified. Actors today, even stars, use languages in films they don’t really know. The public gets used to this, but in my view, by doing so, performers give themselves away.

  The public takes everything at face value. Oscars are given to actors who have always been dubbed, who did not utter a single word in films for which they are awarded “Best Performer of the Year” honors. It’s quite funny. But only those in the business realize it.

  The public simply doesn’t know “the film kitchen” from the inside, remaining instead in the dark and allowing itself to be taken in by the biggest cock-and-bull stories. All the better for the “fat cats” who dump this kind of film on the marketplace. They get richer. And me, I’m always the solitary moviegoer who knows that all, yes, all Italian films are dubbed, even in Italian, and that actors go on making other films elsewhere while their voices are being dubbed in remote sound studios. You call that acting? Not in my opinion, which, of course, counts for very little or nothing.

  Unlike many film stars, as I’ve said earlier, I was very interested in the technical side of film production. Since my Blue Angel experience under von Sternberg, I’ve always been fascinated by the magical effect of cameras and light. The marvel of camera placements, of visual angles that can alter human faces and figures to make them appear big, strong, small, thick, thin, short or tall, has excited me ever since.

  I was kept so busy during the shooting of my first two films in Hollywood learning the language correctly that I had no time for other things—but after these long months, I was always in the cutting room where the takes were being spliced together at the end of the day.

  Von Sternberg has said about me:

  “Again and again she claims that I taught her everything.”

  “It was impossible to exhaust her, she wore out others with an enthusiasm only a few could match.”

  “To a degree she was open and straightforward, which some might call tactlessness. Her personality was marked by an extreme refinement and an almost childlike simplicity Never before had I met so beautiful a woman who was so misunderstood and underestimated, the woman who was to enchant the world.”

  Since we all had to get up at six in the morning, the other ladies went right home to bed as soon as work had ended. In those days there were no limits on working hours. Very often we worked until three or four in the morning. Naturally, the technicians were paid overtime. I stayed as long as they let me in the hallowed halls of the cutting rooms, knowing well that the “Master” loved to teach amateurs and pros alike.

  Today filmmakers know all about camera placements and visual angles. But TV cameras often distort contours much to the astonishment of bewildered viewers who wonder why an actress’s face appears broad on one day and narrow on another.

  For that matter all the secrets of camera placement also apply to amateur photographers. You should hold the camera high, slightly above the eye level of those you want to photograph. If you hold the camera lower, at about the subject’s belly-button level, say, the face appears round and thick and bears no resemblance to what you actually wanted to photograph.

  But back to studio lighting. The back light is the big bugaboo. If a performer near it is speaking to her partner, she is told not to turn completely away from it. If she does, the back light will give her a bulbous nose.

  A side light can also play little tricks—but it’s not quite so risky

  The key light, directly behind the camera, is the most important of all. The higher this key light is placed, the longer and narrower the face will appear on the screen. If an actress happens to be blessed with high cheek bones, such lighting sketches attractive, soft shadows on both cheeks.

  Since at the present time there are no great film beauties as in the past, this knowledge is not all too important. The actors and actresses may be good, but beautiful they are not.

  The only exception to this is Robert Redford. In addition to being a brilliant and versatile producer, he knows his camera. I take my hat off to him.

  You must really exert yourself to become a real pro. But it’s worth the effort. You learn your trade. You learn to cut, an essential process in completing any film. Directors today like to play it safe and shoot each scene fr
om every conceivable angle. So when the cutter’s turn comes, he has all the necessary parts to form a sequence. In the old days the great filmmakers never operated this way. They knew in advance what they wanted and at the right moment would shout “Cut!” thus saving both time and money. They didn’t prolong the shooting period unnecessarily for hours on end, shooting from the left, the right, the front. They didn’t give the cutter, or editor, lengthy “rushes” from which to make a film.

  Josef von Sternberg got me used to the quick “Cut!” Later I worked in the same way with Ernst Lubitsch and Frank Borzage. All my other directors played it safe. Complying with studio directives, they would make endless takes, most of which, they well knew, would end up in the waste basket. Great creative talents don’t have to do this.

  For example, let’s take a single room in its entirety. A door opens in the background. A person enters. Her facial features are not clearly visible since she is still far away. She closes the door, comes up to the camera and says: “Excuse the disturbance, but …”

  An experienced director will stop here, because he knows he needs a close-up. On the other hand, a director who is not sure of himself will film the whole scene following the actress’s line just as it stands in the shooting plan and to the very end. The result is a lot of wasted footage, unsuited for the final montage. I’ve always had a pronounced horror of waste. I can’t stand this way of shooting, but, of course, I never said anything.