Marlene Page 8

  Von Sternberg attracted students from all over the world who wanted to study his craftsmanship. One of them even went so far as to measure the distance between my nose and the main spotlight hoping to track down the secret of his magic.

  Here I’d like to explain the underlying purpose of the “main spotlight.” It’s the major light source for the close-ups and can make or ruin a face.

  In my case the face was created.

  The most outlandish stories have made the rounds: that I had to have my molars extracted so as to highlight my hollow cheeks, that young girls and actresses could use their facial muscles to suck in their cheeks to achieve the secret effect to be seen on the screen. None of these tales is true. Nor are those that claim that in the shooting of Morocco I ran through the desert on high-heeled shoes. But I’m getting ahead of my story. We’re still with The Blue Angel. In this film von Sternberg used the main spotlight to give greater prominence to the roundness of my face. No hollow cheeks in The Blue Angel.

  For that purpose the main spotlight was placed very low and far away from me. The secret face with the hollow cheeks was achieved as a result of placing the main spotlight close to my face and high above it. That sounds quite simple, right? And when pupils (or professional colleagues) stormed the set to measure the distance and the height of the main spotlight, von Sternberg would shift the mounting and say: “Put your measuring tapes away, boys. I can light Mrs. Dietrich just as well with any other tried and true technique.” He couldn’t for the life of him restrain himself from making biting remarks. Nobody could “measure” his artistic gift either in inches or centimeters.

  In my favorite film, The Spanish Dancer (the awful English title The Devil Is a Woman was forced on him by the producers), von Sternberg sent the team out for a lunch break earlier than usual. By the time we came back he had dusted white the entire woods through which I was to drive with a cart. Nothing is worse than green when you’re shooting in black and white. But since the action was taking place in the woods, the trees that had been placed in studio 13 were, of course, green, at least at first. On the screen they looked as though they had come out of a fairy tale, and I, sitting in the cart dressed in white, looked just like a fay. And how do you think von Sternberg attired the man I met in the white-dusted woods? He had him wear a black suit and placed a black sombrero on his black hair. Black and white. There were no color films at that time, but even today black and white remain unmatched as a form. It is strikingly suitable to certain films. Color beautifies everything. Photograph a garbage dump in color and it will look clean, orderly, glossy.

  If von Sternberg had filmed in color, the result would certainly have been the ne plus ultra of good taste, clever effects and radiant beauty. Many may remember The Devil Is a Woman, the last film he made with me, as shot in color. This, of course, was not the case, but the images it created are so rich in light, shadows and halftones that one easily thinks it’s in color.

  While the filming of The Blue Angel was in full swing, von Sternberg brought an American to the studio—B. P Schulberg, the general manager of Paramount Studios. He offered me a seven-year contract in Hollywood. “I wouldn’t like to go away,” I answered very politely. “I would like to stay here with my family.” He was just as polite and then disappeared again. Von Sternberg had made him come over from America to show him some scenes from the film.

  But since I had no intention of changing my mind and the shooting period for The Blue Angel was over, we all said good-bye to one another. Von Sternberg returned to America long before I myself traveled there and long before the film’s premiere. Each member of the cast went his or her own way, continued, as best as possible, his or her career, and mourned the absence of von Sternberg’s direction, of his authority, of his dynamics, of his friendliness, and of his magic whose divine and demonic powers he had let us glimpse without ever causing us any offense.

  As I was writing these pages, I had the opportunity to see The Blue Angel in the original German version on TV. I had not expected to meet a first-rate actress in a difficult, brazen, at times tender role, a natural, relaxed actress who awakens a complex person to life, a personality that was not mine. I don’t know how von Sternberg worked this miracle. Genius, I assume! In its ordinariness, the character of Lola reflected superbly the mentality of ordinary people.

  I must confess I was very impressed by the actress Marlene Dietrich who successfully plays a sailor girl of the twenties. Even the accent (Low German) is just right.

  I, the well brought-up, the reserved, still entirely unspoiled girl from a good family, unwittingly had accomplished a unique feat that I was never again to repeat successfully. All the women’s roles I played later were “more delicate” than Lola’s in The Blue Angel and, accordingly, easier to perform.

  The contract I had signed with Ufa contained a clause which my husband had questioned. It stated that for a certain number of days after the making of this film, Ufa would have an option on my future career. I no longer remember how much time Ufa had to exercise this option, but that, too, was irrelevant. It was one-sided. The studios had all the rights, the actor none at all.

  I wasn’t even notified when the film had finally been edited and the last of the work completed. Nor did the studio exercise its option on the date fixed in the contract.

  Everyone was convinced that The Blue Angel would in no way enjoy the success von Sternberg had predicted for it, but would end up a fiasco, a disaster. My husband and I thought that the option Ufa had received (for a pittance) would remain only on paper. None of the company’s executives, moreover, had taken my future film career seriously.

  During this time von Sternberg would often phone me from Hollywood and ask me to join him. I didn’t trust his proposals. I had enough of all the fantastic promises of a “great future career” in America. But one fine day he repeated that I should drop the “big wigs” of the German studios and tell them all to go to hell.

  Actually, I didn’t care whether I went abroad or stayed at home. After long discussions, my husband and I finally decided that I would go to the United States alone. Our daughter would remain with him in Berlin until we could see what impression that strange country called America would make on me before we dared to “transplant” our little Maria and her governess. I was sent out on a reconnaissance mission, as it were.

  I didn’t agree with one of the clauses in the contract that Paramount Pictures had sent to me, which stipulated that I was to sign up with them for seven years. I categorically refused, an indication of the great value I placed on my independence.

  Later, I received a new contract stating that if I was not comfortable in America, I could return home after my first film but could not sign a contract with another studio. The Americans obviously were ignorant of the sense of honor deeply ingrained in the German character. I would never have done anything of the sort, anything so shameful.

  So I set out for America confident that I could return to Germany whenever I pleased. I fought for this right not knowing that a powerful, ominous force would be leading my homeland to its ruin and that all my plans would come to nothing.

  All went well at first. My husband insisted I bring along Resi, my dressing room attendant from The Blue Angel days, and the journey began.

  The giant ship scared me so much that I remained in my cabin most of the time. I was bored to death and already troubled by homesickness on this opulent ocean liner with its glittering shops and restaurants.

  On the other hand, I wasn’t seasick. The high, swirling waves (it was April) caused a lot of discomfort to the other passengers, including Resi. To top it all, Resi lost her dentures on the second day of the crossing. They had fallen into the sea, and throughout the trip I prepared her purees and soups and comforted her in her wounded pride. No argument could convince her that a stroll on deck would be good for her and that she didn’t have to be ashamed of being toothless in the middle of a raging storm all bundled up in a shawl.

  The
crossing took six days because of the head winds. I would have despaired if von Sternberg were not waiting for me on the other side of the Atlantic. But since he was the main reason for my coming to America and I had a blind trust in him, I stuck out the bad weather. This German ship was the last connection with my past, and for a long time I was not going to hear my mother tongue again.

  At that time I didn’t know that constantly speaking a foreign language would matter so much to me, although I fully mastered English in the following years.

  It was a strain for me to converse in English, and since von Sternberg improved not only my grammar but my accent as well, I was sometimes insufferable. Anyway, so he claimed. Mostly he would refuse to speak German with me. But after all I had Resi and, on the telephone, my husband. I had sent him three or four telegrams a day in German from the ship. Money means nothing to me when feelings are involved. Besides I thought I would be earning lots of it in America. Innocence, innocence, will you ever leave me?

  It never left me.

  In the course of my life I have squandered entire fortunes. They struck me as ridiculous, and they perished under the pile of checks that I would sign every day. I responded to the appeals of foundations and charity organizations without actually knowing what they were all about. It didn’t matter to me. It’s so easy to write your signature on a check.

  I also made long telephone calls from the United States and sent out telegrams all day long. I learned how to spell my German messages in English, and to this day I wonder who taught me that. But it was necessary since the postal employees spoke no German.

  Later, I also sent telegrams in English which made things easier. But I could never manage to be brief on the phone. I spoke with my daughter in the morning and in the evening. Otherwise I busied myself as best I could. I cooked, worked in the garden of my little house, waited to be called to the studio, tried to get used to the strange environment and to the homesickness that constantly plagued me—especially in the morning when the sun was shining and the palm trees stood motionless and I stood in front of the house on the lookout for the mailman. Waiting for the mailman was to become a habit during all the years spent far from my country, at any rate, for so long as Germany remained my country.

  When I decided to renounce my German citizenship, America opened its arms to me.

  To give up your homeland and mother tongue, even when forced to by circumstance, is an almost unendurable ordeal. Only German, this lovely language, has remained to me as a legacy. I came very close to forgetting it the more securely I settled in America and felt sufficiently at home in English. To be sure, I still don’t have a perfect mastery of English (to the degree that I would like), but I’m familiar with it now, and that’s the main thing.

  Of all the languages I know English is the most precise, which makes my work easier. With von Sternberg’s help I learned new words, new expressions every day—enough to grant the usual interviews and to survive them satisfactorily, that is, as far as the studio was concerned.

  Although I was still young, these long “conversation exercises” in a foreign language were physically difficult for me. I didn’t understand why I would almost faint from fatigue at sundown. Yet I seldom rebelled. I had a great respect for the efforts of others. Compared to the way things were to go later, the studio at that time radiated peace and tranquility. Perhaps everybody was taking a deep breath for the upcoming work on my first American film in the hope that it would be a success. At that time the postal workers were in no danger of being buried under avalanches of my fan mail. The unknown actress by the name of Marlene Dietrich wasn’t a burden for anybody, and the reverse was likewise true. My only ventures in the outside world were limited to walks to a drugstore in the neighborhood or to visits to the movies with Resi.

  The Blue Angel had not yet been distributed in America, so I could go where I pleased without being recognized.

  Although the Paramount executives had purchased the film, they deliberately kept it under lock and key, since they wanted to show it in the movie theaters only after my first American film. They were afraid “The Blue Angel image,” the image of the “dissolute young girl,” would stick to me, in any case they wanted to avoid my being permanently pinned to a type.

  In my opinion I have always played “dissolute young girls,” and they were, as von Sternberg once said, certainly more interesting than the “nice roles.”

  YOU ARE SVENGALI—I AM TRILBY

  “I then put her into the crucible of my conception, blended her image to correspond with mine, pouring lights on her until the alchemy was complete.”

  —Josef von Sternberg

  I BELIEVE I’VE ALWAYS been very lucky.

  Von Sternberg drew everyone he met under his spell. I was too young and too stupid to understand that. But I admired him, and as a well-mannered student of the Max Reinhardt Drama School, I took pains to follow my director as well as possible.

  I never gave up this devotion, this recognition of supreme competence and authority during my entire acting career.

  On the day of my arrival in New York I was wearing a gray dress, my favorite travel outfit in Europe. A charming envoy of Paramount Studios, a Mr. Blumenthal, explained that I couldn’t leave the ship in “those” clothes. I was at a total loss. Resi, my dressing room assistant, was still sick. Blumenthal persuaded me to go ashore in a black dress and a mink coat, if I had one.

  The sun was shining and it was nearly ten o’clock in the morning. I couldn’t decide whether to make myself so sartorially elegant at this time of day. But it was made clear to me that I had to follow instructions.

  My big overseas trunks were in the hold, so I had to go down there, keys in hand, hoping to find some clothes that would please my American hosts. Finally, at ten o’clock, I set foot on the New York waterfront attired in a black dress and a mink coat. Naturally, I was ashamed to be wearing such an outfit. But it seemed to correspond to the customs of the country. After this incident, I resolutely refused to follow the studio’s orders in such matters and dressed as I pleased.

  I wore trousers most of the time. Since we lived in a hilly area not far from the beach, they were more practical than dresses and stockings.

  Everything seemed simple to me, but this was an enormous self-deception. I realized it only very much later, of course. Von Sternberg battled the Paramount publicity agents on my behalf. He took everything upon himself without my ever having to interfere. From this I drew the conclusion that it was up to him to guide me, to advise me, and to explain America’s strange customs to me. And in the process he must have gone through some bad moments. I was stubborn and still young. In retrospect I realize that he showed infinite patience.

  When I started to work for von Sternberg, I didn’t understand very much. The moment I got a call from the makeup artist, I would rush over to the studio as early as five or six-thirty in the morning.

  There new difficulties would come up. In general, takes of my red-blond hair (probably because of its reddish gleam) were made in subdued lighting. So I was advised to have it bleached to make it look more natural, more ordinary.

  My hair looked too dark on film. Since I refused to have my hair bleached, and since von Sternberg backed me up, the studio had to give in. In normal life I was a blond, but on the screen I turned into a brunette. This completely confused the “Big Bosses” at Paramount. A floodlight was beamed on my hair from above, from the side and, above all, from the rear so that the tips of my hair lit up, creating a halo effect.

  My hair constantly drove me to despair. Nobody liked my “baby hair.” It simply couldn’t be curled, combed through, or given a form suitable to the face from which some fabulous aura was supposed to emanate. From six o’clock in the morning on we dabbled with curlers, hair dryers irritated my scalp—in vain. Finally, we resorted to curling irons so that I could let myself be seen before the camera again.

  By noon the curls were gone. The script girls would almost go crazy, as my hair style
turned out different from the day before. So we retreated to my dressing room and tried to save the situation. Everybody joked about it, except me and my hairdresser, Nelly Manley. The photographs taken at that time prove that we did a very good job nevertheless.

  When there was no time to curl my hair, we used spit, also a very effective expedient. During the filming of The Garden of Allah, in 1936 in the Arizona desert, the trouble with my hair became a little drama in itself. It was impossible to restore the coiffure of the day before. I came to hate working on that movie: My curls, the bombastic script—everything annoyed me. Yet once you’ve committed yourself to make a film, even if you find it bad, you must drink the cup to the dregs.

  Backlighting became very fashionable. To realize this it is enough to look at photos of that time. But backlighting also has its disadvantages. The cameraman always insisted that you never turn your head to one side, otherwise the light behind the actress would fall on her nose, which would immediately resemble W. C. Fields’s proboscis.

  Consequently, most of the scenes with a partner were very stiff, to put it mildly. While speaking to one another, we would stare straight ahead instead of looking into each other’s eyes, even during love scenes. We all looked splendid in the circle of light emitted by the reflector in back of us, but we remained rooted to the spot. Who was at fault? The actors, of course! Of me it was said: “She never moves.” One day when I timidly tried to move so as to look at my partner, the cameraman rushed over to me and insistently asked me never to do it again. I obeyed.

  At the beginning of our collaboration, Josef von Sternberg didn’t belong to the cameramen’s union. So, like a skilled diplomat, he had to content himself with making “suggestions” regarding lighting and camera angles.