Marlene (12 page)

I didn't see things exactly from this point of view. He must have found me hard to bear. I insisted on wearing black in my first
American film so as to appear slimmer. Black is not easy to photograph but, as always, von Sternberg was infinitely patient and said: “Fine, I'll take the risk of photographing you in black, if that's what you want.” At that time I didn't yet know enough about photography to appreciate the significance of this promise and the difficulties that he would have to overcome. So I wore black, glossy black (the most difficult to photograph) When I had to speak tender words, I would position myself behind a broad armchair. And he endured my stupidity, day in, day out.

Up to now I've mentioned only the visual aspect of shooting a film. Now I'd like to speak of a second, equally important element: sound.

The work of the sound engineer is decisive. Whereas the cameraman must wait until the next day to see the results of his labors, the sound engineer, who listens in on everything directly, can demand a new recording as soon as a scene is filmed. All he has to say is “Bad for me,” and the performance, even of the greatest actor, is ruined. At this moment the sound engineer's assistants come out of the dark to place the microphones elsewhere. Often they turn directly to the actor, something that von Sternberg had always forbidden. “Explain the problem to me,” he would repeatedly say, “and I'll speak about it to the actor if I decide it should be done that way.”

Despite my inexperience, I understood his reasons: If you ask an actor to speak more loudly it can alter his performance. When the sound engineer was dissatisfied, von Sternberg simply suggested that we emphasize our words more. The firmer the voice, the better it registers on the microphone. A very simple technical trick. What made the whole thing so difficult was that those responsible for the sound received tapes without pictures. Since they couldn't see the actor's lips, they could depend only on what they heard. Many directors who ignored this filmed the same scene a dozen times until the actor was exhausted and his acting unnatural. The sound engineers, of course, were satisfied.

The sound engineer's “Okay” let us breathe easier, especially when I no longer worked with von Sternberg.

Once, in
Golden Earrings,
I had to run screaming through a forest behind the man who deserted me, screaming louder the more I distanced myself from the camera. I was breathless when I came back to the director, and the sound engineer standing next to him said, “Why did you strain yourself like that? There's a microphone behind
every tree.
” “But if that's the case,” I tried to explain to myself and to him, “then they must have picked up my voice as if I were very near. And since the camera doesn't move, as the image becomes smaller and smaller, my voice still sounds as though I were close to the camera.”

The sound engineer assured me that these technicalities would be solved in the “echo-chamber” and that my voice would sound properly distant.

I couldn't make any sense of it at all. Why all that work for the technicians afterward when it would be easier to handle these minor details on the spot? But I hate arguing and raising my voice while shooting a film. So I just shut up, but …

The von Sternberg-Marlene Dietrich collaboration in the United States began with
Morocco
in 1931. I had terrible difficulties since I had to speak correct English and appear mysterious at the same time. An aura of mysteriousness has never been my forté. I knew what was expected of me, but I wasn't in a position to create this atmosphere.
The Blue Angel
had been something altogether different, the role of an ordinary, brazen, sexy and impetuous floozie, the very opposite of the “mysterious woman” that von Sternberg wanted me to play in
Morocco.

The first scene was shot in the Paramount Studios in Hollywood. The action took place aboard a ship putting ashore in Casablanca or some other exotic port. Leaning on the rail, I stared into the distance (camera left, please), when I turned around and reached for my only suitcase, it suddenly snapped open and all my belongings fell out. Thereupon a gentleman (Adolphe Menjou)
came up to me, wanting to help me gather up my belongings, and said, “Can I help you, Mademoiselle?” At that time the word “mademoiselle” immediately enveloped any woman bent over the mess of an opened suitcase in an aura of mystery.

I had to answer, “Thanks, I don't need any help.”

Paradoxically, I could have really used some help on that particular day. Unlike most Germans, I didn't say “SSSanks,” yet my pronunciation of the English “th” in thanks was far from perfect. And hundreds of people had shown up on the set to get a look at the newcomer Marlene Dietrich (two unusual words).

I knew exactly what I was doing wrong. As best I could, I spoke with what I really thought was an American accent: “Thanks, I don't need any
helllp,
” pressing my tongue against my palate, hoping to produce a guttural sound. Von Sternberg, aware of the moment's importance but, as always, infinitely patient, made me repeat my answer God knows how many times until I pronounced the word “help” properly. Today I understand that this first line and this first scene were of the greatest importance for the success of the film and of the unknown German woman called Marlene Dietrich. (When I asked von Sternberg if I could change my name, he answered: “Soon it will become quite well known.”)

At the end of the day I broke into tears. Not in front of the technicians, but in my dressing room in front of my makeup artist Dot, the dressing room attendant, the hairdresser … it was too much for me. I wanted to go back to Germany. If that's what my life was going to be like from now on, the whole business no longer interested me. I had left my husband and daughter behind in Berlin, I would return to them immediately.

Von Sternberg was standing outside my dressing room, after knocking lightly he came in.

He restored my morale within twenty minutes.

“Never break off your contract, rule
numero uno.
Never give up, rule
numero due.
In other words, stay.” That's what he said to me.

How tiresome it must have been for him to bother himself so over a young, impressionable woman who understood nothing of his aims, his wishes, not to mention his plans for his Trilby, his Eliza Doolittle, his Galatea—the dream of creating a woman
according to his own ideal, like a painter who captures an image on his canvas. How could he ever have stood me? It's impossible to answer this question. I understood nothing of his concerns or obsessions; I knew nothing of his aims. He had decided to make me a star overnight, but that left me indifferent. In reality, he was molding an unknown Berlin woman. I was young, vulnerable, of course, and I was there to enchant the great American public, but in my own eyes I was still what I had never ceased to be, a German woman merely concerned with fulfilling her obligations, nothing more.

I didn't want to go to evening parties. He agreed. For me only my home counted. He agreed. I wanted to get my daughter out of Germany. He agreed. He even went to great pains to phone my husband (I didn't trust myself) to ask if I could take Maria with me back to the United States. In short, he set me on my feet once and for all. Anyway, we both believed this, at that time.

He was father, confessor, critic, instructor, the one who adjusted himself to all my needs. Adviser, business man, agent, spokesman, he helped me to live in peace with myself. He was my absolute lord, whether it was a matter of buying a Rolls Royce, of hiring a chauffeur, or of teaching me that signing checks is a serious business. He taught me a myriad things, in addition to English and my chosen profession—acting. God knows how much I've learned from him! I don't think I ever properly thanked him for all that. But, so far as I recall, he didn't like to be thanked.

He also taught me to understand the American legal system, which, particularly in California, is so different from the European. In fact, he had come to know it quite well since his divorce, which had occurred long before we met in the States. He had put up a big fight against paying alimony to his ex-wife, whom in the end he hated. He even spent three days in jail once because of his refusal to meet the alimony payment deadline. This experience had pleased him extraordinarily. But this is all he ever told me about his private life.

Nor did he want me to talk about him. Now that he is dead, I'm free to do so. He created me. Only at one other time have I seen such a miracle, when Luchino Visconti was making a film
with Helmut Berger. The eye behind the camera, the eye that loves the creature whose image will be captured on the film, is the creator of the wondrous effect that emanates from this being and calls forth the praise and enthusiasm of moviegoers all over the world.

All that is exactly calculated in advance and is in no way fortuitous. It is a mixture of technical and psychological knowledge and of pure love. Von Sternberg had already created stars before me: Phyllis Haver, Evelyn Brent, George Bancroft, Georgia Hale, but the “Leonardo da Vinci” of the camera wasn't content with his “material,” as he called actors and actresses.

I had satisfied him. I was disciplined, punctual. Always and everywhere I followed his instructions, and I made my suggestions (which he often took) always at the right moment. In short, I tried not to disturb him. I grew up with discipline. I knew nothing else in my life. That may sound odd to all those who read a lot about personalities in show business, so it calls for some explanation.

When I arrived in Hollywood, I was what is called a “spoiled brat”—as far as my manners were concerned. Josef von Sternberg was the only person I allowed to patronize, instruct, and control me. Otherwise I remained my true, independent self.

The character trait that aroused his interest in me was the fact that I was a “disciplined” person. It wasn't my beauty or my physical attractiveness that fascinated him. Rather, it was my unique capacity for discipline, an almost unknown quality among actresses he had known, that drew him to me.

I was conscious of problems that concern directors and actors interested in camera technique and in everything that goes on behind the camera. He dreaded the day on which, perhaps, I would become an ordinary star or a woman fascinated by her own image and simply be like one of the actresses that had crossed his path by the hundreds.

Never will I forget the wonderful moment when I climbed up to the set, a dark and hollowish set where he stood in the faint glare of a single light bulb. Lonely? Not really. A strange man whom I was still to get to know.

He dismissed my entourage (makeup artist, hairdresser,
dressing room attendant), but he allowed me to stay while he lit up the scene. Today I regret that I didn't write down the instructions he gave the electrician—the voice of the lord who created the visions of light and shadows and changed the bleak, barren set into a painting suffused in a magic light.

The team adored him because the technicians wanted the same effects he did, and they admired his way of “lending a hand.” For example, when the cameraman thought a scene that von Sternberg wanted was “impossible,” von Sternberg himself then would take the camera and show him what to do. When you want to have a say in a matter, you yourself must be able to carry out the instruction you give to others.

He designed all my costumes; Travis Benton, the costume designer at Paramount, was very fond of him because of his ability and sudden inspirations. Both created my film image; I, spoiled brat that I was, merely had to slip into it and let myself be fawned upon.

They worked together on several films. The crowning achievement of this collaboration was the costumes in
The Devil Is a Woman,
in my view the most beautiful film that was ever made. Von Sternberg always reserved the right to accept or reject what Travis and I—always following his instructions rather freely—had thought up. We worked during lunch, between takes and until late at night. By then Travis and I were experts in fighting off fatigue. Perhaps because we adored von Sternberg. Many people claim to have made my costumes from the days of
The Blue Angel
on. That's not true. Travis Benton alone actualized von Sternberg's ideas. He remained at my side up to the last film. Today Travis is no longer alive, but how I wish that he were still among us, with me, to help write this book.

On the other hand, I never trusted the cameramen. They constantly resisted giving von Sternberg what actually was his due. The reason for this is obvious. But after von Sternberg was accepted into the cameramen's union and could put his stamp on the work of the camera people, he gave his genius free rein. Naturally, the “clan” of cameramen in the studios was not overly pleased, but that didn't prevent them from imitating him. At the
time when von Sternberg did not yet belong to the union, he behaved more than properly toward some young apprentices and so taught them one of cinema's most beautiful styles. All of them became renowned cameramen and were thankful to him. Nobody ever disappointed him. Indeed, that was our greatest concern:
never to disappoint him.

I, the leading performer in the film, was the fifth wheel. He kept pushy photographers and reporters at bay, and I led a relatively peaceful life. I had a lovely house with a garden, the blue skies above the roof, and a man who told me what I should do.

What more did I want?

In 1932 I went to Germany to get my daughter Maria. Paramount Studios had strictly forbidden any mention of my maternity. I wasn't ready to submit to this proscription, and once again von Sternberg battled the studio executives who were of the opinion that motherhood didn't suit the role of “femme fatale” I was supposed to portray.

He also won this battle. I brought my child to America, and Maria became 150 percent American. And she has remained so, even though I often thought of leaving this country with her and hiding ourselves somewhere. But we have survived.