Marlene (15 page)

That reminds me of another episode, certainly a “classic” for an enthusiastic younger generation of directors or cameramen. My second film in Hollywood,
X.27
(
Dishonoured
)
,
was made in
1931. The choice of a film title was always an occasion for terrible controversies between von Sternberg and his producers. He very seldom agreed with the decisions of the studio officials and battled to change them step by step with more or less success. In the case of
Dishonoured
the producers were firm: They refused to back down. The struggle must have been bitter and endlessly long because I remember that the Paramount top brass threatened to “turn off the money faucet.”

I had already changed my clothes and was waiting to be called to the studio when von Sternberg stormed into my dressing room to discuss this problem with me. In addition, he had to find a solution for the sequence of the great ball scene which was to be shot that day. He wasn't getting enough extras? Under no circumstances would he cut this decisive sequence! Loges were to be set up around the huge ballroom like balconies in an opera house. I sat in my dressing room and listened to my director without saying a word, without any idea occurring to me that might have been of some help to him. And yet at that time my head and hands were free of other concerns. Maria was still in Germany with my husband, nobody in Hollywood was giving me any trouble, and von Sternberg was watching over me.

My makeup artist Dot, my hairdresser, and I decided to go for lunch. When we came back from the studio canteen, I resumed my wait in the dressing room. Suddenly von Sternberg's assistant summoned us to the studio. Dot put the last touches to my face, the hairdresser fussed for a second or two over my still unruly hair, and then we went out. There were almost no structures on the set except for two theater loges placed one on top of the other, slightly raised, which could be reached by a ladder.

I was to take my place in the lower loge. Above me were men and women with confetti and pockets bulging with New Year's Eve trimmings. They had already received their instructions. As I sat down, I saw a huge mirror behind me, also slightly raised. Six couples were dancing in a tiny circle that was marked in crayon on the floor.

Their image was also reflected in the mirror in which innumerable male and female dancers appeared pressing very closely
against each other. The confetti rained down in front of me, the music came in, set the rhythm and, suddenly, I noticed that the scene to a hair resembled a giant ballroom in which thousands of people whirled around the dance floor. Von Sternberg had achieved the desired effect despite the cutbacks the studio had imposed on him. I was young and inexperienced, but I admired his flair for
magic,
that faculty I was to see at work for so many years. In the course of the shooting period, with an ever-growing admiration, I learned everything from Josef von Sternberg, that conjuror of the thousand-headed serpent called “film.”

Beyond that, von Sternberg also had to concern himself with me: photograph me, make me laugh, dress me up, comfort me, advise me, guide me, coddle me, explain things to me, and much more. The responsibility he assumed for the actress that he wanted and for the woman that had come with him was something enormous. And, as always, he managed to do this despite the pressure of the Paramount top brass. He battled them tenaciously.

Paramount tried several times to separate us, but since my contract stipulated that “I could choose my own director,” they gave up. “Why should we be content with one box-office success, when we can have two?” figured the Paramount executives. Von Sternberg's name was famous and so was mine. I battled, he battled and we won! In 1933, he permitted me to make
Song of Songs
with another director. The film, of course, was a flop.

In 1935, after his return from a long trip, von Sternberg began preparations for
The Devil Is a Woman
based on the novel
The Woman and the Puppet
by Pierre Louys. I knew that this would be our last film together, and I was as restless as a sack of fleas. Von Sternberg noticed this and once more tried to reassure me. I played the part of a girl who worked in a cigarette factory. At his request I had taken lessons and learned to roll cigarette paper around a little stick. I also learned to make the empty paper rolls swirl around in front of the camera, catch them again and stuff them with tobacco. That was not easy, but I was a good pupil. It wasn't these little tricks that worried me most, however, but the fact that I absolutely didn't look Spanish. The Spanish lace blouse and the pleated skirt didn't convince me. There was nothing
“Iberian” about my blue eyes and blond hair! But my biggest worry were my eyes. I thought that all Spaniards had dark if not black eyes. My hair was rubbed with Vaseline so that it looked dark enough to me. Von Sternberg said that I was really stupid (as always) because there were plenty of blond women in northern Spain. How was I supposed to know that? So I continued with preparations for the film; I tried on the costumes sketched by von Sternberg and worried further about the color of my eyes. Finally, I visited an eye doctor whom my makeup artist had recommended. He prescribed drops that widened the pupils so that they would appear black on the screen. Then he gave me a second bottle containing a liquid that would restore the pupils to their normal size.

On the way home I pressed the bottles against myself as though they were made of gold. I took them with me to the studio, explained their use to my makeup artist and my hairdresser. The Vaseline had been rubbed into my hair, the carnations (which had increased in number in the course of the shooting) were pinned on, and I felt I had been transformed into a genuine Spanish woman. Apart from my eyes. But stupidly I believed I could remedy this annoying minor detail.

With swaying dress, combs in the sticky hair between the artificial carnations, my face made up darkly (which made me more attractive than ever), I arrived punctually at Studio 8 at nine o'clock in the morning. I remember exactly. I used my little bottle only after the rehearsal. I went to my dressing room, sprinkled the drops in my eyes, and returned to my place, ready to shoot the scene. I looked for my essentials, the paper and the stick. But they were no longer there!

Von Sternberg shouted to the cameraman: “Let it roll!” and I just stood there and could no longer find my tiny stick and paper, everything was functioning perfectly except my eyes. I acted as though everything was in order, but von Sternberg immediately noticed that something was wrong. “Cut,” he roared.

The hairdresser and the makeup artist ran over to my dressing room and brought me the other little bottle with the drops
that were supposed to restore my pupils to their normal size. I dripped the liquid in my eyes and resumed my place on the set. The whole thing hadn't lasted for more than five minutes. I again sat down at the table from which I had suddenly stood up in a daze. I saw everything as from a great distance, a very great distance—the technicians, von Sternberg. … But no matter what I did, it was impossible to recognize anything directly in front of me. No stick. No paper. No tobacco.

Von Sternberg sent us all out to lunch, but before that he took me by the hand and pulled me away from the extras and technicians, out of earshot and he said: “Now tell me what's the matter.” I told him everything. I wasn't seeing things normally, I simply couldn't help crying. “Why didn't you tell me you wanted black eyes?” he asked me.

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.

H
OLLYWOOD—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.