Marlene (17 page)

I had seen him on the screen. He, on the other hand, didn't know any of my films. He was astonished at my ability on the stage. He had assumed I was one of those superficial creatures out of Hollywood; he had fallen for the myth. Now he made it a point not to miss any of my appearances. On the last night he gave a party for the musicians and the technicians. I never knew any other man who could uncork a bottle of vodka by striking the bottom of the bottle with the flat of his hand. He repeated this trick several times to the great delight of all the guests as the bottles went from hand to hand around the long table.

I had to keep an eye on the clock because our train to Warsaw was leaving at midnight. Cybulski remained with us, saw to it that the whole troupe was properly accommodated in the sleeping car,
bade us good-bye, visibly deeply moved, and promised to see us again as soon as he finished his film.

When the shooting was finally over, Cybulski, just like us, decided to take the midnight train. But he arrived too late. He tried to jump on the moving train, fell, and was run over.

To this day I am haunted by this shocking death of a great human being and a great artist. Never before had there been an actor who could perform without having to make use of his eyes, and I know there will never again be another. All the better! Cybulski is not forgotten—which cannot be said for most actors.

I also can't forget George Raft, my partner in
Manpower.
His unique, lovable kindness belied his appearance and his tough roles. We became good friends, in contrast to many actors with whom I was often together and with whom I worked. Shooting a film can take months that are not always marked by a spirit of harmony, but in spite of everything you get to like the other members of the team. Nevertheless, as soon as the last shot is “in the can,” some actors just take off without the slightest nostalgia or the slightest feeling of having experienced a loss. That was never the case with me.

I've been an innocent victim of this passion, this disease that has pursued me relentlessly. Beginning with my chauffeur Bridges, whom I liked from my very first days in California and who helped me during the time of the kidnap scare and later in France, up to the manicurists, the hairdressers, the female personnel of the publicity department, the photographers, and on to individual friends (I'm speaking of my
real
friends) and the directors (the great ones and the others like Tay Garnett, George Marshall)—all have caused me trouble with their jealousy.

All my musical directors, without exception, were jealous of Burt Bacharach since he was the only musician I blindly trusted, the only one upon whom I relied completely and with good reason. Jealousy accompanied me on all my tours, yet I didn't let it
lead me astray. I've never reproached anybody for anything. I never said: “Burt would have done it differently” or “Burt would have done it this way.” I always kept my mouth shut and worked. Or better still, I would open my mouth and sing as I had been instructed to. I alone know what I had lost with him, and I still feel the aching void he left behind.

Burt Bacharach always contested the claim that he had taught me everything in the way of music. He sought no fame, no honor. What kind of “honor” would it be anyway to be the director, musician, arranger and teacher of a movie actress now a songstress in the making. “Nil!” to use a favorite expression of his. Yet all those who came in contact with Burt Bacharach were jealous of him. They were jealous of my deference toward him; they couldn't admit that he had created what they had failed to achieve. Burt Bacharach had first attended the Music Academy in Montreal, later the Juilliard School of Music. He had studied composition. In addition to being a talented composer, he was just as talented a director, which explains the feelings of some of his less gifted “colleagues.”

Jealousy has destroyed more than one life. Not mine, thank heaven. I've never been jealous of anyone. “Jealousy” is even a foreign word to me, yet it has left its imprint on my professional as well as on my private life.

Jacques Feyder, the great French director, displayed a violent jealousy of my other directors and took a devilish delight in tormenting me in the presence of my leading man, until one day (I was to be filmed naked with my hair swept upwards in an old bathtub) he broke down and asked repeatedly to be forgiven.

Frank Borzage was the only one unaffected by the “galloping jealousy” virus. I was very fond of him. He directed
Desire,
whose direction has been wrongly attributed to Ernst Lubitsch; Lubitsch wrote the script, but he didn't direct the film.

Then there was also the jealousy of the cameramen, who claimed to have invented the lighting techniques von Sternberg had developed, and the false statements of the dentists, who swore on the Bible they had extracted my molars and thus formed the face that was to enthuse the entire world. Thank God, jealousy
had no dominion over my family and over those close to me. My husband, my daughter, and my friends were too smart and reasonable to let themselves be infected. As for myself, I developed real defense mechanisms to protect myself against all arrows shot at me.

My life was by no means easy. I began to work at the age of seventeen. I've paid my taxes, and, I confess, I've helped many needy persons. To me that seems a normal thing to do—the most banal of imperatives: If you have money, you give, if you don't, you can't give as much as you'd like. It's that simple.

It always distresses me to deny financial help to the thousands who ask me to pay for their mortgages, for the education of their children, for their hospital bills, etc. I would like to have enough money to alleviate their needs. That should be the task of the rich, but I no longer belong to that class.

I really admired Aristotle Onassis. Unlike most rich people, he wasn't boring. He sparkled with
joie de vivre
and possessed a generosity from which everybody profited. I met him when I was shooting a film with Vittorio de Sica, and found him to be not only a real friend but also a man who taught me a lot of things. Unfortunately, I couldn't follow his advice: You need money to make more. He had a sense of humor very rare among the rich. We understood each other perfectly, but our friendship was brief because I had to go to Rome and finish shooting my film. He left behind with me an inextinguishable impression of an extraordinary human being.

W
E BECAME FRIENDS WHEN
he was in the middle of one of his many divorce suits, and we spent many evenings together—which didn't drag on for very long because we both had to get up early and go to the studio.

Above all, our sentimentality brought us close together. Not to be confused with “feeling.” The music Chaplin composed was “sentimental” (schmaltzy, one would say today), but it was balm for my soul. My German disposition and his English roots fit magnificently together. But there were times when I didn't agree with him … for example, when I discovered that he was suffering from a terrible ailment called “Hitler.” He was making preparations for
The Great Dictator,
so it was normal that he should be fascinated by his model. But he went beyond the person, and this “obsession” often aroused my anger and led to violent verbal exchanges. Apart from that, I was in complete agreement with his bold convictions and granted that it must have been difficult for so arrogant a person as himself to get along with so stubborn a German as I. My fame left him cold, although he sought the company of prominent people—for which I'm not reproaching him. Stars, if they are to
draw the attention of millions to themselves, must tower above the mass of actors, and Chaplin was driven by curiosity. He wanted to bring their secret thoughts to light, by constantly pretending, playing jokes, looking for a public and applause.

I liked his arrogance, his vanity. Arrogance is a privilege of men of his caliber. Not so with women. Arrogant women are a plague.

Chaplin and I met for the last time in Paris during a benefit performance at the Comedie Franchise. At that time he was both an actor and a producer and had little time.

I cannot add to all that which has already been written on this great man. All I can say is that in a world of corrupt politicians, his so-called “sentimentality” was a great trump card. And he could put them all in his vest pocket.

I made only one film with him,
Stage Fright.
What most impressed me about Hitchcock was his calm authority, his ability to give orders without being taken for a dictator.

Hitchcock, effortlessly, never failed to captivate, to explain, to rule, to teach, to enchant. Yet, at bottom, he was reserved.

Hitchcock filmed
Stage Fright
in London when food was still strictly rationed. He solved the problem by having steaks and roasts flown in from America and delivered to the best restaurant in London, and then after work, he would invite Jane Wyman and me to a princely dinner. “Ladies must be well fed,” he would say, as we gratefully polished off the delicacies. These dinners were the only contact we had with him outside the studio. He kept us at a distance. Like many geniuses he didn't like being idolized.

I loved his English sense of humor, he constantly joked with us without ever playing up his fame or seeking our applause. A German slogan says: “Often copied and never matched”—so it was with Hitchcock.

Raimu was also one of my “heroes.”

I revered him, knew all his films by heart.
La Femme du Boulanger (The Baker's Wife)
was my favorite film. I was in France shortly after it was shown in the movie houses.

One evening as I was having dinner in a restaurant, a powerful manly figure suddenly bent over me and in a voice that I knew all too well, said: “My name is Raimu.”

I got up from my chair, speechless. How should you react when you're suddenly standing before your idol? I stammered something or other, he was very charming.

Nobody has been able to replace him. No actor could hold a candle to him.

This man was not only a great actor but also a man who made hearts beat faster—the perfect seducer, the man for whom the word “charisma” could have been invented, the ideal of whom all young girls and women dream, the perfection for which they would like to exchange their days spent in silence and hard work.

He always astonished us—as actor and as human being. I was completely under his spell from way back, but unfortunately, I met him when he was deeply in love with another woman, so there was nothing I could do. I admired his writing talent just as much as his theatrical achievement.

Publishers and the public considerably underestimated his talent in this area. Read his
Christmas Tale
someday, and you will fall in love with him—unless you've already done so. He certainly could have written a love story featuring his country, forebears, and the people he knew so well, the Welsh—a people dear to me.

Richard Burton, apparently gave up the theater to dedicate himself entirely to the movies, to which I never go. But if he had
returned to the stage before his death, I would gladly have flown to London to applaud him, as would many of his admirers. You so rarely saw actors of his generation who towered above the greatest.

I've seen Laurence Olivier on a British stage, but afterwards he began to do commercials.

A great actor who does commercials shows that he needs money. I know, of course, that an actor too must feed his children, but I'm an old-fashioned woman and regret such a decision because it inevitably destroys the image. You can't be King Lear and be selling some kind of product a minute later. John Wayne once filmed a commercial in which, dressed as cowboy from head to foot, he praised the effectiveness of a headache remedy. I think it's the most ludicrous thing I've ever seen on TV: a “he-man of the great outdoors,” on horseback with his hat and all the other trappings of a real cowboy on, praising the effect of a headache tablet. Too funny for words!

Burton never did anything of this kind. He was head and shoulders above all the other members of his guild. Moreover, he never found it necessary to earn money in this way.

He set his own rules and stuck to them.

I loved him; I revered him more than I could say or write.

Marlene Dietrich with her parents, 1906