Marlene (24 page)

Von Sternberg was fiddling with a strange contraption that resembled a wood box on stilts. Despite myself, I edged toward him. “What is that?”

He stared at me as if he’d forgotten I existed. “What does it look like?” he said, but he lifted the curtain over the cabinetlike structure’s opening to reveal a camera ensconced inside. “It reduces ambient noise. It’s required for sound,” he said, pointing to a large microphone hanging overhead. “Not that you care.”

“I care,” I said, bristling at his tone. “Herr von Sternberg, I may not
have made a picture with sound, but I’ve been on film sets before. You must know that. You asked to test me and—”

“Yes, yes. I know all about your immense experience. But I wonder, have you ever actually watched yourself in one of your so-called pictures?”

Was he insulting me again? “I am told that I can act,” I said. “Directors do hire me.”

“They might hire you, but your acting talent remains to be seen.” He motioned me to the piano, where an accompanist sat on the bench, looking as harried as everyone else I’d met. This von Sternberg was a tyrant, I thought, as I took my stance and the accompanist checked the score. I waited. And waited. Von Sternberg was fussing with the camera crank while signaling to his assistant to reposition the microphone. I smoked three cigarettes in a row, exhaling clouds of smoke, until he said, “Now.”

With a frustrated sigh, I turned to the accompanist. “What am I singing?”

At this point, I truly couldn’t have cared less. It was a setup, one I was bound to fail. Who would test an actress for a major supporting role without allowing her to know beforehand what she was supposed to do?

“‘The Cream in my Coffee,’” blared von Sternberg from his contraption, where he had his head and arms submerged but clearly remained attuned to whatever was being said, despite the reduction in his ambient noise. “In English, if you please.”

Irate at his demeanor, not to mention I barely knew the lyrics unrehearsed, I set my fourth unfiltered cigarette on the piano lid, picked stray tobacco from my tongue, and launched into an impertinent rendition of the American tune, or at least as much as I could remember of it.

“‘You’re the cream in my coffee. You’re the salt in my stew. You will always be my necessity. I am lost without you . . .’”

I canted my head and batted my eyes, affecting a mocking falsetto, as far from a waterfront tart’s husky range as I could manage. I wouldn’t win the part and I didn’t want it; it would be a torment to work for him, but when the accompanist stumbled over the keys, it angered me. I glared at him, puffing on my cigarette and flicking ash in his direction before I
ordered him to start over. I might not win the role but I’d not be made a total fool. He began playing again. Yet as I warmed up to the ridiculous performance I created, fluting my hands about my chin like Henny Porten just to see how von Sternberg might react, the accompanist inexplicably began playing off key again. I heard von Sternberg chuckle from within his box, to no one in particular, “She sounds worse than I thought. Like a schoolgirl ringing a cowbell.”

I’d had enough.

Slamming my hand on the piano lid—“Are you doing that
on purpose
?” I hissed at the accompanist. “Don’t you know the right key? Is that music before you or a newspaper?”

He glanced nervously at von Sternberg, who offered no comment, his head and shoulders inside that box.

“Forget that stupid American song,” I said. “Play something German instead.”

The accompanist returned his gaze to me. “German?” he said, as if it were unheard of.

“‘Wer Wird Denn Weinen,’” I told him, and when he began playing, I stepped past him, climbing onto the bench and clanging my heel on a key with a discordant twang that I hoped von Sternberg captured on his microphone. Perching on the piano, I hiked the spangled frock high above my knees to expose my legs, cocked a hand on my hip like the transvestites at Das Silhouette, and gave the song everything I had. Von Sternberg thought I sounded like a schoolgirl? I’d show him what I could do. I’d give him a performance from the very pits of the Nollendorfplatz. I pitched my voice low, hoarse now from too many cigarettes, ripping the forlorn lyrics about life and love from my lips like shards.

When I was done, and raking my fingers through my damp hair—I’d started to sweat under the lights—I looked up to see von Sternberg emerge from his box.

He stood perfectly still.

In that moment, I thought that while he was rude and conceited, he wasn’t unattractive. With his prepossessing nose and close-set pale eyes, his
drooping inverted mustache over full lips and mop of silver-threaded dark hair swept to one side of his forehead, he was actually quite masculine, despite his stunted stature. Paternal, even, especially in that instant as his countenance seemed to soften, as if he’d just heard a recital by his favorite niece.

“Fetch Jannings,” he told his assistant.

“But he—he’s not here,” quavered the fidgety man. “He’s not due on set until—”

“He’s arrived in Berlin by now, hasn’t he? Fetch him.”

I was left waiting for hours, changing back into my frock and chain-smoking in the office as both the assistant and von Sternberg vanished. I was about to leave myself, thinking they’d forgotten about me, when they reappeared, this time with Emil Jannings in tow.

I’d not seen Jannings since 1923 when we’d filmed my second picture together. He had left for Hollywood soon after, and it had evidently agreed with him. He’d gained weight and was now portly and dignified, sporting a goatee that accentuated his sneer. After von Sternberg had me sing again—now I sounded like I was spitting gravel, my throat chafed—Jannings shrugged, as if he’d never heard or seen me before.

“We should test Lucie,” he said. “No one knows this one’s name. She brings nothing of substance to the marquee. Who knows how she’ll come across?”

I was about to remind him that
he
certainly knew my name. American laurels notwithstanding, both of us had started out doing casting calls and he had worked with me before.

Von Sternberg preempted me. “I don’t want an insipid lady with perfect diction. I want raw. Uninhibited. I told the accompanist to flub her song. Another would have started crying or become flustered. She got angry.
That
is what I want. You cannot buy what she has. She is Lola-Lola.”

I half-rose from my stool, so enraged I barely heeded the announcement that I’d just won the part. He’d instructed the accompanist to deliberately flub the song? Was he insane?

“Herr von Sternberg, begging your pardon,” said Jannings, drawing
himself to full pompous height, “but I am the lead in this picture and you—”

“I am the director!” Von Sternberg thumped his chest in a gesture worthy of Jannings himself in his most torrid role. “This is
my
picture.
My
script.
My
decision. Paramount loaned me to the UFA to make it. You are no one to me. Don’t dare contradict me or go running to the producers, for I will resign and then we’ll see how well any of you come across. Must I remind you of how your recent foray into sound went? You sounded like an elephant with a head cold. Try me and I’ll find ten other actors in a minute to take your place.”

Silence fell. I might have gloated at seeing Jannings tumbled from his lofty perch, until with a sidelong glance at me, Jannings groused, “I rather think she is too raw. She’ll steal the entire picture with those legs. You will rue the day.”

“Not if everyone does their job.” Von Sternberg jabbed his finger at me. “Fräulein Dietrich, I wish to cast you as my female lead—the cabaret singer, Lola-Lola, who brings Professor Rath here to perdition.” He didn’t wait for me to respond, as if my acceptance was a given, turning again to his assistant. “She needs the most recent version of the script. Fräulein, come with me.”

I followed him out, sidling past Jannings, who offered me a grimace. “Congratulations, Marlene,” he muttered. “Welcome to purgatory.”

So, he
did
remember me. I allowed myself a pert nod before von Sternberg brayed from the corridor, “Today. I’m a very busy man.”

On the soundstage, where I stood dazed by the sudden turn of events, unsure about how I should feel but aware that if I took the part I’d be handing myself over to a despot, von Sternberg commandeered a ladder and scaled it. He turned on an overhead bank of lights, blinding me.

“Stand still,” he said when I lifted a hand to block the glare.

He turned the other lights away, repositioning one to slash its light directly upon me.

“A mirror,” he yelled to no one in particular, clambering back down the ladder. Someone hurried over with a compact; he lifted the lid, shedding
powder, and held it to my face. “See that little butterfly-shaped shadow under your nose? It should always be there. Your nose has an upturned tip that mars your profile. No one should shoot you without this shadow; it means the key light is at the perfect height.”

I peered at my reflection, turning my face to either side. I did see the shadow, and the effect was astonishing. That single light narrowed my features, hollowing out my cheekbones and sculpting my eyelids, reducing the problematic width of my nose.

“
Mein Gott,
” I whispered. I looked up at him.

“You can have your nose corrected later,” he said. “For now, the key light will suffice.” His smile revealed nicotine-stained teeth. “And your films, Marlene,” he said, using my name for the first time, rolling it in his mouth like hard candy, “do you no justice. I’ve seen them and they are terrible. You are terrible in them. But I can change that. If you listen to me, if you do exactly as you are told, I will make you famous.”

I found myself nodding, mesmerized by his lighting and his bewildering, contradictory confidence in me. Only moments before, I’d been ready to toss the part in his face. Now I wanted only for him to turn that magic light upon me so I could bask in the hypnotic visage I hadn’t known I possessed.

“This picture is very important,” he said. “The UFA has invested a significant sum to have me shoot it in German and English. American pictures are starting to swamp the European market. The UFA must compete; they hired me to do it. Do you understand?” he asked, and I caught my first glimpse of the cruel humor under his gruff facade, an impish grin lighting his face. “Jannings can call himself the lead all he wants, and in the novel, he is.
Professor Unrat
is the book’s title. But my picture is called
The Blue Angel
and Lola-Lola is my star.”

Again, I nodded, speechless.

“You must lose five kilos before we start next month,” he said, as his assistant rushed to his side with the script. “And roughen your German. Your accent is too refined. I expect you to forget your Berliner air. Lola-Lola is not a good girl; she’s not well bred or sophisticated. She’s a whore
who makes her living off men. She doesn’t sip champagne or discuss art at parties. You must talk like her. Know her lines. But above all else, be her. Inside and out. Live and breathe her. Everything you feel and do until we wrap must give her substance; nothing can interfere. Can you do it? Or should I schedule a test for that insufferable Lucie Mannheim?”

“No. I . . . I can do it.” I took the script he handed me, reduced to abject flesh. I couldn’t comprehend it. I had no explanation, when I’d never let anyone dominate me before, but I was prepared to submit to him. Utterly. I believed everything he said. I recognized the moment for what it was: the chance I had waited for, to become what I’d always dreamed of being.

He nodded. “That will be all. I’ll send for you next week to be fitted for your costumes; they’ll be too small, but you say you can do this, so that extra weight must come off. Good afternoon, fräulein. I must now go convince the UFA idiots that you’re my only choice. And stop Jannings before he tells them you are not.” He gave me a stern look. “I believe we can prove them wrong. But whatever we do, do not ever disappoint me.”

ON THE TRAM RIDE HOME
, I read the script. I read it again in my apartment before I rushed over to Rudi’s flat, interrupting his evening with Tamara, Mutti having taken Heidede out to the zoological gardens.

“Read this,” I said, taut with excitement. “Read it and tell me if this isn’t the most magnificent part I’ve ever been offered.”

Before he could, Tamara took the pages and after a silent query, to which I nodded, retreated to the sofa. When she was finished, she said, “It’s unlike anything else I’ve read.”

I sagged on my chair, smoke from my cigarettes drifting about us. “You really think so? It’s not too crude?” Trepidation overcame me. “She’s a whore. It might be too much for me.”

Tamara smiled, emptying my overflowing ashtray and serving me a cup of tea, while Rudi perused the script. When Tamara started to cut a slice of strudel for me, I held up my hand. “No. I have to lose five kilos.”

“Five?” She looked taken aback. “In how long?”

“A month. Less, if I can manage it.” I sipped the tea, glancing at Rudi, his brow furrowed as he turned the pages. Tamara sat opposite me as we waited for his verdict.

“It’s the role of a lifetime,” he said. “But you are right: It’s also a risk. She’s not nice. She’s practically immoral. Rath’s obsession with her kills him in the end. I don’t know, Marlene.”

“Don’t know?” I edged forward on my seat. “But it’s his obsession, not hers. He comes to see her at this cabaret, the Blue Angel, and is besotted with her. She never pretends to be anything other than what she is. He gives up his life for her.”

“And she gives nothing in return. He leaves his school, his students; he wrecks himself for her. He ends up degraded, working in her act as a buffoon until she throws him over for another man and he dies of grief. I think audiences and the censors might object. It’s too . . .”

“Real?” I said.

He chuckled. “Among other things.”

“Then it’s perfect,” I declared. “Real is what I want, what I’ve been looking for. It’s as if Lola-Lola was waiting for me. There are musical numbers, too. Did you see? Songs I’ll perform in the cabaret. I don’t know which ones yet, but von Sternberg made some notes in the margins, mentioning Friedrich Hollaender. He’s one of our best composers.”