Marlene (10 page)

“It was impossible to exhaust her, she wore out others with an enthusiasm only a few could match.”

“To a degree she was open and straightforward, which some might call tactlessness. Her personality was marked by an extreme refinement and an almost childlike simplicity Never before had I met so beautiful a woman who was so misunderstood and underestimated, the woman who was to enchant the world.”

Since we all had to get up at six in the morning, the other ladies went right home to bed as soon as work had ended. In those days there were no limits on working hours. Very often we worked until three or four in the morning. Naturally, the technicians were paid overtime. I stayed as long as they let me in the hallowed halls of the cutting rooms, knowing well that the “Master” loved to teach amateurs and pros alike.

Today filmmakers know all about camera placements and visual angles. But TV cameras often distort contours much to the astonishment of bewildered viewers who wonder why an actress's face appears broad on one day and narrow on another.

For that matter all the secrets of camera placement also apply to amateur photographers. You should hold the camera high, slightly above the eye level of those you want to photograph. If you hold the camera lower, at about the subject's belly-button level, say, the face appears round and thick and bears no resemblance to what you actually wanted to photograph.

But back to studio lighting. The back light is the big bug
aboo. If a performer near it is speaking to her partner, she is told not to turn completely away from it. If she does, the back light will give her a bulbous nose.

A side light can also play little tricks—but it's not quite so risky

The key light, directly behind the camera, is the most important of all. The higher this key light is placed, the longer and narrower the face will appear on the screen. If an actress happens to be blessed with high cheek bones, such lighting sketches attractive, soft shadows on both cheeks.

Since at the present time there are no great film beauties as in the past, this knowledge is not all too important. The actors and actresses may be good, but beautiful they are not.

The only exception to this is Robert Redford. In addition to being a brilliant and versatile producer, he knows his camera. I take my hat off to him.

You must really exert yourself to become a real pro. But it's worth the effort. You learn your trade. You learn to cut, an essential process in completing any film. Directors today like to play it safe and shoot each scene from every conceivable angle. So when the cutter's turn comes, he has all the necessary parts to form a sequence. In the old days the great filmmakers never operated this way. They knew in advance what they wanted and at the right moment would shout “Cut!” thus saving both time and money. They didn't prolong the shooting period unnecessarily for hours on end, shooting from the left, the right, the front. They didn't give the cutter, or editor, lengthy “rushes” from which to make a film.

Josef von Sternberg got me used to the quick “Cut!” Later I worked in the same way with Ernst Lubitsch and Frank Borzage. All my other directors played it safe. Complying with studio directives, they would make endless takes, most of which, they well knew, would end up in the waste basket. Great creative talents don't have to do this.

For example, let's take a single room in its entirety. A door opens in the background. A person enters. Her facial features are
not clearly visible since she is still far away. She closes the door, comes up to the camera and says: “Excuse the disturbance, but …”

An experienced director will stop here, because he knows he needs a close-up. On the other hand, a director who is not sure of himself will film the whole scene following the actress's line just as it stands in the shooting plan and to the very end. The result is a lot of wasted footage, unsuited for the final montage. I've always had a pronounced horror of waste. I can't stand this way of shooting, but, of course, I never said anything.

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.