Marlene (19 page)

We worked together until we were told one day that our services were no longer needed. We didn't kiss each other or fall into each other's arms. That wasn't Orson Welles's style, nor mine. We continued as though nothing had happened, cleared out of the studio, and then went home.

Later I worked together one more time with Orson Welles, in
Touch of Evil.
The budget Universal had granted him was pitiful. A handout to a beggar. So Welles had to drum up his friends, among others Mercedes McCambridge and me …

Today
Touch of Evil
is an international classic. But in 1958 Universal was very indifferent to this film, they treated Welles in a shabby, shocking way.

Many years later, when Orson Welles received an Oscar for the film, the hypocrisy of the Universal bosses was unendurable. I would have liked to have put a bomb under them—or better still to have dispatched them to hell.

Back to the shooting of
Touch of Evil.
Following von Sternberg's methods, Welles asked me to prepare my own costumes and to appear on the set on the scheduled date. We were to meet at eight o'clock in the evening in Santa Monica where he had
discovered and restored a rundown bungalow. He had even installed a pianola. “In the film you're running a Mexican whorehouse,” he explained to me, “so dress accordingly and be punctual.” On the fixed date I appeared for the shooting in my costume. I had ransacked the dressing rooms of all the costume designers I knew and decked myself out in dresses, jackets, earrings, wigs, etc., so that Welles would have some choice. As usual I had arrived in Santa Monica earlier than expected and—hoping for a sign of approval—I went up to him. He just wandered off, but then he suddenly turned around and gave a shout since he had not recognized me at first sight. His reaction surpassed my boldest expectations. He took me in his arms and shouted for joy.

I worked with him for only one long evening. I don't think I've ever performed so well as on that day. To hell with modesty!

In
Touch of Evil
I play only a supporting role, but he was charmed by my outfit and that was enough for me. Nevertheless, I never worked with him again. Since both of us were always on the road in different countries, we didn't often see each other. Yet thanks to the telephone, we remained in touch, and each one knew where the other was hiding.

My “biographers” often list “Films of Marlene Dietrich” that are not at all mine. In some that were shot, I made a momentary guest appearance or simply performed, for friends, a scene so short that nobody can say whether I really am that person. In one of these productions,
Follow the Boys,
with Orson Welles, I repeated the magic act we had earlier performed for GIs in which he sawed me in two. In others, sometimes I can be seen for a little longer, as for example in Michael Todd's
Around the World in Eighty Days,
but in no way can these works be included in a list of the films of Marlene Dietrich. Another example is
Paris When It Sizzles.
I just happened to be in Paris when the film was being shot. The producer and the director thought it would be amusing to see me descend from a car and enter Christian Dior's well-known fashion salon. I obliged them, of course, but when I see this film on a list of my films I get angry. This is a fraud and, above all, very humiliating for the leading performers in this film.

Along with many other things Orson Welles also taught me something about love.

He sat on the windowsill in the room of my Paris hotel (the George V
,
or “the Fifth” as Americans call it) and admonished me: “Mark my words, you can't make the man you love happy
if you yourself are not happy.
”

Incredible, no? I had never understood that. I had always believed that one must just be nice and friendly and dutifully yarn the socks of the chosen one in order to be happy. Naive? I was and still am naive in many respects. When you spend a well-sheltered childhood, youth, and life as a woman, you never learn what other women, who must manage without protective walls, learn. But my naiveté is a blessing. Perhaps it makes me boring, but those who were afraid of being bored have never remained with me for long.

Orson Welles shot
Ten Days' Wonder
in Alsace-Lorraine with Claude Chabrol. I flew there and spent several days with him “to recharge.” His presence and his gaze resting on your face sufficed “to recharge the batteries.”

During this visit in Ottrott-le-Haut, we would sit for hours next to each other whenever he had a free day or even a free afternoon—and the most beautiful phrases would effortlessly flow from his mouth.

When we saw each other, we never talked about our private lives or our problems. I never forced myself on him. I took pains to be a pleasant friend. At any rate, I have always been a loyal friend to him, and he would have certainly agreed if he had ever been asked.

Great writers and critics, primarily European, have described Orson Welles's tremendous talent. So I'll add nothing to that. In France, Welles is viewed as a savior who came down to earth to make films, but France is a civilized country. I think it would have been marvelous if Orson Welles had taught. I don't know whether that was of any interest to him, but I do know he was extremely gifted even in this area.

Europeans look down on the so-called American accent. This opinion is based on the films they see. Yet American can be a magnificent idiom—just as beautiful as British. To be sure, it must
be correctly spoken, as, for example, Orson Welles did. He spoke what Germans perhaps would call “High American.” Orson explained this to me one day when in my incorrigible naiveté I told him I found American dreadful, that all Americans seemed to have a hot potato in their mouth and worse. I had done my best to imitate this accent, however, I never succeeded, thank God.

Most Americans betray their origins by their accent. And many, for that matter, are very proud of it as, for example, the drawling Texas accent. But it is frequently the butt of jokes. When someone has an important position, it's infinitely better to speak a pure American, even if it requires some effort. There's nothing that one shouldn't learn.

All movie experts know that Orson Welles revolutionized photography by his use of the frog perspective, a perspective Eisenstein had used in his outdoor shots. Orson Welles employed it in indoor shots, and the set had to be cleared from one day to another because the camera was to be directed upwards. In the Hollywood of my time sets had no covering. Everywhere planks propped up the heavy spotlights, and the electricians almost suffocated in the hot air under the studio roof. Every time we took a break I'd bring these poor devils some refreshments. Their work at that height was dangerous. A fall was not out of the question.

Orson Welles had coverings attached over the set, and we didn't have to worry about the electricians anymore. He also rearranged the spotlights and photographed the area from below, handling the camera as nobody ever dared to do before him. You only need see
The Magnificent Ambersons
to be convinced of his brilliance.

Orson Welles was a master of the film art which he renewed from the bottom up. Unlike von Sternberg he didn't irritate his coworkers. He was always friendly and understanding. He didn't incur the hatred von Sternberg so easily aroused.

He was the first to use the hand camera—with a “swivel device” as the only aid—instead of the huge, bulky and unmovable cameras that had been the rule. Handheld cameras are much easier to use. Today they are customary, but that was not the case in the studios where I worked. The marvelous thing about Orson
Welles was his amazing camera angles. Teams of young cameramen crawled across the floor with their equipment, pursuing something new; something that had not yet been seen in a great film.

Orson Welles was satisfied at the end of every day in Santa Monica. An artist worthy of the name can never be more than satisfied. A true artist is never “fully satisfied.” Unlike the lesser ones, he always has doubts about the end result. One day as I stood backstage with Sviatoslav Richter, the great pianist, he took me by the hand and said: “It wasn't perfect, it wasn't even good,” while a storm of applause filled the concert hall, and he released my hand and went on stage to bow again before the enthusiastic audience. I saw Richter again later in Edinburgh and later in Paris. And each time we had a leisurely chat. He repeatedly voiced self-criticism and dissatisfaction, and I didn't know how to contradict him. He had seen me perform; he was enchanted by my roles, but he didn't listen when I expressed some special reservations about my own work.

One evening the audience sat around him on the stage. While he was playing a piece, a woman directly behind him collapsed and died on the spot. She was carried out of the hall. I was deeply impressed by this incident and thought to myself: “What an enviable fate, to die while Richter is playing! What a strong feeling for the music this woman must have had when she breathed out her life!” But Richter did not share this opinion, he was shaken.

Orson Welles had a thousand and one faults to find with his films! He would explain to the least detail how this or that should have been done, and as usual, he was right all along the line. Unsparingly and with a sharp look, he repeatedly called himself into question, fought like a lion for his ideas and, of course, for the right to cut the films as he pleased.

Once more I must come back to this phase of filmmaking: the cut. All directors who know their craft contractually stipulate that they themselves are to cut their film. On the other hand, those who know nothing about cutting leave this difficult task to others. The cutter then cuts the film according to the script. He keeps it
lying in front of him and follows it word for word—here a close-up, there a long shot—a completely mechanical task.

The cutter has neither the knowledge, the talent, nor the requisite flair to edit a film as would a master or a creator. The result corresponds more or less to the mostly dry, initial shooting plan. This is foreseeable, as the scriptwriters are not around when the scenes are shot and, moreover, the scenes are often changed during the filming.

Orson Welles rejected the risk linked to such a method. He kept the helm firmly in hand like the captain of a ship making its way through churning seas, and he supervised his work from beginning to end. He took responsibility for everything upon himself: manuscript, takes, acting performance.

Although he was still young, at that time he worked without a script as many great directors had done earlier.

He will always remain the wunderkind of film.

I feel his absence, the absence of his friendship, of the strength he gave me, as a painful loss. I try in vain to reach him in my helpless dreams.

When I had only two films a year to make, I would go by train and ship to Paris whenever I had the time and when my husband wasn't busy shooting films in other countries. In Paris we lived in hotels that nicely met our needs. One of them was the Trianon Palace. There I met my friend Billy Wilder again. Then, too, he was as witty, clever, and intelligent as today. I loved and admired him! Later, I worked for him in Hollywood—but that is already part of film history.

He has said the following about me: “At work [Marlene] Dietrich was like a soldier. Splendidly disciplined and helpful to everybody. If an electrician in his windy heights sneezed, she would run barefoot to her dressing room to fetch all possible kinds of medicine, which she always kept around, and on the next day she would inquire whether the electrician was feeling better.
When she was in Hollywood, she always lived with me. During the war she was right in the very front line with the ordinary GIs. In Paris I once asked her: Tell the truth, Marlene, have you slept with Eisenhower?' She replied: ‘How could I? He was never that close to the front line!' ”

But let's get serious again. Flexibility is an invaluable gift that all truly great men possess. They bubble over with imagination and overcome all obstacles standing in their path. They simply and skillfully replace one thing by another, their wealth of ideas is inexhaustible. Nothing, not even a technical problem can upset them. Since they command the secrets of their calling even in their sleep, even skeptical souls can do nothing but bow to their authority. At a time when self-censorship was widespread, I saw with my own eyes what talent can accomplish.

We were rehearsing a scene, camera movements, lighting, and everything else was ready when a representative of the producers appeared and told the director that the scene could not be filmed. It was impossible (and I'm not relating something from prehistoric times!) that a man and a woman should be seen together on a bed, not even if the coverlet were perfectly and properly smooth.

I remember such a scene in the film
A Foreign Affair,
which I made with Billy Wilder in 1947. The story takes place in bombed out Germany, in the room of a poor girl who can't afford a sofa, much less a living room. But it was expressly forbidden that two persons of different sex should sit on the same bed, even when it was properly covered.

Billy Wilder smiled over these remarks, nodded his head approvingly several times and promised to make all necessary changes. I remember that his assurances made me angry. I also loudly expressed my anger, whereupon Billy Wilder announced:

“Lunch break! And all of you better be back here in an hour!”

Billy Wilder wasn't at all annoyed. He pondered the matter, gave his imagination free rein and solved the problem while we were eating lunch. The scenery was rearranged and he was ready to shoot, laughing and joking as always. Afterwards he told me
that the studio's moral apostle had actually done him a service when he compelled him to restructure the scene.

“I've got more than one trick up my sleeve,” he would often say. As a writer and director he never ran out of ideas, and he loved challenges that gave him an occasion to outdo himself. Billy Wilder was a master builder who knew his toolbox and used it in the best way possible to set up the framework on which he hung the garlands of his wit and wisdom.