Marlene (20 page)

I spent wonderful moments with him and Charles Laughton during the shooting of
Witness for the Prosecution.

The producer had phoned me in New York and offered me the role. On the same evening I attended a stage performance of the play on Broadway. I was enthusiastic over the prospect of playing this role. Naturally, the part of “the other woman” made me uneasy, and I took all conceivable pains to transform myself into a person who would be as different as possible from the person I really was. Since the film would stand or fall on this transformation, I made the most extraordinary efforts to become an ugly, ordinary woman who succeeds in leading one of the greatest lawyers by the nose.

Despite my many attempts I was not satisfied. I applied makeup to my nose, made it broader with massages, and called on Orson Welles—the great nose specialist—for help. In the long shot in which I'm seen going along a railroad track, I have cushions around my hips and legs. I wrapped pieces of paper around my fingers to make them look as though they were deformed by arthritis. And to complete the picture I painted my nails with a dark lacquer. Billy Wilder made no comment, like all great directors he gave his performers a free hand in the matter of costumes.

Yet there was still a major obstacle to overcome: How was I to handle the cockney dialect that this woman, sprung from my imagination, spoke? The studio decided: we would be dubbed, but I was to recite the few lines prescribed in the script.

“Let's play a little trick on them,” Charles Laughton said to me. “I'll teach you the dialect, and you will speak your lines in the
purest cockney. I'll vouch for its authenticity. Nobody in Hollywood understands anything about it anyway.”

I went to his house with him. His wife, Elsa Lanchester, was very nice to me. We sat around the swimming pool, and Charles Laughton began his instruction. I made rapid progress since cockney with its nasal sounds and its constant grammatical inaccuracies is quite similar to Berlinese.

But to perform in this dialect was something altogether different. Charles Laughton would remain in the studio, although his day's work was done and he could have gone home. He watched over my performance and my diction like an eagle over its prey. He assumed full responsibility for this sequence. Billy Wilder, who was not an expert in this area, readily relied on Laughton. But he also warned me: “You'll never get an Oscar for this. People don't like to be made fools of.”

This hint left me cold. To win an Oscar means nothing at all to me. I have found that they've been handed to all and sundry indiscriminately. The awarding of Oscars is one of the greatest frauds of the century. The final decision is unanimously taken by all the members of the so-called Academy. On this basis if a film has engaged two thousand people, they will vote unanimously for the film on which they have worked together. They would control two thousand votes against, for example, a thousand votes cast for a more modest film with fewer co-workers.

Whenever Charles Laughton gave any thought to the very peculiar voting system of the Academy, he would uncontrollably burst into his wonderful laughter. He was a splendid actor, upright, pleasant without a trace of these shifting moods and bouts of ill humor with which many good performers cause their producers a lot of trouble. He was generous, indeed very generous and very intelligent. “I like to play a blind man,” he said. “All you have to do is to close your eyes, hold on to the bannisters and go downstairs. The simplest thing in the world. You can be sure that there will always be a stairway for roles of this kind and the trick never fails.”

Billy Wilder was right. I was never once nominated for an
Oscar—and that was no accident, inasmuch as even a nomination would give you a high standing.

What must one do to receive an Oscar? Play biblical characters, priests, and victims of sad and tragic disabilities, such as blindness, deafness, muteness or different varieties thereof, or alcoholism, insanity, schizophrenia, and other mental disorders, which have already been seen in successful films. The more tragic the disability, the greater the chance of grabbing an Oscar.

The juries of the Academy are of the opinion that to portray a disabled person is a brilliant feat. That's not so. Since these figures are more dramatic, they have a greater impact on the audience. Yet in view of the fact that only experts award these Oscars, it is incomprehensible that they can confuse an actor with his or her role. The audience, of course, constantly muddles the two, which is understandable. But there are also some critics who simply can't keep apart roles and acting ability and that's inexcusable. If the Oscars were to be awarded in a serious way, as is done, for example, with the New York Theater Critics Award, perhaps now and then an actor or actress who has played a brilliant role in a not too successful film might be rewarded with an Oscar. A further reason for this masquerade—the people who award the Oscar are swayed by friendship, envy.

For some time now a new prize has been added to the Oscars: the “Deathbed Award.” It isn't a distinction at all. Either the lucky winner has performed for the first time or has not been chosen for a prize by the Academy until the last moment, at any rate, he or she has never succeeded in winning the real Oscar.

The aim of the “Deathbed Award” is to salve the conscience of the jury and to save face before the public. The Academy tastelessly awards this prize to a star who is completely overwhelmed by his or her emotion, so that everybody may understand why this distinction is being so hastily bestowed. Lucky the actor or actress who is too ill to watch this ceremony on TV!

With my own eyes I saw James Stewart, on such an occasion, sob into the microphone: “Hold out, Coop, I'm coming.” At that moment I knew that Gary Cooper was dying. What a circus! In the film world conscience is always stirred too late, which does not exclude—to the extent that those in power are aware of what is going on—a sincere reparation for past mistakes. I have also seen an actress (who would have been better off if on that day she had been hoarse) rush up to the stage and thank everybody from the washroom lady to the director for their help “without which I could never have done it, etc.” I for once would like to hear an actor or actress say: “I did it all by myself. I don't feel I owe thanks to anyone. I earned my Oscar a thousand times over.” And then, without embracing anyone and with an expressionless face, walk off the stage leaving the trophy behind for the audience to behold. That really would make me happy.

I confess that my patience with ham actors, hypocrites, and charlatans wears thin very quickly. But I can't say I have any desire to be patient with them.

When I arrived in Hollywood, a new tax law had come into force affecting those in the higher brackets. Hollywood stars had been able to accumulate those giant fortunes because, up to then, they had paid almost no taxes. They bought villas, had twelve automobiles, lived in incredible luxury. But we, the latest to arrive in Hollywood, had to pay taxes. And as if that weren't enough, tax officials dogged and pestered us and spoke of sums of money never received.

These harassments didn't bother me—I was still innocent about life. I still went along the path traced out for me by von Sternberg and what the studio considered the right path for me. I busied myself with my household chores, took care of my daughter, and waited to be summoned to a reading. But the telephone never rang for another reason.

From my very first days in Hollywood, von Sternberg made it clear to reporters that I was not to be bothered. I've never liked being talked about, and I have remained loyal to this principle.
Reporters in those days were much friendlier than they are today. They had respect for others. And yet what pests they were!

I was young and inexperienced, but I knew that the reporters had no power over the success or failure of a film. If it was good, the most disparaging articles couldn't harm it. And if the opposite was the case, the most beautiful phrases wouldn't lure the public to the box offices. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer had come up with the bright idea of forbidding Garbo to grant even the briefest of interviews. I envied her because from the outset I was exposed to a lot of stupid questions that no one could answer—such as, for example, “Do you like America?” the moment I descended from the train that had brought me to California. “I don't know America,” I answered, “I've only just arrived.” And the headlines in the next day's newspapers read: “Miss Dietrich doesn't know America!”

Von Sternberg constantly comforted me, as I was the victim of a series of injustices, which, moreover, continue. Any injustice can bring tears to my eyes to this very day. Aside from that, the atmosphere in the studio was calm and relaxed. It became my second home. That's the way it was in all the dressing rooms I've occupied since. Those I had in Hollywood at that time consisted of two small rooms furnished with a refrigerator and a hot plate. The beautiful and comfortable living room was painted white. In the adjoining room, lit by electric bulbs, a charming hairdresser was at my disposal. I was dumbfounded by this luxury. The other dressing rooms I had known were dark and depressingly dirty. My dressing room in Hollywood would have made a charming country house. The administration brought me my meals when I had time to eat.

We always worked until late at night. There were no unions that would have prevented us from doing so. The studios paid the members of the camera team overtime and nothing stopped us from working late. The electricians and the stagehands liked this. Often we were at our best after dinner when everything was quiet. Close-ups of my face were taken almost up to the finish; my skin didn't wither, the makeup was not absorbed, and it withstood the long hours in the hot light of the reflector. I looked just as fresh, no, even fresher than I had in the morning. Oddly, the men
seemed to be more susceptible to fatigue. Toward eleven o'clock in the evening they would complain of weariness and look exhausted. Actors are tender creatures. Anyone who has never looked behind movie sets may take them for tough guys, but they're more fragile than actresses. The acting profession, moreover, is not worthy of a man. This life of false appearance and of illusion is only for those with great talent, for those who, moreover, are determined to endow this calling, formerly compared to the antics of circus people, with a loftier reputation. For a man this is a demeaning occupation.

Jean Gabin understood that. He always said that you could earn money more easily in this profession, and that is why he practiced it. He never believed in his “talent.”

I got to know Jean Gabin when he came to Hollywood. He had fled from occupied France. As always in such cases, I was asked to help him get used to his new life. My task was to speak French, translate, and to hunt around for some French coffee and French bread. I had done all this for Rene Clair as well. But Gabin was supposed to perform in English. And he wanted to accept the challenge. So I taught him English.

He would hide in the underbrush of the garden that surrounded his home in Brentwood to escape his teacher—me.

He was shooting an idiotic film, the title of which I've forgotten, but he spoke correct English—I personally saw to that! I would cook native French dishes for the many French friends he had brought with him. One of them was Jean Renoir. Renoir loved stuffed cabbage, had an enormous appetite, and left almost immediately after the meal. At that time I was known in Hollywood for not taking offense at such behavior: You could come dine with me and leave when you pleased. No fuss, no fawning, Renoir greatly appreciated that. He was a frequent guest, and I made stuffed cabbage for him each time.

For me it was a lot of fun to cook for all these uprooted
Frenchmen. I had been “bent over a kitchen stove” ever since we—my daughter, her governess, my dressing room assistant, and I—found ourselves in an unknown land. During the first months of our stay in the United States, we took our meals in drugstores. At the thought of having to eat surrounded by such unsuitable articles as sanitary napkins, deodorants, and other items, I had to force myself to overcome an involuntary aversion. I always ordered hamburgers, since you didn't have to wait too long for them, but, my God, how bad and tasteless they were! I had the impression that other customers around us were gulping down the same stuff, following which, they poured down countless cups of coffee. My daughter, on the other hand, was so fascinated by the lively doings in the drugstore she even forgot the dreadful taste of the hamburger served in a rubbery roll—at that time I knew nothing of the delicious Italian bread that could be bought in some specialty shops in Hollywood.

Since German cooking is not famous, I asked my mother-in-law to send me a book with Austrian recipes, and I tried my luck. I was immediately enthused over my new occupation. It was a kind of therapy for me and filled out the many idle hours in my California paradise. Sometimes I made only one film a year, and at that time shooting schedules were shorter than today. I learned everything, even baking, from this cookbook, and soon—also with the help of French cookbooks—my reputation as an excellent cook spread in Hollywood. I think I was prouder of this fame than of the “legendary image” so zealously created by the studio.

Cooking is an art. You must have a gift for it. And, as with everything else, practice makes perfect. But talent comes first! You don't have to “measure” spoon by spoon, cup by cup—the eye is a good measuring cup. Let yourself be guided by your eye, your mouth, your hand. Imagination is always a help when available. If you find no pleasure in cooking, it's better to leave it alone!

Apart from the Swedish, I love Russian cooking most of all. Both are very superior to French cooking, so highly praised in all the world. But after all, how often does the truth find its way into print? Other countries have their famous specialties, but that doesn't mean that all their recipes are good.