Marlene (26 page)

When I see Mikhail Baryshnikov, I always think of Nureyev and his fixation about having legs that are too short. Baryshnikov didn't have to worry about such things. He has beautiful, long legs, and the face of a young god. He didn't have any inferiority complex. I think he owes this remarkable balance to the fact that he loves women. He's not a loner, not even in his art. He's healthy, thank God!

Elisabeth was the idol of millions of people and, even before
The Blue Angel,
the idol of my youth. As I've said earlier, she was very kind to beginners. But I was afraid of her.

Each time you stand opposite an important personage, you're seized with fear. That's always the case with me. It has often happened to me. And when the person concerned is also a great actress, the fright increases tenfold. As always, in the late twenties, Elisabeth Bergner was a sensation on the stages of Europe. She was the queen of the theater, often imitated but never matched.

She was an impressive phenomenon, neither man nor woman. She was Bergner. She had a wholly special way of speaking German, with an unusual accentuation of the syllables. The lock of hair that fell on her forehead, the “Bergner lock,” was the
ne plus ultra
of fashion. She also began to wear her hair short when young German girls were still letting their hair grow down to their shoulders. Elisabeth Bergner fascinated her audience, enchanted them like a sorceress. We became friends many years later in Hollywood and in England.

J
OSEF VON STERNBERG'S DECISION
, against my will, to terminate our collaboration—to which the studio executives probably also contributed—marked for me the beginning of a long series of mediocre films. “If you leave Hollywood now,” said von Sternberg, “the whole world will believe you have done so only because of pressure from me. You must continue to work here.”

I made the films that followed without great conviction, to put it mildly.

Rouben Mamoulian was a very good friend and took me as I was. Others, too. The only film I need not be ashamed of is Desire, directed by Frank Borzage and based on a script by Ernst Lubitsch. I found Gary Cooper a little less monosyllabic than before. He was finally rid of Lupe Velez, who had been at his heels constantly throughout the shooting of
Morocco.

Desire
became a good film and, moreover, also proved to be a
box office success. The script was excellent, the roles superb—one more proof that these elements are more important than actors. But even before Desire became a hit at the box office, we made another film (that's how it is in the film business), one that was not so good:
Angel.
Ernst Lubitsch was responsible for the script
and
was the director. Our morale was restored when Desire was shown in movie houses all over the world.

In 1936, when I was still under contract to Paramount, David O. Selznick wanted to make a color film based on Robert Hichens's successful novel. He negotiated with Paramount and borrowed me for the duration of the shooting. David Selznick's situation in Hollywood was quite unique. Through his extraordinary knowledge of the mechanics of power and his skill at achieving his aims by listening attentively to his interlocutors, he had created his own empire in which his every word was a command. I liked working for him very much, since I knew exactly what he wanted from me. Naturally, he wasn't infallible. But he could generously make up for his mistakes, and he was also very liberal with money for his own productions.

Selznick and I had the same views. Like me, he detested garish or too powerful colors. Since he always knew what he was about, he let Ernest Dryden design my costumes. That was a tough job for Dryden. My role was that of a woman at once mysterious and convincingly real. The action took place in the desert, and Selznick didn't want an Amazon running around in pants and boots. He was pleased with the idea of keeping the costumes in sandy colors, and we began to try different materials while Dryden continued to sketch. Despite all the stories that have been told about this film, and although Josh Logan and his anecdotes became the center of attention of quite a few parties,
The Garden of Allah
remains the most beautiful color film ever made.

Charles Boyer played a monk who has broken his vows, and I, an odd creature whose reactions are unforeseeable. I bore a ridicu
lous name, Domini Enfilden, and I was supposedly seeking “peace of mind” in the desert. I found it exciting to be participating in the first great color film. Selznick attached great importance to the real-life character of my role, and he would listen to me with infinite patience when I explained my ideas regarding the costumes to him. I had decided to choose shades of color that would harmonize with the desert sand.

Dryden, a very talented costume designer, agreed with me, and we created some wonderful outfits. Pastel tones were used for the first time in the history of color film, and the takes were superb—which is saying a lot, since up until then, the great cameramen of black and white films had never been concerned with the special problems of color.

A young man, Joshua Logan, arrived from New York (at that time he had the job of “dialogue director”). Later, he wrote a book on our experiences, and scores of people at parties were entertained by his anecdotes of the shooting of
The Garden of Allah.
Although these stories do not always correspond to the truth, they are quite amusing.

We went to the Arizona desert, where we camped in tents with countless scorpions. The heat was awful. The makeup ran down our cheeks, but the greatest disaster was Charles Boyer's toupée.

In the early afternoon when the light of the still-scorching sun was already changing color, we hurried to complete the scene before the yellow rays could no longer be photographed, and the light no longer corresponded to the shadings of the morning. At that time nobody paid special attention to Boyer's toupée.

One day, when we were shooting the great love scene of the film, Boyer bent over me to kiss me when suddenly his toupée loosened. The sweat that had accumulated under it poured all over my face. General panic. Makeup artists and hairdressers ran around frantically. The sun sank lower and lower, and became more yellow than ever. The cameraman shouted: “That's it for today!”

Selznick sent the whole team back to Hollywood, where we were to await further instructions. In the meantime, the desert was
recreated in a giant studio. Trucks brought sand from the shores of the Pacific. Huge ventilators were installed to simulate light breezes. The production company spent a real fortune.

Finally, we had to reshoot the scene ruined by the temperamental toupée, as well as the scenes following them.

At that time, it took several days before you could see the results of all such efforts on the screen. Again a disaster. The verdict read: “Wrong sand color.” And, in fact, the sand from the Pacific beaches does have a different color from that in Arizona.

We were sent home again. While we were waiting, the “wrong sand” was removed and replaced by the “right” sand from Arizona. (Selznick was the greatest perfectionist I have ever known.) Yet, despite all the changes in the script, he could not save this film, even though it remains one of the most beautiful color films from those pioneer days. To our great regret,
The Garden of Allah
is no more than that. We all gave it our best to ensure its success. But the miracle was not wrought. Nobody can foresee what will please the critics. Every artistic activity is, and always will be, a poker game.

Anyone with a modicum of knowledge of photography knows that there is a great difference between the human eye and the lens of a camera. The great artists who designed the costumes of film stars knew the technique of photography from the ground up. They knew the value of color and the effect of every material, even before the costumes took form in the tailor shops. Nevertheless, costume and makeup tests always took place before the beginning of the actual shooting. The tests showed the cameraman what problems he had to cope with, so that he could position the lighting accordingly.

I've already mentioned Travis Benton, who was responsible for all my costumes at Paramount. At Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer,
there were Adrian, Irene, and Karinska. They had such practiced eyes that after the costume tests only rarely did major changes have to be made. At the time of black and white films, you had to be very sure all the material was tested in front of the camera because the costumes were commissioned; despite everything, color was of crucial importance. Pastel tones replaced pure white; tea-colored material appeared natural white.

Black (and above all, black velvet) was absolutely unusable. Josef von Sternberg had to muster all his skills to photograph the black clothing I so much liked to wear.

The advent of color films upset all these ground rules. The studios were under the draconian supervision of a woman named Madame Natalie Kalmus, the former head of Technicolor. Madame Kalmus was so proud of the new procedure that she demanded glaring colors for scenery and costumes. All the actors began to scream, just as they had when sound invaded the world of silent films. Naturally, I too was asked to take a color test. I chose a white dress, but before anyone could intervene, Madame Kalmus sneaked onto the set and placed a vase of red tulips near me. The colors were strong. The blue colors were so intense that, just like the sky, they had to be avoided during the takes. The sky could be photographed again only when the color technique improved. But the “hoopla over color” continued, as with a child who has just discovered a new toy. The studios established new departments, conducted endless tests, and finally black, too, was released from quarantine. New makeups were invented and tested, reassembled and tested anew. Even lipsticks were subjected to creative inspiration. The made-up actors looked like puppets. But no one could halt the ultimate triumph of color; all previous experience and knowledge now seemed antediluvian.

The best cameramen were ignorant of these new techniques. Second-rate cameramen had been able to study color photography in their free time, and now they used their knowledge to push their way back on the scene. A violent war broke out, but a solution was finally worked out: The cameramen experienced in color would handle the cameras and install the spotlights, while the aces of the black and white era would concentrate on angle
shots and regulate the lighting, in particular on the faces of the stars. This compromise produced rather scanty results, but it was still better than leaving important shooting to inexperienced cameramen merely because they were knowledgeable about color. The spotlights blinded the actors, to whom it was explained that this glaring light was absolutely necessary. The first films made under these conditions were mediocre. They owed their commercial success only to the appeal of the new technique. Thank God I was spared this cup, and I had the fortune never to have to make a color film for Paramount. I had only been “lent” to David O. Selznick for
The Garden of Allah.

Stage costumes present problems completely different from those of costumes for film. They are meant only for the human eye. That ought to simplify the matter. But unfortunately, here too, there are many difficulties to overcome. The fact that you face the audience directly is a considerable advantage and, at the same time, a considerable risk. Distance is the first problem. Only a few fortunate people sit in the first rows, which are already quite far from the actors. Consequently, clear and distinct accents must be placed. Accessories like rings and earrings are simply not visible, and on this point all efforts to recreate historical fidelity are useless.

Stage lighting that can change colors and forms also presents a problem. Unlike cinema, there are no close-ups. Everything is seen as a “long shot” and, consequently, the silhouette is of crucial importance. The actor's movements must be harmonious, since a “second take” is impossible.

Libraries and bookstores in every large city offer many works on this subject. The best way, however, is to draw inspiration from the actual play in order to find out what works best. “Historical” costumes are less problematic than modern ones, which should not strictly reflect current fashion, since clothes style quickly becomes passé. Since I was never really a stage actress, my opinion is based on the many plays I've seen in Europe, England, and America.

At all my performances I wore costumes that were works of art. Since I didn't have to hide behind an imaginary person, Jean Louis and I were able to devise dreamlike creations without, at the same time, being subject to the usual stage restrictions.

Jean Louis' creations metamorphosed me into a perfect, ethereal being, the most seductive there was. I have preserved some of his costumes—each one more magnificent than the other.

I am often asked where my preference for white tails and bow tie comes from, which I first wore at a performance in the fifties. It doesn't seem to be known that this is a very old idea. In 1900, an actress called Vesta Tilly—followed in 1910 by Ella Shields, particularly when she sang the song “Burlington Burty”—wore men's clothes. Other female artists of the British music hall imitated them. But that's not the only reason. If I have often appeared in tails, it was also for the reason that the best songs are written for men. For example, I absolutely wanted to sing Harold Aden's “One for My Baby, One More for the Road.” But it's impossible for a woman to stay in a barroom until a quarter to three in the morning. On the other hand, it's no problem for a man. That's the reason why I changed my costume with lightning speed and exchanged my dress for a tuxedo. I didn't want the audience to wait more than one or two minutes. That was an extremely hazardous undertaking. But it succeeded.

From that day on, I had a wide choice of cheerful, amusing, and sad songs at my disposal. I have carefully preserved a letter from Alan Jay Lerner, in which he assures me that in his opinion, I sing “Accustomed to Her Face” better than anyone else.