Marlene (27 page)

At the end of the performance, I would dance in the midst of a row of girls. But in some theaters, I had to give this up, since with the inclusion of the dance, the whole performance was changed from the category “recital” into “variety,” which entailed considerably higher taxes for the owners of the auditorium. If they insisted on this point, I dropped the dance. This also made my life easier, for it meant extra work for my musicians, my electricians and sound engineers, plus the twelve dancers and two dressing room assistants who traveled with me. Nevertheless, I often regretted the omission of this number. The girls wore black “sexy”
panties, black stockings, white vests and top hats—a magnificent contrast to my black tuxedo. On the stage, everything was black, even most of the scenery.

I traveled with my own pink stage curtain, which was lowered directly behind me for certain numbers, and lit up by colored spotlights. All my stage clothes were made of flesh-colored material, and easy to light, since that eliminated any disturbing interference from other colors. Whether in films or on stage, I have always preferred neutral colors to pure colors, and the experts with whom I worked always agreed that I was right.

One of the most important persons in the making of a film is the studio photographer. His job is to take publicity photos of the shooting and of the stars. Most of the photos in circulation are made in the studio.

“Marlene Dietrich was one of the persons I liked most to photograph,” Davis Boulton has written about me. “She's a real expert. She knows photography as well as I do. She insists that only one spotlight be installed above her so as to highlight her hollow cheeks. Stars, as is well known, generally don't like to be photographed.”

In my opinion, the photographers greatest talent lies in his ability to relax the person in front of the camera by replacing embarrassment with euphoria and by letting the person “pose” correctly and change expression—in short to create a living session, even if it takes soft background music to meet his purpose. The photographer enjoys a great advantage over the filmmaker, his model doesn't move, doesn't even breathe. No complicated lighting to follow all the actor's movements.

In addition, there is the delicate work of developing and retouching. The latter is an art in itself. I've been able to familiarize myself with it, thanks to a young Japanese man at Paramount. I would watch him for hours at his worktable, as he searched for the least imperfection, which he then corrected with his brush. Nor
mally, young assistants take care of the display and other technical problems.

A great photographer tries, above all, to preserve the image that he has in mind, taking, of course, public taste into account. He also has the advantage of taking many photographs (film doesn't cost much), choosing the best among them, and sending them all over the world, where they can be reproduced for years and increase his fame. So, it's not surprising that these photographers are the embodiment of politeness and charm, and that none of them has the slightest scruple when it's a question of achieving his or her goal. They all are ready to sell their photographic souls for a flawless negative.

But I love them without exception, and envy them for more than one reason.

My favorite photographers are Cecil Beaton, Edward Steichen, Anthony Armstrong-Jones, Richard Avedon and Milton H. Greene.

I was scheduled to make a film for Paramount. I had committed myself to Columbia to perform in a film on George Sand under the direction of Frank Capra. Suddenly came a stab in the back.

An owner of a chain of movie houses published an advertisement in all American newspapers: “The following actors and actresses are declared
undesirable at the box office
.” Printed in bold letters were the names: Garbo, Hepburn, Crawford, Dietrich, etc. That was a death sentence.

The studios at that time, it must be understood, pursued a strict business policy: Each time a distributor wanted a film, for example, one with Garbo or Dietrich, he was forced to buy six mediocre films (or even downright bad films) as part of the deal.

This public announcement shook the film industry. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer remained loyal to its stars, and continued to pay them, but it no longer wished to invest money in their films. Paramount wasn't so generous, they fired me, and Columbia withdrew the George Sand project. Why run a risk with a star “undesirable at the box office”?

I didn't know any of the great actresses on this black list, nor did I know how I should react.

I packed my belongings and returned to Europe to my husband and my friends. To say I was desperate would be an exaggeration. At bottom, Hollywood meant absolutely nothing to me. I was helpless, needed some good advice, someone who would give me a helping hand. And I was lucky enough to find what I was looking for.

First, I went to Paris, where my husband was working, and I spent two weeks at the Hotel Plaza Athenée. We settled all our problems, abundantly enjoyed the French cuisine, and then decided to travel south as soon as my husband got a vacation.

We flew to Antibes. Here all my troubles were quickly for gotten. With friends, and the Chris-Craft, we lay in the sun, bathed in the sea, laughed over everything and nothing; no annoyance, no more headaches, total freedom. We had already spent several summers in this peaceful haven. But the summer of 1939 was not like those of the past.

Surrounded by my husband, my daughter, Erich Maria Remarque, Josef von Sternberg, and some other friends, I constantly would ask myself: “To which world do I belong? Am I a bad star, a has-been star, or simply a zero?” “Undesirable at the box office” the sentence of those gentlemen in Hollywood had read. But I had the same feeling as at the beginning of my career: What if I were to be a disappointment to others?

Von Sternberg had not been guiding my “career” for a long time. I was left to my own devices.

We spent a splendid vacation. The Kennedy family was there, and we really lived in a paradise. My daughter swam with Jack Kennedy to a nearby island, they held their clothes above the water so that they could dress for luncheon on the island.

From the shore, I didn't let these excellent swimmers (which I've never been) out of my sight and prayed to heaven they would not drown. They always arrived safe and sound. And they were always back in time for dinner—happy, soaked, radiant with joy. What a summer! We didn't know that it would be the last one, that it would suddenly come to an end with tears and threatening
danger. We danced, there were two tables: one for the young people and the other for us grown-ups. Sometimes we changed places; one evening Jack Kennedy invited me to dance. I loved all the Kennedy children, and this love has never ceased.

During the course of the summer of 1939, I received a call from the Hollywood producer Joe Pasternak. “In spite of everything, I'm taking the risk of making a film with you,” he said. “Jimmy Stewart has already agreed, and I would like to have you as his co-star in the Western,
Destry Rides Again.
” I answered, “Not for anything in the world.” But Josef von Sternberg advised me to accept the offer. So I left Antibes and set out for Hollywood.

It was fun to make the film, and we were all delighted with its great success. Joe Pasternak was especially happy, since he had challenged the film industry and saw that his efforts had been rewarded.

After
Destry Rides Again,
he made several other films with me.
Seven Sinners
(1940),
The Spoilers
(1942) and
Pittsburgh
(1942) brought lots of money into Universal Studios coffers.

Joe Pasternak had a talent for making everybody happy. We also had the support of directors like George Marshall and Tay Garnett. The actors, on the other hand, were not very helpful. Unpleasant people, actors.

First of all, John Wayne. Unknown, penniless, he begged me to help him. I did so. I phoned my agent, Charlie Feldman, who told me that he wasn't interested in beginners. But finally, he gave in to my arguments.

At that time, John Wayne earned about four hundred dollars a week, on which he had to live with his wife and child. I did my best to interest Feldman, inventing the most incredible “talents” for my protégé. John Wayne wasn't exactly brilliant, but neither was he bad, and he needed money. Through Charlie Feldman he got a contract with Universal, and I made some films with him. I can't really say he was my “partner,” since his performance was
kept within very strict bounds—he spoke his lines and that was all. I helped as best I could. Wayne was not a bright or exciting type. He confessed to me that he never read books. But that didn't prevent him from accumulating a nice pile of money over the years. It proves that you don't have to be terribly brilliant to become a great film star.

In 1942, when we were working together in
The Spoilers,
he had become a little more sure of himself but had not increased his talent. Randolph Scott, also a
member of the cast, concerned himself with the “quality” of the acting. He performed the same function in
Pittsburgh,
which we made shortly thereafter. Later John Wayne became a veritable Croesus, and exerted an enormous influence in Hollywood. He didn't need my help any more. He had made it, without opening the pages of a single book.

Nevertheless, don't follow his example! Read!

I've already mentioned that all our friends who had fled Europe had too much self-respect to want to remain in America without working. We helped them find work to the best of our abilities, and Pasternak also did his part.

It was his idea that I should make a film with Rene Clair. At first, I resisted the idea, but finally out of loyalty to my old principle, that doing your duty was all that mattered, I yielded. So, in my date book, I wrote:
The Flame of New Orleans,
under the direction of Rene Clair, with Bruce Cabot.

Cabot was an awfully stupid actor, unable to remember his lines or cues. Nor could Rene Clair, who didn't speak a word of English, lend him a helping hand. Besides, Bruce Cabot, in contrast to John Wayne, was very conceited. He wouldn't accept any help. I finally resigned myself to paying for his lessons, so that he would at least know his lines during the shooting.

The team loathed Rene Clair (surely because of the language barrier) to such an extent that the technicians almost pushed me off the set the moment they heard the order: “Pack up your things.”
The Flame of New Orleans
was a flop. I played a double role (two sisters) and, as always, wore lavish costumes, but that wasn't enough.

I didn't particularly like Rene Clair, but I didn't hate him as
much as the rest of the team did. Fritz Lang was the director I detested most. I became conscious of my feelings toward him in 1952, when we filmed
Rancho Notorious.
In order to be able to work with Lang, I had to repress all the hatred and aversion he aroused in me. If Mel Ferrer had not been there, I probably would have walked off the set in the middle of shooting. But Mel was always near and helped to see me through those troublesome days. Fritz Lang belongs to the “Brotherhood of Sadists.” He despised my reverence for Josef von Sternberg, and tried to replace this genius in my heart and in my mind. I know that because he confessed it to me.

The Teutonic arrogance he expressed deeply angered me. Only my professional honor prevented me from breaking the contract and walking off the job. Before the order: “Everybody on the set” resounded, Fritz Lang would spend hours marking our positions on the ground. At the same time, we were not allowed to look down at the ground. In this way he was trying to prevent, at all costs, the actors from being quicker than himself, and he seemed to take a diabolical delight in making us endlessly repeat our movements.

Fritz Lang simply laid out each step, each breath, with a sadistic exactness of which Hitler would have been proud. To be sure, Fritz Lang, as a Jew, had fled to America to escape Nazism. But here he behaved like a tyrant. He would not have hesitated—we could testify to this—to walk over corpses. He was tall, and took long steps, so that we could follow him only with the greatest effort. Mel Ferrer, an elegant man, but much shorter than Lang, took great pains to respect the markings and not step beyond them. Despite my height, I was unable to do the same. But that didn't bother Lang one bit. “Do it again,” he would scream, and have me repeat the same gesture a hundred times.

Often, I could have choked him on the spot; he would give instructions that made no sense at all. He tried everything to make me responsible for the time lost placing the reflectors in my new positions, but I defended myself like a lioness. Since I had worked with great directors, I knew that this need to control an actor's movements, even before the actor could study his role, was a sign
of pure dilettantism. But in Fritz Lang's case it had more to do with sadism.

Fritz Lang had made some successful films in Germany and in the United States without, however, achieving the international fame he coveted. I wouldn't shed a single tear for him. I felt no friendship for this man, hence no tears.
Rancho Notorious,
the film I made with him, was and remains a very mediocre work.

After that, I made
Manpower
with George Raft and Edward G. Robinson. Raft was simply wonderful throughout the shooting. Raoul Walsh loved each and everyone of us, and we thanked him. The film was a success. A stroke of luck for us all.

Long before, I had reflected on what I would do if America entered the war. I was well informed, and knew my duty. I needed money of course, as always, and even more than usual. I still had time to make another film and also did that. But, in the meantime, I had been preparing for my departure, and for a long stay abroad—for as long as the war would last.

The “Hollywood Committee,” which had been founded when the Nazis seized power, was all ready for action on the day of the mobilization. Its chief organizers were Ernst Lubitsch and Billy Wilder.