Marlene (35 page)

Billy Wilder had come to Paris to persuade me to play the role of a Nazi woman. I refused. At that time, I didn't know that you can't refuse Billy Wilder.

The plot of
A Foreign Affair
closely followed the events of World War II. Wilder filmed in Berlin all the scenes in which the leading actors did not appear. Then he flew back to Paris, where I was living, to explain the project to me. Naturally, I couldn't resist him.

O
NE DAY, IN NEW
York, my daughter asked me to help her in her charitable work and participate in a gala event that was to be held in Madison Square Garden.

Stars were going to ride elephants. That was not for me. Not that I have anything against elephants, but I wanted to do something different. So I undertook the role of Master of Ceremonies.

Brooks Company made all the costumes to order. I added little details here and there, and “invented” the short pants, later known as “hot pants.” I looked wonderful, with my boots, my whip, and all the rest.

I learned my lines, I announced my numbers, and everything went beautifully.

The performance was the beginning of a new adventure for me: I now performed “in the flesh,” no longer just on film. That pleased me immensely, and I've never regretted it.

I received my first offer from an extraordinary man, Bill Miller, who, at the time, was manager of the Sahara. Miller offered me such a huge salary that I couldn't refuse. I charmed Harry Cohn, the head of Columbia Pictures, and asked if I could use his studio's costume workshop.

Later on, all my costumes were designed by Jean Louis and by Elizabeth Courtney, a woman with very talented fingers. I
followed their advice. I don't remember how many costumes we made. I have preserved them all, and I take those I still wear out of the trunk as carefully as I would take a baby out of a cradle.

I'm very attached to them. On tour, I myself did any sewing that was needed. The needles came from France (only there can you find needles of such fine quality) as did the thread, though often Elizabeth used one of my hairs for sewing. I had to stand perfectly still—sometimes as long as ten hours at a time—since most of the work was done while I was wearing the dress. Naturally, the zippers were also made in Paris. All my clothes have zippers. Don't believe the stories that say that I was sewn into my clothes every evening. That's nonsense, since the dress would have torn instantly. Anybody who knows anything about dressmaking knows that, and wouldn't believe such chatter. The fabric from which my gowns were made was called “souffle.” Biancini manufactured it especially for us, and there is no such product today. This fabric had the delicacy its name suggested. It was exactly right for our purpose: I was dressed, yet I looked naked.

The embroidery, done by a beautiful Japanese woman called Mary, was a work of art in itself. We spent hours designing it and just as much time in a room where young girls embroidered on large frames. Each pearl, each sequin had its own specific place.

It's true that Jean Louis and I (with Elizabeth, who then would give her opinion) had endless discussions over where a diamond, a miniscule mirror, or a glass pearl should be placed. Elizabeth would mark the spot with a tiny red thread.

None of us, in all these years, has regretted the effort or the many hours we spent on these creations. We loved our work and were proud of the results. Many people have tried to imitate our work, but these attempts, as is so often true, fall far short of the original.

Elizabeth is no longer alive, and that is unjust. She was young, gifted, friendly, loving. Fate was unkind to her. She loved me as much as I loved her. She would fly to Las Vegas to help me dress. She would accompany me, teach me sewing and all the tricks of this trade, which is, in truth, an art.

After a few years, I was an excellent seamstress. I worked only
by hand, never on a sewing machine—that mysterious apparatus that, frankly, I never found necessary to use.

My first tour in Las Vegas lasted four weeks, and I was swimming in happiness.

Up until now, I've spoken only of the costumes, and for a very good reason. In my eyes, my outward appearance was extremely important, since I had no illusions about my voice. I had, of course, sung in some earlier films, but that had all taken place in quiet recording studios, and when the actual shooting began the image counted for much more than the sound. The most important thing was to keep your eyes on the chalk markings on the floor, which is not at all as easy as it sounds. And that's not all. You not only have to keep your eye on the floor markings but also synchronize your lip movements with the lines of the song being played, which has been recorded in the sound studio a few days earlier. At first, you don't recognize your own voice in the deafening sound, then you tell yourself that you've certainly sung this song much better before. And, finally, you try to chase all these thoughts away so that you can concentrate and coordinate your lip movements with the roar coming from the loudspeakers.

Ordinarily, a person sits on a high stool, very close to where you have to walk. When the recording is finished, all heads turn toward the sound engineer to see whether or not he shakes his head—and whether everything has to be done over again. The sound engineer is responsible for “perfect synchronization.” Since the smallest mistake is fatal, you have to start again from the beginning until the man on his perch nods approvingly.

When you're forced to pay attention to the markings on the floor, rivet your gaze on a particular point, and at the same time try to coordinate your lip movements with the sound (a real chore at the end of the twelfth take), you find yourself wondering why you don't just stay home instead of making films.

It's not difficult to understand that compared with these conditions it's a pleasure to be on stage. No floor markings, no “turn your head to the left, and your eyes to point number 31,” no difficulties with lip synchronization.

Nevertheless, I continued to pay attention to lighting. Joe
Priveteer helped me. He would come from Las Vegas, and for many years he was responsible for the lighting at all my performances. My performance was not, however, the main feature. Actually, I wasn't supposed to stay “on the stage for more than twenty minutes, so the guests can go back to the gambling tables.” So I sang approximately eight songs, all of them from my films—no more.

The audience would applaud madly, and, in my naiveté, I thought everything had gone perfectly. It was, I thought, a perfect performance. Year after year, I played Las Vegas. A splendid time. No worries. Lots of money. Happiness.

Then a man came into my life who took me to seventh heaven.

Since I have a “Russian soul” (which means that I easily give what is close to my heart), I suggested my arranger and director at that time, Peter Matz, to Noel Coward, who had just signed his first contract in Las Vegas, and who wished to substitute the usual orchestra with a piano.

I explained to him that his idea was sheer madness, and persuaded him to meet Peter Matz. Coward was delighted with him, snatched him away from me, and hired him on the spot.

Peter Matz gave me the news on the phone. I gulped first, and then I asked, “And how about me, what am I to do? I open in Las Vegas in two weeks.”

“I can't leave Noel Coward in a lurch,” he said. “You've got to understand that.”

“I understand, I understand.”

“I'll call you later,” he said, and hung up.

I always have to be the understanding one. Everybody expects that of me. Why, I don't know. The understanding that I've shown has never helped me to solve my problems.

Peter called me back and said, “I know someone who's flying to Los Angeles. You're going there, too, aren't you?”

“Of course, I've got to sign a contract.”

“If I can still catch this guy at the airport—I don't know when he's landing in Los Angeles—I'll tell him to get in touch with you.” End of conversation.

I took my flight and registered at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Thank God I'm not the nail-biting or down-in-the-dumps type because otherwise I'd simply have given up at that point.

One day a handsome man knocked at my door. He introduced himself. “My name is Burt Bacharach. Peter Matz sent me.”

I invited him in and sized him up. He was young, very young, and very handsome, and I have never seen such blue eyes. He went directly to the piano (there's always one in my suite), and said, “What song will you sing first?”

I stumbled over a chair, reached for my sheet music, hesitated, and turned toward him. “A song that Mitch Miller wrote for me, ‘Look Me over Closely.' ”

“Let me see it.”

He leafed through the pages, and said, “You don't want this kind of arrangement to open with, do you?”

I felt very inexperienced, which I was at that time, especially when it came to arrangements.

I stammered, “How do you picture this song?”

“Like this,” he answered.

And he began to play as though he had known the melody for a long time, but at a tempo that surprised me.

“Come, try it once.”

I tried it. Bacharach had infinite patience. He said I should let myself “get carried away.” Naturally I didn't know what he meant, but I did my job as well as I could, while hiding my weaknesses as much as possible.

He played one song after another, sometimes making notes, and then said, “Tomorrow at ten, agreed?”

I nodded, and he left. I didn't even ask him where he lived, and wouldn't have known how to reach him if he hadn't shown up the next day. But I was sure he would come back—what I didn't know was that he was to become the most important man in my life after I decided to dedicate myself completely to the stage.

At that time, the name Burt Bacharach was not known to the public. Only the recording studios knew him. My request that his name appear in lights next to mine was refused at first. But after a while I was able to convince the director.

My work also began to please Bacharach—my highest goal until the day he left. The applause, the calls and demands for encores from audiences all over the world were not that important to me. Not even the number of times I was called back on stage (one evening, it was sixty-nine times). It was enough for me to watch for the look in his eyes, and I could see whether my performance had been good or just average. I had never given a bad performance—on this point I could trust him. But some evenings, he would take me in his arms and say, “Terrific, baby, absolutely terrific.”

From then on, I lived only for the performances and for him.

That was the luckiest break in my professional life. I had been dropped into a world about which I knew nothing, and I had suddenly found a teacher. With the force of a volcano erupting, Bacharach had reshaped my songs and changed my act into a real show. Later, it was to become a first-class “one woman show.”

We no longer performed in nightclubs, but in theaters all over the United States and in Latin America. We played in Canada and, finally, on Broadway. My One Woman Show on Broadway was a big challenge for him. He hired the best musicians in New York. My old British friends, White and Lovelle, also joined us. I managed to get work permits for them, because they knew us well and consequently didn't need much rehearsal—a critical point in the United States. The theatrical directors always want a perfect performance, but they are very stingy with rehearsal time.

Rehearsing with an orchestra of twenty-five musicians takes a lot of time—all the more so because Bacharach's arrangements were not simple. They have nothing in common with the usual orchestrations. The premiere took place at the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre. Since the house was sold out for the first fourteen days before we opened, we extended the show by two weeks.

We were a smash hit; we got splendid reviews. We were a
complete sellout for every performance. We had to close only because another show was waiting to open in our theater.

After our last performance, we stood in the dark halls of the theater. The trucks with the scenery for the next show were parked outside while the drivers ate. Sad farewell. Only actors know what it feels like to leave a theater, to pack up your things and to leave. It's not easy.

I wrapped my clothes in tissue paper, lots of it, packed them in boxes that were specially made, and put large rubber bands around them so they wouldn't open—and we moved on to the next theater.

Later, I performed again on Broadway, at the Mark Hellinger Theatre. If someone asks me today why I never went back after that, I always reply that I had such a splendid time then, and the good things in life should only be enjoyed in moderation.

I loved Broadway. Loved the audiences. I gave matinees twice a week, even though Noel Coward had advised me against it. I liked “the women who wear hats,” as he called them. Perhaps they didn't understand his sophisticated patter, but they understand my simple songs very well.

Burt Bacharach did a beautiful arrangement of Pete Seeger's “Where Have all the Flowers Gone?” I heard it sung by a group, but it didn't impress me very much. But my daughter insisted on this song, and worked along with Bacharach on the arrangement. I sang it for the first time in Paris in 1959, in subsequent years I recorded it in French, English, and German.

I wrote the German lyrics with the help of Max Colpet, to whom I gave my author's rights. Since then, I have closed my performance with this song, after which I would always be called back on the stage again and again.

I sing the song differently than Seeger does, at the end, I repeat the first stanza, which I feel accentuates the tragic fate of the fallen. The passage about the graves also has a greater dramatic emphasis in my version. Bacharach's orchestration begins with a single guitar, then more instruments join in, one after the other, until the last stanza, which is once again accompanied by
the guitar. Every time I praised him for this idea, he would smile and say that it had already been done by Beethoven.