I believe I`ve always been very lucky.
Josef von Sternberg drew everyone he met under his spell. I was too young and too stupid to understand that. But I admired him, and as a well-mannered student of the Max Reinhardt Drama School, I took pains to follow my director as well as possible.
The von Sternberg-Marlene Dietrich collaboration in the United States began with ”Morocco” in 1931. I had terrible difficulties since I had to speak correct English and appear mysterious at the same time. An aura of mysteriousness has never been my forte. I knew what was expected of me, but I wasn`t in a position to create this atmosphere.
”The Blue Angel” had been something altogether different, the role of an ordinary, brazen, sexy and impetuous floozie, the very opposite of the
”mysterious woman” that von Sternberg wanted me to play in ”Morocco.”
The first scene was shot in Paramount Studios in Hollywood. The action took place aboard a ship putting ashore in Casablanca or some other exotic port.
Leaning on the rail, I stared into the distance (camera left, please);
when I turned around and reached for my only suitcase, it suddenly snapped open and all my belongings fell out. Thereupon a gentleman (Adolphe Menjou)
came up to me, wanting to help me gather up my belongings, and said, ”Can I help you, Mademoiselle?”
At that time the word ”mademoiselle” immediately enveloped any woman bent over the mess of an opened suitcase in an aura of mystery.
I had to answer, ”Thanks, I don`t need any help.”
Paradoxically, I could have really used some help on that particular day. Unlike most Germans, I didn`t say ”SSSanks,” yet my pronunciation of the English ”th” in thanks was far from perfect. And hundreds of people had shown up on the set to get a look at the newcomer Marlene Dietrich (two unusual words).
I knew exactly what I was doing wrong. As best I could, I spoke with what I really thought was an American accent. ”Thanks, I don`t need any helllp,” pressing my tongue against my palate, hoping to produce a guttural sound. Von Sternberg, aware of the moment`s importance but, as always, infinitely patient, made me repeat my answer God knows how many times until I pronounced the word ”help” properly.
Today I understand that this first line and this first scene were of the greatest importance for the success of the film and of the unknown German woman called Marlene Dietrich. (When I asked von Sternberg if I could change my name, he answered: ”Soon it will become quite well known.”)
At the end of the day I broke into tears. Not in front of the technicians, but in my dressing room in front of my makeup artist, Dot, the dressing room attendant, the hairdresser. . .it was too much for me. I wanted to go back to Germany. If that`s what my life was going to be like from now on, the whole business no longer interested me. I had left my husband and daughter behind in Berlin; I would return to them immediately.
Von Sternberg was standing outside my dressing room; after knocking lightly he came in.
He restored my morale within 20 minutes.
”Never break off your contract, rule numero uno. Never give up, rule numero due. In other words, stay.” That`s what he said to me.
How tiresome it must have been for him to bother himself so over a young, impressionable woman who understood nothing of his aims, his wishes, not to mention his plans for his Trilby, his Eliza Doolittle, his Galatea-the dream of creating a woman according to his own ideal, like a painter who captures an image on his canvas.
How could he ever have stood me?
He had decided to make me a star overnight, but that left me indifferent. In reality, he was molding an unknown Berlin woman. I was young, vulnerable, of course, and I was there to enchant the great American public, but in my own eyes I was still what I had never ceased to be, a German woman merely concerned with fulfilling her obligations, nothing more.
I didn`t want to go to evening parties. He agreed. For me only my home counted. He agreed. I wanted to get my daughter out of Germany. He agreed. He even went to great pains to phone my husband (I didn`t trust myself) to ask if I could take my daughter, Maria, with me back to the United States. In short, he set me on my feet once and for all. Anyway, we both believed this, at that time.
When I arrived in Hollywood, I was what is called a ”spoiled brat”-as far as my manners were concerned. Josef von Sternberg was the only person I allowed to patronize, instruct and control me. Otherwise I remained my true, independent self.
In 1932 I went to Germany to get Maria. Paramount Studios had strictly forbidden any mention of my maternity. I wasn`t ready to submit to this proscription, and once again von Sternberg battled the studio executives who were of the opinion that motherhood didn`t suit the role of ”femme fatale” I was supposed to portray.
He also won this battle. I brought my child to America, and Maria became 150 percent American. And she has remained so, even though I often thought of leaving this country with her and hiding ourselves somewhere. But we have survived.
Hollywood in no way disturbed us. As soon as the news got around that I loved being with my child, we were left in peace. The sight of airplanes writing my name in the sky one evening left me cold, a reaction that must have offended all those who had worked hard over the publicity stunt.
I did find it pretty, however. My daughter and I looked up at the night sky for a moment and then returned to our reading while the airplanes continued to paint their letters.
My husband, Rudolf Sieber, was detained in France by his professional commitments, and since he came only seldom to the United States, von Sternberg was a father and a friend to Maria.
On my arrival in the United States von Sternberg had given me a Rolls-Royce convertible (by the way, it can be seen in ”Morocco”) and hired a chauffeur. I was not allowed to drive the car. Some say-and it`s not a bad idea!-that men resort to this trick to prevent a woman from going off secretly by herself.
I never took off secretly. Moreover, I have never felt any such desire. I felt comfortable in this peaceful, agreeable life, a serenity unknown to the power-seeking women (conceivably their number is ever increasing today) who buzzed around Hollywood at that time.
Spanish eyes
In 1935, after his return from a long trip, von Sternberg began preparations for ”The Devil Is a Woman,” based on the novel ”The Woman and the Puppet,” by Pierre Louys. I knew that this would be our last film together, and I was as restless as a sack of fleas. Von Sternberg noticed this and once more tried to reassure me.
I played the part of a girl who worked in a cigarette factory. At his request I had taken lessons and learned to roll cigarette paper around a little stick. I also learned to make the empty paper rolls swirl around in front of the camera, catch them again and stuff them with tobacco. That was not easy, but I was a good pupil. It wasn`t these little tricks that worried me most, however, but the fact that I absolutely didn`t look Spanish. The Spanish lace blouse and the pleated skirt didn`t convince me. There was nothing ”Iberian” about my blue eyes and blond hair! But my biggest worry were my eyes.
I thought that all Spaniards had dark if not black eyes. My hair was rubbed with Vaseline so that it looked dark enough to me. Von Sternberg said that I was really stupid (as always) because there were plenty of blond women in northern Spain. How was I supposed to know that? So I continued with preparations for the film, I tried on the costumes sketched by von Sternberg and worried further about the color of my eyes.
Finally, I visited an eye doctor whom my makeup artist had recommended. He prescribed drops that widened the pupils so that they would appear black on the screen.
Then he gave me a second bottle containing a liquid that would restore the pupils to their normal size.
With swaying dress, combs in the sticky hair between the artificial carnations, my face made up darkly (which made me more attractive than ever), I arrived punctually at Studio 8 at 9 o`clock in the morning. I remember exactly.
I used my little bottle only after the rehearsal.
I went to my dressing room, sprinkled the drops in my eyes, and returned to my place, ready to shoot the scene. I looked for my essentials, the paper and the stick. But they were no longer.
Von Sternberg shouted to the cameraman: ”Let it roll!” and I just stood there and could no longer find my tiny stick and paper, everything was functioning perfectly except my eyes.
I acted as though everything was in order, but von Sternberg immediately noticed that something was wrong.
”Cut,” he roared.
The hairdresser and the makeup artist ran over to my dressing room and brought me the other little bottle with the drops that were supposed to restore my pupils to their normal size. I dripped the liquid in my eyes and resumed my place on the set. The whole thing hadn`t lasted for more than five minutes.
I again sat down at the table from which I had suddenly stood up in a daze. I saw everything as from a great distance, a very great distance-the technicians, von Sternberg . . . But no matter what I did, it was impossible to recognize anything directly in front of me.
No stick. No paper. No tobacco.
Von Sternberg sent us all out to lunch, but before that he took me by the hand and pulled me away from the extras and technicians, out of earshot and he said: ”Now tell me what`s the matter.” I told him everything. I wasn`t seeing things normally, I simply couldn`t help crying. ”Why didn`t you tell me you wanted black eyes?” he asked me.
I didn`t know what to answer.
”Do you want black eyes?” he persisted.
I nodded.
”Fine, then you`ll have black eyes, but don`t ever use anything like these drops without first asking me.”
He made my eyes look darker simply by the way he played with the light.
Some of my ”biographers” stubbornly claim that ”The Devil Is a Woman,” is an autobiographical film.
In Europe where the Louys novel is well known, no one has dared to make so improbable an assertion, all the more so because the story has often been filmed.
Yet, although the film sticks strictly to Pierre Louys` story, several periodicals in the United States gave the impression that von Sternberg had drawn his inspiration from his life and mine.
Von Sternberg, annoyed over all the fruitless discussions, had had enough. He decided to separate himself from me.
Naturally, I protested strongly against his intentions, became angry, and decided I would leave Hollywood and never come back.
But he told me, loud and clear, that such a prospect was out of the question, that if I wanted still to be his friend, I had to stay in Hollywood and make films without him.
Abandoned. . .
These words broke my heart, but I obeyed, as always. At what price?
I was like a rudderless ship. I realized that no fame could replace the security that he had given me, that nothing could compensate for his extraordinary intelligence, his professional ethics, the fascination that he exercised. . .
But von Sternberg didn`t abandon me completely. He secretly supervised the mediocre films I made subsequently; sometimes he would even sneak into the studio and cut out particular settings or make changes.
I myself organized the nightly exploratory foray.
Von Sternberg`s ”resignation” stood to reason.
He had enough of scandals, attacks, of the behavior of the Paramount executives.
This is the story of my collaboration with von Sternberg. Is that all?
No. I would like still to mention what I feared most in him: his contempt. A shocking experience.
Several times during the day, he would send me back to my dressing room so that I could cry in peace.
After talking to me in German, he would turn to technicians and say:
”Smoking break. Miss Dietrich is having one of her crying fits.” Bathed in tears, I would flee to the dressing room with my makeup artist and my hairdresser.
I have never reproached von Sternberg for his sharp tone. He had all the right in the world to it. Because he was my protector. Because he was also my friend. What he said was always right.
He was always right. I will never be able to thank him enough for it.
