I laughed. “Now I look like a clown.”
“Not under the right lighting. And Jo is our best. No one knows how to light a face like him.” She winked at me. I was impressed with her technique and the fact that she was on a first-name basis with my director, though I would soon learn that in Hollywood, everyone was on a first-name basis until they were not. “It’s the reason we put up with him. He might be a bear when he’s not behind the camera, but when he is, he’s a magician.”
“That’s what I think,” I said, peering at myself. I did look different, my cheeks more sunken—not eating much helped—and the artificial penciled brows she’d created angling higher on my forehead to give me a sultry, if slightly artificial, look.
“You’re very lucky,” she went on, painting my lips with matte crimson, over which she applied a sheer layer that gleamed like nail polish. “He’s been extolling you to everyone. You’re quite the find, he assures us.” She stepped back, admiring my reflection. “I must say, I agree. That face will put Garbo to shame.”
“Is the studio really so intent on making me into her rival?” I managed to ask, though my mouth felt stiff from the layers of lipstick.
She dabbed clear gel on my mouth to moisten it. She didn’t answer my question, but I assumed the studio must be, for once I was transferred to the hairstylist, he whipped my curls into a froth of lacquered waves like Garbo’s. “We should bleach it,” he said, a prim well-dressed man I suspected would have enjoyed Das Silhouette. “It has too much red in it. It will look too dark on film. And I think these curls should be marcelled. But there’s no time today. Next week, we’ll schedule you for a coloring and heat treatment, if your director approves.”
If my director approves . . .
Von Sternberg certainly had full charge of me.
Hours of photography later, during which I posed in a variety of sumptuous gowns that astonished me with their glamour, I was weak with hunger. Breakfast under von Sternberg’s eye had consisted of coffee and a lone grapefruit.
He took me to the commissary, the studio cafeteria, where the actors and crew ate while shooting on the adjacent soundstages and back lots. It wasn’t crowded, lunchtime having come and gone. I was disappointed. I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of some of Paramount’s much-vaunted talent and suspected von Sternberg had engineered it so I would not.
Over a tasteless hamburger served on a tray he told me that I was scheduled to make my first public appearance at an upcoming studio party. “Schulberg’s assistant, David O. Selznick—who’s rising in the ranks—is engaged to Louis B. Mayer’s daughter Irene. Paramount is hosting the reception at the Beverly Wilshire. Schulberg wants to introduce you there.”
“Isn’t Garbo at MGM?” I said, excited by the thought that I might meet her.
“She is.” He gave me one of his impatient looks. “But she won’t be there. It’s a silly party and she’s a star,” he added pointedly, “but many other important people in the industry will be there, including the actor they’re proposing to play the male lead in our next picture.”
“Oh.” I perked up. We hadn’t discussed actual work yet. “Is there a script?”
“Not yet.” He waved his hand. “It’s based on a novel about a Parisian prostitute who finds redemption after falling in love with a Foreign Legionnaire. I’m rewriting the script now.”
“Amy Jolly?” I said, and his eyebrow cocked. “You’ve read it?” he asked.
“Years ago when I was in Weimar.” I hesitated. “It’s not very good.”
“That’s why I’m rewriting it. Schulberg didn’t like The Blue Angel. He wants a simpler role for your debut for the studio. And your English,” he said, “needs improvement, too.”
“He didn’t like Blue Angel? How odd. It’s a hit in Germany. Have you seen our notices? They say—”
“I know what they say. It doesn’t matter. They have codes here, like our censors, only theirs are self-imposed. Pictures must meet certain criteria before release, so they’ll edit The Blue Angel to fit their criteria. And our Parisian whore will be a chanteuse with a murky past.”
He shrugged, to my bewilderment. In Berlin, he’d wrestled to the death with the UFA to do as he wanted, yet here he would accept whatever he was told?
“Like I said,” he went on, “it will work once we get the script in shape. I want to pare down your dialogue to as few lines as possible. Your accent is too noticeable, so you’ll be taking English lessons with a coach hired by the studio.”
“A Parisian chanteuse with a murky past.” I pushed aside my tray with its inedible hamburger. “No script. My English needs improvement. They don’t like how I look or I don’t look enough like Garbo. They have self-imposed codes. Sounds like a lot of trouble.”
“It is.” He bit into his hamburger, dripping bright yellow mustard onto his tray.
“Do I even get a say?” I said. I was starting to regret having come all the way across the ocean; the way he described it, working in Hollywood sounded like slavery.
His voice hardened. “A say in what? You’re under contract. The studio chooses your parts. And I’m perfectly capable of guiding them toward the best roles for you.”
Tension sparked between us. It didn’t perturb me; I knew how he blustered and it didn’t scare me, but there were people coming into the cafeteria now, extras dressed in togas, on a coffee break from a set. A few glanced in our direction. We were speaking German, so they probably wouldn’t understand a word, but I’d rather not cause a scene so soon after my arrival.
“Yes, of course you can,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “But another chanteuse? It doesn’t sound simpler to me. It sounds like the same part, designed to not offend.”
He went still. “And?”
“And I’d like some input. I’m the one who has to play this chanteuse, after all.”
He scowled. “I’ll bring you my script tonight. But I warn you, it’s not finished.”
“Danke.” I smiled. I could see he was irritated by more than my insistence on reading the script and thought it must be the pressure to make me into a star in a picture ordained by the studio. In Berlin, he’d been the master, despite budget and time constraints. Here, it appeared he had meddlesome overlords to please.
“Tell me about the actor for the male lead,” I said, hoping to ease that glower off his face.
His glower only deepened. “Not my choice. I wanted John Gilbert, but he’s under contract to MGM and they refuse to release him.” He paused, with a sudden malicious grin. “Probably because they, too, have heard of our success in Germany and know you’ll soon eclipse their cash cow, Garbo.”
“The actor’s name?” I prompted. I was getting tired of hearing about this fake rivalry with an actress I’d never met. Garbo was certainly the star to emulate, if I must copy someone. But I hoped to make my own mark, not toil in the shadow of another woman.
“His name is Gary Cooper,” von Sternberg said with evident distaste. “It doesn’t get any more American than that, does it? That toad Selznick is Cooper’s friend and has been lobbying Schulberg for the part. Selznick thinks Cooper can be a leading man, though he’s done nothing thus far to prove it.”
“Oh. I’ve never heard of him.”
“Who has? He’s had some success of late, they tell me, as the shy-hero type. In some picture called Beau Sabreur, he played a Legionnaire, which is why Selznick is pushing him on me. And he was a cowboy in one of their Westerns. Awful pictures, those Westerns, but audiences here seem to love them. Anyway, Selznick is determined to get Cooper the part and I’m just as determined to stop him.”
I had a feeling he wasn’t telling me everything. “But if we must use him, he has talent?”
“As much as any actor needs. I’m only concerned with your talent.” He stood abruptly. “We’re late for your publicity reel. Stop smoking so much. I need you in your best voice.”
Late that night, after I’d arrived in a state of utter fatigue at my apartment, von Sternberg ca
me by to drop off the script.
I glanced at the title page. “Morocco. I like it.”
“Don’t like it too much. As I told you, we’re still revising it. Titles can change. So can everything else.” He didn’t linger, making me wonder if he was nursing his offense that I’d asked for input or because of this male lead he was resolved to thwart.
Whichever the case, I found myself curious to meet my proposed costar.
VI
I detested the gown von Sternberg had the studio deliver to me at the last minute for the party—a blue organza frock with enough ruffles to cover me from neck to toe. He was clever, I had to give him that. Anyone at the party who’d seen The Blue Angel, and no doubt most of the executives had, would find me unrecognizable. But once I tried the dress on, it flowed beautifully, cut on the bias, giving me that enigmatic quality everyone kept harping about. It also didn’t fit. Though I’d been on a daily exercise regimen and strict diet, so that I’d reached the lowest weight of my adult life—one hundred and thirty pounds, according to the American scale—von Sternberg had sent the gown made in his ideal size for me, and I couldn’t pull the zipper all the way up the back.
“Impossible,” I said to my studio dresser, who’d come to help me and was trying to yank the zipper up without ripping the seam. “The first breath I take, I’ll burst out of it.”
I waved her aside. She was one of those ginger-haired American girls with a name like Nancy or Susan; I never remembered it, though she’d been at my beck and call during the endless photo shoots. “What is he thinking? Is every actress in the studio a size zero?”
Nancy or Susan said nervously, “They’re sending a car for you in twenty minutes, Miss Dietrich. Maybe if we use a foundation garment—”
“A foundation garment? Absolutely not. I’ll wear something else,” I replied, and I searched my closet, hung with items brought from Berlin.
I’d already caused a minor scandal when I appeared for one of my photo sessions in a jacket and trousers, which here they called “slacks.” No one had advised me on what to wear and when I walked into the studio, the publicity man assigned to me was dismayed.
“Women don’t wear slacks,” he informed me. “They’re unattractive.”
“You’re wearing them,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” he said, “but I’m a man.”
“And I’m a woman who wore them in Berlin. Do you want to take my picture or not?”
He did but he grumbled to the photographer that Schulberg would have their heads, leaving me in no doubt that he’d have the photographs cropped so my slacks wouldn’t show. He had me return the next day, too, where I found myself greeted by an assortment of gowns from the wardrobe department and Nancy or Susan to watch over me for the remainder of my session.
Now, I hummed to myself as I sorted through my hangers. “This should do nicely,” I said, and I turned to Nancy or Susan with my chosen apparel in hand.
Her eyes went wide. “Oh, no,” she said.
“Oh, yes.” I smiled.
THE BEVERLY WILSHIRE HOTEL was a pink stucco villa surrounded by rampant greenery. Like everything else I’d seen thus far in Los Angeles—and I had not seen much—it was ostentatious without any defining features: a lavish showroom, where those who came through its doors were more important than their surroundings.
As soon as I entered the lobby, von Sternberg rushed forth to detain me. In his black tuxedo paired with a cravat, riding boots, and a silver-handled cane, he looked demented.
“What are you wearing?” he gasped.
I might have asked him the same. “A sailing outfit. Do you like it?” I twirled once for him in my white beret, navy blue blazer with an insignia crest, and wide-belled trousers.
“I do not like it. You will return to the apartment this instant and change into the dress I sent you. Now, before anyone sees you.”
“The dress you sent me doesn’t fit. It’s either this or my tuxedo, and I assume the tuxedo might be too much for the occasion. I wouldn’t want to be mistaken for the groom.”
He went so white, he looked as if he might spew. But he had no time, for a page in hotel livery came to tell him that Mr. Schulberg was waiting for us at the ballroom entrance.
Von Sternberg gripped my arm. “He’s going to announce you. But I think he’ll send you home instead, and then—” he said, tightening his hand as he led me forward, “you can apologize to him.”
I regretted my decision. I’d thought it would be a lark, setting Hollywood tongues to wagging as I had in Berlin, but I hadn’t met Paramount’s chief production executive yet, while he’d certainly already heard of my defiant slacks at my photo session.
“Do you want to work in this town or not?” von Sternberg hissed in my ear. “Because thus far all you seem to be doing is ensuring you will not.”
He let go of me as a dapper man who was younger than I’d expected, only in his midthirties, with curly dark hair and a noxious cigar in his hand, came to greet me. With a courteous bow that reminded me of Rudi when we first met, he kissed my hand.
“Verzaubert, Sie zu treffen, Fräulein Dietrich,” he said in perfect German. He paused, with a small smile. “Charming outfit. Are we going yachting later?”
“If you have the boat,” I said, keeping the quaver from my voice.
“I do. Two, in fact.” He extended his arm. As I stepped beside him, I heard someone ring a champagne flute with a fork, calling for attention.
The room went silent. In his sonorous voice, Schulberg proclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present Paramount’s new star, Miss Marlene Dietrich.”
“Now,” said von Sternberg. Pressing his hand into the small of my back, he pushed me forward in tandem with Schulberg, who escorted me inside.
I couldn’t see anyone. They all blended into one staring visage as I sauntered into the room with Schulberg, him nodding to those he passed, me with a smile etched on my lips. I was certain that I looked ridiculous, promenading in my sailor’s attire before more famous people than me, but I did my best to stay poised, remembering that mystery begets interest. No one else here was dressed like me. If nothing else, there’d be plenty of talk.
Schulberg introduced me to his assistant, David O. Selznick, a coarse-looking man with wire-rimmed spectacles, and his pretty bride, Irene Mayer, who gushed, “Oh, Miss Dietrich. Such style. I adore your blazer. Wherever did you find it?”
“Berlin,” I told her, and I congratulated them on their engagement, feeling Selznick’s beady gaze assess me as if he were tallying my net worth. I was grateful when von Sternberg materialized at my side. I looked around, wondering if I could smoke and then recalling I’d left my handbag in the limousine because it didn’t match my outfit.
“Do you have a cigarette?” I started to ask him under my breath, but he ignored me, already engaged in discussion with Schulberg and Selznick.
I heard Schulberg say, “Now, Jo. Be realistic. We’ve discussed all this. You must start shooting in July. The soundstage is booked through September. Yes, we know,” he said, interrupting my director. “I realize the script still needs work and you prefer to shoot in sequence, but we’ve given you enough latitude. And yes,” he added, “we do insist on Cooper for the part. Just make the best of it, okay?”
At the mention of my costar, I stepped toward them. Von Sternberg said, “Excuse me, please,” and with a sharp look at me, he said, “Go. Mingle. Meet people. It’s why you are here.”
It felt as if he’d thrown ice water over me. Smiling at the executives, I excused myself and moved away, as lost as anyone could be in a crowd of foreign strangers.
I began to recognize the stars: petite Claudette Colbert in a silver sequin gown that looked sprayed on, laughing with a matinee idol. And an inebriated Groucho Marx with his hand on a starlet’s rump, though that didn’t stop him from giving me a wink. And a giggling woman with an outdated flapper haircut and ruby lips who must be Clara Bow, next to a breathtaking sinewy blonde in a bright yello
w dress. I hoped to catch a glimpse of Garbo, but as von Sternberg had said, she wasn’t here. Given her status, she must eschew these social events, having no incentive to display herself.
Nevertheless, those I did see were enough—as beautiful as icons, polished to a surreal perfection that made me feel as though I were in the midst of idealized replicas who only proved that Marlene from Berlin didn’t belong here at all.
My stomach rumbled as I meandered to linen-draped tables by the walls, weighted down with trays of hors d’oeuvres and chilled bottles of Dom Pérignon, despite Prohibition. I’d been perpetually hungry since arriving in America. After checking to make sure von Sternberg was still arguing with Schulberg—he was—I hurried to the tables to fill up on canapés.
I was biting into a delicious salmon pâté when a deep voice drawled, “I understand we’re going to work together.”
I turned around. And froze.
He was a god. There was no other way to describe him. And tall—so tall I had to crane my neck to meet his hazel eyes, which seemed golden in the chandelier glow. He had a lean, beautiful face. A lock of light brown hair streaked by the sun tumbled over his forehead. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, a year or so older than me. In a cream-colored evening jacket, black bow tie, and trousers, he had an impressive figure, his lanky limbs imbued with a confidence that was indeed pure American.
I must have been staring, for he chuckled, and with his fingertip removed a smudge of pâté from my mouth. Anna May had done that to me in Berlin, on the night we went to see Garbo’s picture. A frisson of pleasure tingled in my groin.
“That good, huh?” he said. “Guess the studio doesn’t feed you much.”
“You—you must be Gary Cooper.” My air of mystery deserted me. This was a star if ever I’d seen one. But I could also see why von Sternberg had denigrated him. He was just the kind of man—handsome, poised, and athletic—my director would detest.
Marlene: A Novel Page 22
