“Not bad! Your other foot, please!”
Daisy bashfully replies, “It looks just like the other one!”
“Is that right? You’re hired. For my next film: The Lady with the Two Left Feet!”
Die Bühne, February 18, 1926
FIGURE 14. “Die Tiller Girls sind da!” announces the arrival of the Tiller Girls in Vienna, Die Stunde (April 3, 1926).
The Tiller Girls Are Here!
THEY ARRIVED THIS MORNING AT THE WESTBAHNHOF
This morning, thirty-four of the most enticing legs emerged from the Berlin express train when it arrived at the Westbahnhof station. The charming ladies to whom they belonged had stylish traveling outfits on, and one of the last to leave the sleeping car was a tall, elegant lady of a certain age, an old-fashioned hat atop her somewhat flattened head, a lorgnette in her right hand, whirling her left hand in the air in the style of a musical conductor.
Someone wanted to know: “A girls’ boarding school, certainly.”
“Haha! April 2!”
These are the Tiller Girls, the charming Lawrence Tiller Girls from Manchester. Everyone is chirpy, busily squealing and giggling. You don’t know where to look first. Sixteen magnificent girls, gathered together, cultivated in all parts of the world. Those figures, those legs, those little faces, and well bred to boot; aristocratic, you might say.
Miss Harley—such is the name of the shepherdess of these little sheep—is directing the operations, and everything works perfectly: the suitcases, the passports, everything is fine. The girls stand at attention in rank and file, awaiting Miss Harley’s sharp commands. All around is the reception committee of curiosity seekers.
An interview will have to be conducted. Sixteen girls—sixteen questions. And off we go.
Blonde Winnie is up first. “Have you ever been in Vienna before?” “Vienna? No, but the Prater is supposed to be very beautiful.”
Maisie, the left wingman, is the tallest. “You speak only English?” “Nein. Ich sprechen auch deutsch: Ich liebe dich.” (Terrible. I would have liked to ask her another question.)
Lilian, the shortest, has coal-black eyes. “Do you dance the Charleston?” “Yes, we dance the Charleston in the show.”
Mabel, the prettiest one, seems not to be the brainiest. “What do you think of Einstein’s theory of relativity?” “Einstein, Einstein … oh, das sein a good candymaker in Berlin.”
Dorothy has lovely eyelashes, and knows how to flirt. “Which boarding school were you educated at?” “At the Convent of the Holy Virgin.”
Marjorie, the one with the impish face, is the smartest. She also speaks the best German, and in Berlin she gave an address to the German press. “Do you consider Geneva pointless?” “Definitely. Politics ruins your character, and I want to hold onto mine.”
Hilda I has big sweet round eyes. “Do you dance the waltz?” “With great pleasure. In Vienna I want to dance only the waltz. By Strauss.”
Esther has a dreamy look about her. “Who is your ideal man? Stresemann, Jannings, or Dempsey?” “Rudolph Valentino.”
Vera has a very delicate little face. “Are you for bobbed hair or the Eton crop?” “Always bobbed hair.”
Hilda II always tilts her head. “Do you believe in love at first sight?” “When I look at you, yes.”
Molly is a little chubby but has a nice laugh. “How do you picture your future?” “I will marry, definitely.”
Olive has splendid teeth. “What do you think of short skirts?” “If you have pretty legs, like Flossie, Vera, Molly, Marjorie, Mabel, and Maisie, then the shorter, the better.”
Joyce laughs seductively. “Bernard Shaw?” “I don’t know, don’t know him.”
Flossie is serious. “Do you know Hamlet?” “Yes. A good play. Why doesn’t this Shakespeare write any shows?”
Jessie is always upbeat. “Are you really watched over so strictly?” “Psst …” and places her index finger on her rosy little mouth.
Edith, elegant and well groomed, is the last. “What do you think of Austria and Slovakia getting closer?” “Das Bester.”
Miss Harley also gets a question. “Who is Tiller?” “John and Lawrence Tiller are the founders of the world-famous Girl University. At the age of ten the applicants with the best figures are accepted after passing an extensive test, then study for seven years. That is difficult work. Dance groups consisting of the best pupils are put together after the ‘Matura’ diploma: The Tiller Girls. The group I’m leading is one of the forty-seven who now perform around the world. A sound enterprise, respectable and world-renowned.”
And Miss Harley again holds her lorgnette in front of her mouse-gray eyes, giving orders. The girls are brought home like a cash transport, hidden from public view.
They live in the Hotel …
But the only contact with them is at the Haller revue.
Die Stunde, April 3, 1926
The Tiller Girls’ Boarding School at the Prater
The sixteen girls who paid a visit to the Prater in Vienna on a sunny spring day about a week ago—stylish, English-speaking, and walking two by two—were regarded by most of the passersby as the schoolchildren of a prestigious boarding school, particularly because an older woman was guarding them and ordering them about at every turn. But the fact that this girls’ excursion included some young men and a photographer whose right hand carried a tripod and whose round back hauled a massive camera, not to mention the striking snazziness of all these girls, had to indicate to any viewer, assuming he was halfway intelligent and had studied the newspapers of the past few days and was able to tell the difference between English and Serbian, that these were the Tiller Girls.
On the first day of their stay in Vienna, these wonderful girls discovered the Apollo Theater; on the second day, St. Stephen’s Tower, the bar at the Sacher Hotel, and the Diana Spa; and on the third, they headed off to the Prater; a little ride on a scenic railway, a little Viennese coffee—the best in the world—a little “merry-go-round”: awful nice!
A Tiller Girl is pretty, stylish, pleasant, reasonably well educated, graceful, quick-witted, tactful, diplomatic, sweet; a Tiller Girl is all of that. Each one: Esther, Marjorie, Hilda I, Hilda II, Dorothy, Mabel, Lilian, Winnie, Maisie, Vera, Molly, Olive, Joyce, Flossie, Jessie, and Edith.
They all have the same taste, all hold the same opinion. They are one single entity, one single organism, all relying on the others. No individuality here. The absolute democracy.
“Mightn’t, say, the Hoffmann Girls be better?”
A single cry of indignation makes the rounds, from Tiller Girl to Tiller Girl. Then there’s a chorus: Tiller Girls—often copied, never equaled.
They rode on the roller coaster four times, and found that quite a bit of fun. They were also delighted with the Ferris wheel: Vienna …! They stayed at the bumper car arena for a fun-filled half-hour. Each of them ate three portions of ice cream in some little confectionery. They shot at eggshells dancing on a water jet. They took so much pleasure in everything. But, being Englishwomen, they didn’t want to ride the chariots with little donkeys harnessed to them, nor did they want to ride on the carousel with the chamber pots; they’re ladies.
The littlest things captured their interest: they had to be everywhere. For Director Alexander from the Apollo and the charming Fritz Jacobsohn from Haller, this was serious business. And they always had to give in. How could they possibly resist entreaties from sweet Marjorie? Or a friendly kiss from Winnie?
Delightful people. Excursions should only be made with Tiller Girls. Perhaps it is the allure of the foreign language, perhaps the spontaneity of the girls, who are only kids. Great fun is had. One of the Hildas has hidden Jacobsohn’s hat. Jessie is about to tuck a colorful piece of paper under Director Alexander’s jacket collar, Mabel chats with the photographer about the beauty of the Scottish landscape, Dorothy and Olive quarrel, Molly holds Miss Harley, the leader, by her arm and guides her from booth to booth.
They like it here. T
he amusement park is larger, but the Prater is jollier. London is colossal, Berlin spectacular; but in Vienna there are such good schnitzels, such wonderful sweets. They would so like to stay on in Vienna. But on the first of the month they have to go to Dresden, then to Hamburg, and back to Berlin.
We discovered all that in a Prater snack bar. The girls are all forthright; they even own up to having a “darling” when that is the case. And Miss Harley, the governess, is allowed to hear it.
Let’s stay indiscreet: you even get a (harmless, unerotic, friendly, cousinly, for God’s sake obligation-free, forgotten the next minute …) little kiss, if you beg for one. God knows that’s no simple matter. But you get it.
Say it came from Billie.
Die Bühne, April 15, 1926
Girardi’s Son Plays Jazz at the Mary Bar
While his father is celebrating his professional milestone and posters on the streets request donations for a monument to this most popular person in Vienna—along with Mayor Karl Lueger—while a theater acts out the story of his life every evening and an exhibit dedicated to Girardi shows his realia to the Viennese, Toni plays jazz at the Mary Bar.
Toni Girardi is just twenty-eight years old, and people even claim to see a certain—outer—resemblance to his great father. He sits there, in front of the big drum, the drumsticks in his hands, works with all the instruments, the triangle, the cymbals, various whistles, and comically constructed thingamajigs that produce all sorts of exotic noise. Toni works with all of it, full of enthusiasm and love for the profession. Sometimes he even sings, when there’s a jolly atmosphere. “I love Ukulele Lady, Ukulele …” Oh, Toni is a good jazz band player.
“So, you’ve become a jazz band player? Very interesting. If father only …”
“Oh, fiddlesticks. You have to make a living. Minimum wages at Jarno …” “You’ve been through quite a lot?” “Oh, yeah. The old man didn’t want me to become an actor. No doubt he himself had a rotten time with this profession. But then he did sign my first contract for St. Pölten. Then I got married and went to work for my father-in-law in the car business. I liked that. Then I got divorced and remarried. Oh, well. At Jarno I acted again. I’m supposed to live on minimum wage. Two million.”
During this conversation Toni goes on playing, warbling the melody to himself: “… ein Gra-, ein Grammophon … Küss’ die Hand, gnä Frau … das macht so schön trara, trara, Sie wissen schon …”
“I had no more desire to keep on acting and wanted to go back to the car business. Easier said than done. Then I announced that I wanted to become a chauffeur. No reaction from anyone. Now I play jazz over there in the bar. You have to make a living.”
And once again, the drumsticks in Toni’s hands start to whirl.
Die Stunde, May 22, 1926
Paul Whiteman, His Mustache, the Cobenzl, and the Taverns
AN AFTERNOON WITH AMERICA’S SECOND MOST FAMOUS MAN
1.
In January of this year, the Chicago Tribune published statistics about the top-rated American celebrities. Millions cast their votes; the entire U.S. was in a flurry of excitement.
The statistics went like this: 1. Charlie Chaplin; 2. Paul Whiteman; 3. Jack Dempsey; 4. Ford; 5. Douglas Fairbanks; 6. Edison; 7. Johnny Weissmuller; 8. Rudolph Valentino; 9. Lillian Gish; 10. Rockefeller; 11. Tilden; 12. Coolidge.
Voice of the people—voice of God.
2.
Yesterday at noon, number 2 on the above-mentioned statistical list got out of a sleeping car of the express train from Berlin to Vienna.
If you add these things together—the most amusing mustache you could imagine, a truly charming little double chin, two gentle, childlike eyes in a nice broad face, a burly, graceful, tall man, dressed casually and unobtrusively—you get Paul Whiteman.
He is accompanied by Fritz Wreede, the well-known Berlin publisher, Paul’s personal friend—his publisher, not his manager, as is being erroneously reported.
The “welcoming committee”—the two directors of the Wiener Boheme Verlag, Otto and Erwin Hem, composer Dr. Robert Katscher, Herr Armin Robinson, the Berlin managing director of the Boheme Verlag, a dozen enthusiasts, several journalists—are quickly introduced, a six-man band plays Whiteman’s big American hit song, “Wonderful One …,” Whiteman happily shakes the conductor’s hand, two photographers capture his portrait, and the whole group gets into the three cars waiting outside. Paul Whiteman, America’s second most famous man, rides down Porzellangasse.
3.
He’s staying at the old Hotel Bristol. In the bar downstairs, while the new arrivals are enjoying beer and sandwiches, there’s time to put Whiteman under a magnifying glass and examine him in slow motion.
There’s that mustache of his again, a splendid, peerless, divine, superb mustache. It alone would have made Paul famous, without a doubt. It is cut quite short and twirled up in the middle, the two ends extend out quite far, and it points upward toward his nostrils at a sharp angle; the tips have a bit of pomade, which adds an aromatic element to our visual pleasure. That is the mustache of the future. Copyright by Paul Whiteman.
Whiteman is drinking beer, Schwechater lager, and he likes the taste. “Wonderful,” he says, and lifts his upper lip in ecstasy, which makes the ends of his mustache tickle his nose; that is Paul’s way of displaying his enthusiasm. He doesn’t speak a single word of German, even though his forefathers were Germans, his youth, his career, etc.… all of that is already well known. It’s important to come up with very different kinds of questions.
“In your opinion, what influence does the prohibition of alcohol in America have on music?”
“It is killing everything!” comes the reply, in English. And Paul takes such a big swig out of his beer stein that the foam sticks to his mustache. The messenger boys come running: Theater a. d. Wien is on the telephone, Max Reinhardt is on the line, Herr Kalman is there with his car, Franz Lehar announces his arrival.… Fritz Wreede isn’t having an easy time of it, his friend’s fame is making things tough on him. Meanwhile, Paul Whiteman stays quiet, like a child prodigy who doesn’t know what to make of everything while the eyes of the world are upon him.
“So you’ll be performing in Vienna?”
“I’d be delighted to. But first I have three concerts in Holland, then I’ll perform in Berlin, then in Paris. In late June I could do something in Vienna. But everything’s still up in the air.”
“Do you yourself play?”
“No, not anymore. I now conduct. With my knee.”
“–?–?”
“Yes, with my knee.”
The mustache flies up onto the left half of his face; my gullibility amuses him. “Look, like this!” Whitman got up and shook his right leg as though it had just fallen asleep and he wanted to wake it up.
“Sometimes my band even plays in the dark. The tango, for example. Then I conduct with a flashlight.”
“What are your latest hits?”
“How and Dreaming of a Castle in the Air, and George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.”
“Will you be playing Viennese composers?”
“Yes, Madonna, by Robert Katscher; Im Ural, by Mr. Ralph Erwin; Catharine, by Fall, was a big hit with us. Uonderfuhl !”
4.
In the afternoon, Whiteman is shown a miniature version of Vienna, a tour of the Ring, the Cobenzl Castle, and the taverns.
Fritz Wreede introduces the city hall to him as Vienna’s central kiosk, the Burgtheater as a swimming pool, and the university as our equestrian school. Not a single muscle twitches on Whiteman’s face; he doesn’t care. Dr. Katscher’s supercharged Mercedes flies up the winding Cobenzl road—if the street weren’t tarred, there would have been a big trail of dust. And the motor sings, “Mercedes, you are faster than the sunshine.” Still, Paul Whiteman is unimpressed; he is used to his $18,000, 120-horsepower car.
Upstairs, however, the view begins to bring some hint of emotion to his mustache.
We drink a quart of “Spez
ial” at Manhart’s. Whiteman seems to know something about wine: we’ll stay with this one! The tavern singers perform our special songs for Whiteman: “Mei muatterl war a echt’s Weana-Kind” (My Mama Was a True Child of Old Vienna) and “Im Prater blühen wieder die Bäume” (The Trees Are In Bloom Again in the Prater). “Uonderfuhl,” he says, for he is polite.
Die Stunde, June 13, 1926
Whiteman Triumphs in Berlin
AUDIENCE OF FOUR THOUSAND AT THE PREMIERE IN THE GROSSES SCHAUSPIELHAUS
Special report in Die Stunde
Berlin, June 27, 1926
The concert begins on Saturday evening at 8:15. Berlin, musical and artistic Berlin, is in a state of feverish excitement. The Grosses Schauspielhaus is sold out, right down to the last seat. Paul Whiteman, Dr. Robert Katscher, and I head off to it. The clock on Potsdamer Platz reads ten minutes after eight. The cars are backed up all the way to Brandenburger Tor, and at Schiffbauer Damm the traffic moves only in fits and starts. There are eight hundred cars standing there. All of Berlin has gathered together; Berlin is dressed to the nines. We have to get out a hundred steps before the theater or it would take too long. The people have recognized Whiteman; after all, his picture is hanging on all the advertising pillars.
People are cheering for him before they’ve heard even one sound.
Three thousand five hundred people go into the Schauspielhaus, and four thousand are inside. Folding chairs are set up; two armchairs seat three. Eight to ten people are standing in the box section.
About five hundred have finagled their way in. Out on the street, cars continue to drive up. People are already offering 200 marks (that is, 340 schillings) for a single ticket. The luminaries include Prince Joachim of Prussia; officials from the American, French, and British embassies; the editor in chief of the Berliner Tageblatt, Theodor Wolf; the editor in chief of the Vossische Zeitung, Georg Bernhard; the top music critics from all the Berlin papers; the directors of the Berlin Theater that are currently in Berlin; Emil Jannings and his wife; Fritz Kreisler and his wife; all the musicians available in Berlin, etc., etc. At 8:45, twenty-nine stylish Americans, all in tuxes, take to the podium and get to work on their instruments. Sudden silence. Whiteman gracefully prances onto the stage. Applause. Whiteman thanks the audience with a grin, his little mustache twitching, then he reaches for the baton. The room grows dark, a violet spotlight casting ambient light over the orchestra.
Billy Wilder on Assignment Page 10
