actress Marlene Dietrich who successfully plays a sailor girl of the twenties. Even the accent (Low German) is just right.
I, the well brought-up, the reserved, still entirely unspoiled girl from a good family, unwittingly had accomplished a unique feat that I was never again to repeat successfully. All the womenâs roles I played later were âmore delicateâ than Lolaâs in The Blue Angel and, accordingly, easier to perform.
The contract I had signed with Ufa contained a clause which my husband had questioned. It stated that for a certain number of days after the making of this film, Ufa would have an option on my future career. I no longer remember how much time Ufa had to exercise this option, but that, too, was irrelevant. It was one-sided. The studios had all the rights, the actor none at all.
I wasnât even notified when the film had finally been edited and the last of the work completed. Nor did the studio exercise its option on the date fixed in the contract.
Everyone was convinced that The Blue Angel would in no way enjoy the success von Sternberg had predicted for it, but would end up a fiasco, a disaster. My husband and I thought that the option Ufa had received (for a pittance) would remain only on paper. None of the companyâs executives, moreover, had taken my future film career seriously.
During this time von Sternberg would often phone me fromHollywood and ask me to join him. I didnât trust his proposals. I had enough of all the fantastic promises of a âgreat future careerâ in America. But one fine day he repeated that I should drop the âbig wigsâ of the German studios and tell them all to go to hell.
Actually, I didnât care whether I went abroad or stayed at home. After long discussions, my husband and I finally decided that I would go to the United States alone. Our daughter would remain with him in Berlin until we could see what impression that strange country called America would make on me before we dared to âtransplantâ our little Maria and her governess. I was sent out on a reconnaissance mission, as it were.
I didnât agree with one of the clauses in the contract that Paramount Pictures had sent to me, which stipulated that I was to sign up with them for seven years. I categorically refused, an indication of the great value I placed on my independence.
Later, I received a new contract stating that if I was not comfortable in America, I could return home after my first film but could not sign a contract with another studio. The Americans obviously were ignorant of the sense of honor deeply ingrained in the German character. I would never have done anything of the sort, anything so shameful.
So I set out for America confident that I could return to Germany whenever I pleased. I fought for this right not knowing that a powerful, ominous force would be leading my homeland to its ruin and that all my plans would come to nothing.
All went well at first. My husband insisted I bring along Resi, my dressing room attendant from The Blue Angel days, and the journey began.
The giant ship scared me so much that I remained in my cabin most of the time. I was bored to death and already troubled by homesickness on this opulent ocean liner with its glittering shops and restaurants.
On the other hand, I wasnât seasick. The high, swirling waves (it was April) caused a lot of discomfort to the other passengers, including Resi. To top it all, Resi lost her dentures on the second day of the crossing. They had fallen into the sea, and throughout the trip I prepared her purees and soups and comforted her in herwounded pride. No argument could convince her that a stroll on deck would be good for her and that she didnât have to be ashamed of being toothless in the middle of a raging storm all bundled up in a shawl.
The crossing took six days because of the head winds. I would have despaired if von Sternberg were not waiting for me on the
I, the well brought-up, the reserved, still entirely unspoiled girl from a good family, unwittingly had accomplished a unique feat that I was never again to repeat successfully. All the womenâs roles I played later were âmore delicateâ than Lolaâs in The Blue Angel and, accordingly, easier to perform.
The contract I had signed with Ufa contained a clause which my husband had questioned. It stated that for a certain number of days after the making of this film, Ufa would have an option on my future career. I no longer remember how much time Ufa had to exercise this option, but that, too, was irrelevant. It was one-sided. The studios had all the rights, the actor none at all.
I wasnât even notified when the film had finally been edited and the last of the work completed. Nor did the studio exercise its option on the date fixed in the contract.
Everyone was convinced that The Blue Angel would in no way enjoy the success von Sternberg had predicted for it, but would end up a fiasco, a disaster. My husband and I thought that the option Ufa had received (for a pittance) would remain only on paper. None of the companyâs executives, moreover, had taken my future film career seriously.
During this time von Sternberg would often phone me fromHollywood and ask me to join him. I didnât trust his proposals. I had enough of all the fantastic promises of a âgreat future careerâ in America. But one fine day he repeated that I should drop the âbig wigsâ of the German studios and tell them all to go to hell.
Actually, I didnât care whether I went abroad or stayed at home. After long discussions, my husband and I finally decided that I would go to the United States alone. Our daughter would remain with him in Berlin until we could see what impression that strange country called America would make on me before we dared to âtransplantâ our little Maria and her governess. I was sent out on a reconnaissance mission, as it were.
I didnât agree with one of the clauses in the contract that Paramount Pictures had sent to me, which stipulated that I was to sign up with them for seven years. I categorically refused, an indication of the great value I placed on my independence.
Later, I received a new contract stating that if I was not comfortable in America, I could return home after my first film but could not sign a contract with another studio. The Americans obviously were ignorant of the sense of honor deeply ingrained in the German character. I would never have done anything of the sort, anything so shameful.
So I set out for America confident that I could return to Germany whenever I pleased. I fought for this right not knowing that a powerful, ominous force would be leading my homeland to its ruin and that all my plans would come to nothing.
All went well at first. My husband insisted I bring along Resi, my dressing room attendant from The Blue Angel days, and the journey began.
The giant ship scared me so much that I remained in my cabin most of the time. I was bored to death and already troubled by homesickness on this opulent ocean liner with its glittering shops and restaurants.
On the other hand, I wasnât seasick. The high, swirling waves (it was April) caused a lot of discomfort to the other passengers, including Resi. To top it all, Resi lost her dentures on the second day of the crossing. They had fallen into the sea, and throughout the trip I prepared her purees and soups and comforted her in herwounded pride. No argument could convince her that a stroll on deck would be good for her and that she didnât have to be ashamed of being toothless in the middle of a raging storm all bundled up in a shawl.
The crossing took six days because of the head winds. I would have despaired if von Sternberg were not waiting for me on the
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