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| Note |
THE DEVIL IS A WOMAN
Marlene Dietrich:
In 1935, after his return from a long trip, von Sternberg
began preparations for THE DEVIL IS 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 shirt 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 very 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; l tried on the costumes sketched by von Sternberg
and worried further about the colour of my eyes. Finally,
I visited an eye doctor whom my make-up 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.
On the way home I pressed the bottles against myself as though
they were made of gold. I took them with me to the Studio,
explained their use to my make-up artist and my hairdresser.
The vaseline had been rubbed into my hair; the carnations
(which had increased in number in the course of shooting)
were pinned on, and I felt l had been transformed into a genuine
Spanish woman. Apart from my eyes. But stupidly I believed
I could remedy this annoying minor detail.
With swaying dress, combs in the sticky hair between the artificial
carnations, my face made up darkly (which made me more attractive
than ever), l arrived punctually at Studio 8 at nine 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. l looked for my essentials, the paper and the stick.
But they were no longer there!
Von Sternberg shouted to the cameraman: 'Let is 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 make-up 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.
l again sat down at the table from which I had suddenly stood
up in a daze. l saw everything as from a great distance, a
very great distance - the technicians, von Sternberg ... But
no matter what l 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 said: 'Now tell me what's
the matter'. I told him everything. l wasn't seeing things
normally, I simply couldn't help crying. 'Why didn't you tell
me you wanted black eyes?' he asked me.
l 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
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
[...]
In my favourite film The Spanish Dancer (the awful English
title The Devil is a Woman was forced on him by the
producers), von Sternberg sent the team out for a lunch break
earlier than usual. By the time we came back he had dusted
white the entire woods through which I was to drive a cart.
Nothing is worse than green when you're shooting in black
and white. But since the action was taking place in the woods,
the trees that had been placed in Studio 13 were, of course,
green, at least at first. On the screen they looked as though
they had come out of a fairy tale, and I, sitting in the cart
dressed in white, looked just like a fay. And how do you think
von Sternberg attired the man l met in the white-dusted woods?
He had him wear a black suit and placed a black sombrero on
his black hair. Black and white. There were no colour films
at that time, but even today black and white remain unmatched
as a form. It is strikingly suitable for certain films. Colour
beautifies everything. Photograph a garbage dump in colour
and it will look clean, orderly, glossy.
If von Sternberg had filmed in colour, the result would certainly
have been the ne plus ultra of good taste, clever effects
and radiant beauty. Many may remember The Devil is a Woman,
the last film he made with me, as being shot in colour. This,
of course, was not the case, but the images it created are
so rich in light, shadows and half-tones that one easily thinks
it's in colour.
Excerpt from Marlene Dietrich: My
Life.© 1987 by Marlene Dietrich. Reprinted by permission
of M. Dietrich, Inc.
In my last film, THE DEVIL IS WOMAN I had one line to speak
to Lionel Atwill, who played an elderly admirer. I was portraying
the young Spanish beauty … capricious, experienced and
susceptible.
The line was : ' Are you my husband . . . my brother . . .
or my lover? ' “You cannot say the word lover,' they
told me 'the Censor doesn't like it. Just say the word sweetheart
instead.'
I refused. It didn't mean the same thing at all. The girl
in the story wanted to say the word 'lover.' and what is the
matter with the word, anyhow? I cannot understand the Censor
at all.
In the end von Sternberg put a loud clap of thunder on the
soundtrack to break over the word. I just said, ' Are you
my husband . . . my brother . . . or my (here she shaped her
lips in silence ' lover') . BOOM ! Then that was all right
with the Censor.
Interview. October 1935. Reprinted
by permission of M. Dietrich, Inc.
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