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KISMET
Marlene Dietrich:
I filmed KISMET before I enlisted in the
army. Not many words need be wasted on my role in this film,
but I needed money for my family to live on during my absence.
The great costume designer Irene and I spent hours pondering
the costumes for the impossible person I was signed to portray.
Now, for the flrst time, I was working at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.
For a long time we had envied the actresses who worked for
this company, since they enjoyed special conditions: they
were flattered and spoiled by the directors. I took lessons
for the 'exotic' dance I had to perform, half sitting on my
heels, which made me laugh so much I lost the rhythm. Irene
and I had an idea that was not very feasible, but which at
first had struck us as something quite extraordinary.
The idea was to design a pair of trousers out of hundreds
of tiny gold chains, which would jingle softly at every movement,
and glitter under the spotlight. This had never been done
before. I spent hours on my feet while two men tied the gold
chainlets to my ankles and crouched between my legs with tweezers
in order to fasten the single links to each other. They loved
the work. I, on the other band, was utterly exhausted with
my legs so spread out.
In the studio, this extravagant idea was still a topic of
conversation, and then came the day when, after I had tried
all the dance steps, I appeared on the set. The Rites of Spring
- take note! - was being played, and as prescribed I took
my first step. Suddenly all one heard was crack, crack, crack,
the sound of the chainlets breaking, one after the other,
then two, six at a time, until I stood there without pants
. . .
General panic. I was shoved into a car and driven to my dressing
room. Irene wept on my shoulders.
'We must find something else,' I said to calm her, 'and forget
about the chains.'But Irene turned a deaf ear.
I was sent home, and she was summoned to appear before the
big boss, Louis B. Mayer.
Suddenly I had a brilliant idea, something perfectly safe,
something that would cause no complications. 'Gold,' I thought,
'how is a golden effect achieved on the screen?'
It occurred to me to paint my legs with gold paint.
I wasn't particularly proud; I was simply in a big hurry to
call Irene and to teil her that I found the solution to our
problem and that we could set to work the very next morning.
The next morning she was in my dressing room at six o'clock.
Two make-up artists armed with brushes zealously painted my
legs. The whole room reeked of paint; the floor was strewn
with golden spots, but the effect was simply fabulous. Irene
smiled again; at nine we had to be in the studio. Nobody had
believed that we would able to solve the problem in less than
twenty-four hours.
At nine on the dot I climbed onto the set. The whole team
cried 'Ooh!' and 'Ah!' The photographers bombarded me with
the light of their flashbulbs. The director, William Dieterle,
came in, nodded approvingly, and the music began to play.
I danced, this time without the slightest incident; the gliding
held fast. An hour later, I suddenly became very cold, and
trembled like a wounded bird. Heaters were brought in to warm
me up - in vain. Nevertheless, I worked through the day, good
girl that I was. The studio doctor examined me in my dressing
room, while I tried to wash the colour off my legs with alcohol.
He told me that the studio was not covered by the insurance
companies for something like 'the present case'. No one had
thought of including an applicable clause in the contract,
in the event that the paint should permanently close the pores
in the lower half of my body (that was why I was so cold).
I reassured the doctor. I didn't want to give up the paint.
We already had one day's work behind us and simply had to
go on since a day in the studio cost a fortune. Meanwhile,
my legs had turned green, and I hid behind chairs and curtains
until the doctor left.
[…]
On the day after the great premiere of the 'gilded legs',
the rushes arrived at MGM and everybody was relieved and congratulated
me.
Ronald Colman was the star of this masterpiece entitled Kismet.
l didn't really get to know him. He was radier cool and tight-lipped.
And here l don't mean 'English reserve'. That I know and appreciate.
We simply didn't suit each other.
[…]
My swollen arm hurt me, and I hid it from the camera so as
not to disturb the beauty of the cinematic creation. Ronald
Colman shrunk from any bodily contact with his partner, in
this case me. The studio even changed directors during the
shooting in order to persuade him to give expression to the
love that was supposed to be burning in his heart. But when
he finally roused himself to do so, he naturally grabbed my
sore arm with its needle marks. l screamed in pain.
I don't think KISMETearned much money for the studio.
Excerpt from Marlene Dietrich: My Life.© 1987 by
Marlene Dietrich. Reprinted by permission of M. Dietrich,
Inc.
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