Free Marlene by Marlene Dietrich

worth all the effort. It involved too much responsibility. For one’s peace of mind, it’s better to stay below. But there were no such problems with The Blue Angel. The name Marlene Dietrich appeared as one of the supporting cast.
    I had learned modesty from my early experience in the theater. My name on the programs was miniscule. You’d need a magnifying glass to decipher it. As I’ve said, Max Reinhardt never deemed me worthy of a glance. This was only right, I suppose, because he certainly had more important things to do than “discover” the hidden talents of young actresses like me. So my appearance on the Berlin stage held no great importance for me, except on one occasion …
    I was told that I should introduce myself to a certain Forster-Larrinaga at the “Komodie,” an enchanting little theater, also under Max Reinhardt’s direction, on Berlin’s Kurfürstendamm.
    There I found auditions in progress for the next staging of a kind of new-style musical (also called “literary revue”). I was asked if I could sing, and in a shy voice I answered, “Yes, a little.”
    When I came to the theater everything was brilliantly lit up, which was unusual for auditions; normally a single electric bulb illumined the panicky faces of the candidates.
    Yet I would be lying were I to say that I was scared. I was anxious only about the singing. Once backstage, notes were pressed into my hand. My musical training saved me. The words were simple, easy to retain and witty. The action of the revue It’s in the Air took place in a department store. It was written by Marcellus Schiffer and Mischa Spoliansky both of whom were very well known in Berlin at that time. My song (a young woman lost in a department store driven to buy everything offered “at reduced prices” whether or not she needs the items—terrific bargains) was to open the performance. That meant—and it really didn’t surprise me—that my role was unimportant.
    It was the first time that a revue of this kind was to be staged at the “Komodie.” Five musicians, as well as a slender youth at the piano, were ensconced in a niche of the auditorium just above the front parquet rows.
    The pianist gave me the key. A thin child’s voice came out from between my lips. The pitch was much too high for me. I gave forth with a trembling falsetto that had nothing to do with singing.
    â€œStop! Next!” the director shouted. At this point, Mischa Spoliansky stood up and said: “Try it once more, only this time an octave lower.”
    The one who was to be “next” retreated to the background while I stayed where I was, as if rooted to the spot, scared stiff. What if I should disappoint the composer? We began again at a lower pitch. Mischa Spoliansky kept changing the key until suddenly—to my infinite surprise—harmonious sounds seemed to fill the theater.
    Spoliansky made note of the key. The musicians and the composer began to whisper to each other. The other candidates moved toward the exit. The role was mine!
    I went to the seats in the orchestra to thank the composer. Then I moved to do the same to the director. But I stopped short when I noticed all heads turned toward the theater’s main entrance. Margo Lion, the star of the show, was coming down the center aisle toward the director. Her husband Marcellus Schiffer, the author of the revue, was at her side.
    Someone must have said something about me, I thought, as she glanced in my direction. As far as I could tell, she didn’t speak a word. She was a strange woman whose beauty did not match the preferred stereotype of that time. She was as thin as a bean pole and showed none of the voluptuousness that Germans at that time were supposed to prize so highly.
    She was French, but spoke flawless German. She had “a satirical and ultra-modern way of singing,” to quote a famous critic. A style that she