Billy Wilder on Assignment by Noah Isenberg (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

That’s the great thing about Stroheim: for fifteen years he bankrupts the studio; for fifteen years they throw millions at him, again and again; saying nothing when he tinkers with a film for years, which he then abruptly drops when he finds it tedious; watching patiently as he spends six weeks working on a single love scene, the length of which, just between us, is twelve yards; paying a ton of money to the stars, extras, and studio workers, everyone runs around for a whole month without doing anything, just because “Von” isn’t in the right mood yet.

Even so, they hold onto Stroheim—the way they would hold onto cactuses or decadent wind chimes. Out of respect for his unique skills, people even buy into his moods. They don’t let him go. Perhaps they’re ashamed of being surrounded by so much levelheadedness. But now we have Chaplin and “Von,” two geniuses full of caprices and quirks—marvelous, isn’t it? Just like in Europe.

Stroheim came to America even before the war. He doesn’t say why. He was previously an active-duty Austrian officer. Once he was in New York, he had to adapt somewhat: Stroheim debuted in America as a flypaper salesman in Newark. A few months later he was balancing goulash at the Little Hungarian Restaurant on the infamous Houston Street. Then he laid railroad ties and struggled along as a worker while heading west, where he eventually became a ferryman on Lake Tahoe in northern California. In the south, just a few dozen miles away, so to speak, Hollywood was springing up, and cash was flowing.

His ascent can be summed up in a few words. A film company comes to Lake Tahoe. Stroheim gets involved, earns money in the easiest possible way, the camera thing appeals to him, he joins up with this group and goes to Hollywood. David Wark Griffith is in the middle of shooting a film called Old Heidelberg. Stroheim’s face is a wonderful fit: he plays an extra as a student in a dueling fraternity. One day, there’s an argument in the studio: Griffith is not happy with the medals. Stroheim comes forward, expertly sketches genuine Heidelberg medals, and is promoted on the spot to the position of technical adviser at three times the pay. Then Griffith uses him as an actor in Hearts of the World, with Stroheim playing a German officer. For the first time he creates a merciless character, which makes a stronger statement against war and militarism than a thousand words. In America a catchphrase is attached to Stroheim’s officer: the man you love to hate. In Germany he is branded a turncoat, a traitor, a warmonger.

Stroheim is in front of Carl Laemmle, the almighty man at Universal: Let me make a movie, I need five thousand dollars. An American would have laughed in his face: megalomaniacal extra! Laemmle is a German. Having an Austrian stand before him and come up with plans, brimming with enthusiasm at his own prowess—Laemmle feels sparks fly. He offers the money, the five thousand dollars. And throws in another thirty thousand on top of that. That was the cost of Stroheim’s first film, Blind Husbands. Stroheim edits the film. Shows it to Laemmle. The editing screen screams out new and original material. All conventions turned upside down. Everything gone about differently. Laemmle shakes his head: Dear Stroheim, you’re five years ahead of us!

But he gives him money once again. Stroheim makes The Devil’s Pass Key, then Foolish Wives. Script, direction, lead actor: Stroheim. Always as an officer, an Austrian, a Russian. Always the man you love to hate. Foolish Wives cost one million dollars. Mangled versions are released in Berlin. Audiences laugh. Stroheim continues to be called a warmonger, and a fool to boot. Stroheim begins work on Merry-Go-Round over in the States, reconstructing the whole Prater from Vienna. Longing for his homeland is eating away at him. So as a consolation, he can at least re-create its setting.… He doesn’t finish shooting the film. Leaves Laemmle for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Makes Greed.

Greed runs for exactly one day at the Ufa-Palast am Zoo. Never has there been this kind of film scandal in Berlin. People are aghast that he is five years ahead of us. Independent of the Russians, he uses the Russian style before they do. He foresees something along the lines of visual editing and montage. Shoots in associations. And exposes for the first time: this is how a wedding is in reality, this is a funeral. Sternheim? No, those are George Grosz characters, their brutal trains of thought written all over their faces. Those fascinate Stroheim!

Stroheim had his first major critical success with The Merry Widow. A box office success as well, his only one. His next-to-last film, The Wedding March, cost millions. Disaster lies ahead: they get “Von,” write up a contract, he swears by all that is holy to spend no more than five hundred thousand dollars and not to shoot any longer than three months. And the moment he has the megaphone back in his hand and sits in the director’s chair again, he forgets all that. Can’t get past the details. Erich Pommer tells us that he shoots one kiss for six weeks.… The lime-tree blossoms that have to fall onto the kissing couple fail to fall just so. The producers grumble but keep coughing up money. Often “Von” pays for the retakes out of his own pocket, like a rich dilettante! Thousands of yards are used up, with whole streets built up, then torn down again. Chaplin—the eternally seeking, experimenting, critical Chaplin—is purposefulness personified in comparison with Stroheim. “Von” turns the studio upside down. Then another director is brought in, who finishes up filming the thing in a mad rush. Just get it done.

Even so, working with him works out. The last film, Queen Kelly, with Gloria Swanson, took only ten weeks! They cleverly had the contract read: Stroheim gets one hundred thousand dollars for the manuscript and direction.