Life's a Scream

by Ingrid Pitt

  Quickly I shoved Steffka and the few paltry belongings I had been able to hang on to into the back of Emile’s cab and he took us back to the terminal. I threw my arms around him, grabbed Steffanie and hightailed it to the information desk. I wanted to get away before the Germans changed their mind and came back.

  The only plane out in the next hour was going to Madrid. Well, it was Europe. I could always walk from there if I had to . . .

  I plonked my money on the counter.

  ‘Madrid – one way.’

  Sixteen

  I sat there crying, feeling a bit of a fool. All around me people were screaming and shouting. Off to the right a band was playing enthusiastically and there seemed to be only me and the poor bull in the middle of the arena who weren’t having a good time. I assured myself that this was all necessary as part of the indoctrination programme I had set myself. I was in Spain so the thing to do was to blend in and, as I could see, Spaniards were potty about bullfighting. At the least it was certainly better than sitting in the flat in Calle Dr Fleming, a flat that I couldn’t afford, and fretting.

  When my flight had landed at Madrid airport I’d been down to my last $10 again. I didn’t speak a word of Spanish so the taxi driver had taken me to Calle Dr Fleming, where most English and American expats congregated. I’d taken a short rent on a one-bedroom apartment and had been delighted when my next-door neighbour, a photographer called Caesar Lucas, had introduced himself by coming over with a bottle of wine and two glasses. His English was good, so I was able to mine him for information, such as what work was available. At this time Almeria was just about the busiest film location in the world. I told him about my vast theatrical experience and he promised to introduce me to several actors staying in the apartment block.

  The next time Caesar came round he invited me to the bullfight in the Plaza Monumental, where he was going to take photographs. He was as good as his word and from my first-class seat I had a close-up view of a dumb animal being sliced up alive, then bleeding to death when the matador pierced its lung instead of severing its spinal column. As I sat there bawling my eyes out my newfound photographer friend was busy snapping away.

  The Spanish love a dolorosa and the next day my photograph appeared on the front page of Spain’s leading national newspaper, El Pueblo, where it was spotted by Ana Mariscal, one of the top directors in Spain at that time.

  Mariscal called the newspaper and asked if they knew where she could find me. They did. I was invited to lunch and asked to do a screen test for her film Los Duendes de Andalucia, which was starting almost immediately. Not wanting to look good fortune in the face, I hardly dared to point out a rather glaring problem: I couldn’t speak Spanish.

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Ana Mariscal. ‘I want you for my picture. You’re perfect for the role of the boozy nymphomaniac American, who has a passion for bullfighters! We’ll dub it. As for the screentest, Fellini just gets his actors to count – one, two, three, etc. – instead of speaking proper lines. If it’s good enough for Federico Fellini, it’s good enough for Ana Mariscal. Learn the language as you go along.’

  That was it. Steffka and I went to Seville and I began my first movie. I learned the lines phonetically, which was quite ridiculous. My pay was equally ridiculous, especially after all I’d read and heard about film stars and their fees. All we could afford was one room in a hotel for Steffka, me and the nanny I’d been forced to employ to look after her while I was working. Steffi was a bit of a restless sleeper at this time and kept falling out of bed. No matter how I strapped her in, I’d hear a mighty bump in the middle of the night. I obtained a bed with sides from the hotel but still she managed to fall out. Meanwhile I’d sit in the bathroom half the night trying to learn my lines.

  In the morning I would arrive on set with my speeches firmly embedded in my brain, only to discover that, for Ana, the script was merely a starting point and my lines had been changed. I thought that was extremely unfriendly of her. Some of the other actors tried to help me, mouthing my lines so that I could get through them. Everyone thought it was hilarious.

  I realised it would be easier if I could speak Spanish fluently, so I befriended Maximo, one of the best-looking English-speaking extras and a law student, and asked him to be my teacher. Learning Spanish soon became my passion. I had to be able to converse, to have a say in what was going on. Maximo and I took every opportunity to practise. He was unbelievably sweet and helpful, day and night, but at that point not interested in me as a woman, I think, which made it all the more hilarious when the Guardia Civil arrested us for indecency in a public place. We were sheltering in a doorway, practising my next speech and the Guardia thought we were having naughties. They let us off with a fine but we were more careful in the future where we practised our Spanish. Maximo was an excellent teacher and I picked up Spanish so fast Ana was quite baffled.

  Los Duendes de Andalucia was about bullfighting and was shot entirely on location in Andalucia. We started filming at the Bodegas Domeque where the sherry comes from. The leading man was one of the top toreros in Spain, Victoriano Valencia. He was a cheeky sod but he was also a fabulous matador, which means that he killed well, without agony for the poor bull. Before the film actually began shooting, we were invited to a tientadero, a small bullfight in a village, where Victoriano dedicated the life of the bull to me. Not yet initiated in the art of the sport, I did not appreciate the honour he had done me and I think I offended him by not applauding with vigour. Later, at dinner, I was having one of my rebellious moods and instead of chatting to the great matador as he wanted me to, I made a fuss of one of his sidekicks. I was beginning to distrust Spanish men and their attitude to women. However, I did learn enough about torear during the film to appreciate the fantastic courage, art and sport in bullfighting.

  Filming in Spain at this time was pretty much a free for all. There was no proper union and hours of work were what you worked. There was a great camaraderie among the actors, although this was not extended to the crew. They were regarded as the bailiffs’ men and best kept on the outside looking in.

  There was a lot of night shooting on Los Duendes de Andalucia. At times I used to be quite desperate to get back to the hotel to see my baby wake up. I would drag in as the sun was rising, give Steffi lots of cuddles and tell her how much I missed her, have a romp and then I’d have to go to bed. Maria, the nanny, would take Steffanie out into the Andalusian sunshine to play so that I wouldn’t be disturbed. Maria was from Santander in the north of Spain and, when she’d applied for the job as Steffanie’s nanny, I’d been shocked by her resemblance to Fräulein Gloge, the woman who had looked after the children in the Kinderschuppen. Maria had a similar hump, the same gentle nature and I knew that I could trust her with my child. She was quite strict. She would make me go to sleep after a short interval of playing with my dotschka, saying that there would be plenty of time for messing around when the film was finished and I would be out of a job.

  The filming meandered all through the winter. The Spaniards find it a great surprise every year when winter comes. They are a little like the Brits in that respect. Every year it snows in England there’s chaos. The Spanish are equally surprised that it gets cold in winter. I hate the cold. I started wondering if that film would ever wrap. We went to Córdoba, Huelva, Granada and the Hotel Don Pepe in Marbella.

  It was rumoured that the ex-President of Argentina, Juan Domingo Perón, had put up the money to build the Don Pepe and while we were filming there he came to see how things were going. That evening he invited the cast to dinner. His arrival was the best-staged production the hotel had seen since the filming started. He was dressed in a white suit with a red carnation and was smoking a cigarette in a holder. His hair was dyed jet black and was at odds with his elderly face.

  Perón talked to the men first, putting them at ease, then moved in on us poor females. Rapport with Perón was instant and was surely what had kept him in power for so long. He did the Latino’s thing over
my knuckles and gazed, enraptured, into my eyes. Formalities over, he called for champagne. I thought he was wonderful. He flirted outrageously but without getting heavy. I kept as close to him as I could without actually getting into his jacket and he seemed to be amused by this.

  We spoke at first in Spanish but my vocabulary was rather limited so we attempted English, but as his English was little better than my Spanish we resorted, much to my annoyance, to communicating in German. Perón was charming. I felt that anything I said to him mattered, that I was important. I tried to get a conversation going about the revolution in Argentina that had got him kicked out of the country, which was certainly not the most sensitive topic I could have chosen, but he took it all in his stride and skilfully led me on to other, safer, topics. Around ten o’clock Perón said goodbye to everyone individually and invited us to call on him at his residence in Puerta de Hierro whenever we were in Madrid.

  The film wound down slowly. I looked forward desperately to having more time with Steffka. When it was finally a wrap I picked up Steffanie and Maria and caught a sleeper to Madrid. In the train station we had our breakfast and discussed our next move. The cameraman on Los Duendes was going straight on to a new film and had told me to ring the production company, Zurbano Films, at once. It was decided that no time should be wasted. I would go and knock down the doors at Zurbano Films while Maria took Steffanie and looked for somewhere to live. We would meet later, with good news, we hoped, at the Café Guijon, a place famous for catering to film stars, which I now felt entitled to frequent.

  When we met a few hours later, Maria had done her bit and found us a flat which would be available the next day. My tale wasn’t quite so positive. I had got through the main gate of Zurbano Films but hadn’t been able to see the man who counted. I would have to return the following day.

  In the morning, with Steffka on my hip, I sauntered into the director Nieves Conde’s office and gave him the full treatment. I think he was so stunned by my entrance with child that he developed a speech impediment. I launched into my spiel at once while he was still off-balance and it worked. He gave me the job on the spot. I was delighted to have my film actress status so quickly confirmed. Steffka and I danced down the Grand Via to tell Maria the great news.

  I was anxious to see the flat Maria had rented. Typically of her, she had taken one of the most expensive apartments in town. She always liked the best things in life. It was one of the larger flats in our old block on Dr Fleming and had two bedrooms and a balcony, which I adored. The rooms were furnished just to my taste, with panelled wood, carved Spanish wooden furniture and Persian rugs. It was gorgeous. We booked out of the hotel where we had stayed overnight and took a cab to our new domicile.

  As we drew up to the building the actress daughter of Charlie Chaplin, Geraldine, walked out of the lobby. We had met only a fortnight earlier in the Don Pepe. She had also been making a film in Marbella and we’d become friendly in the week we’d shared the hotel. It was fantastic to find that we would be living in the same building. A lot of American actors and directors lived there, including Jeffrey Hunter, who in due course ‘adopted’ Steffanie, Bob Fuller, Stephen Boyd, Burt Reynolds and Marc Lawrence. The building had a restaurant, a concierge, a switchboard, maid service and a pool on the roof. I told Steffka that we would be happy here no matter what and that I’d work my socks off to pay the rent.

  A week later we were on our way to the Sierra Nevada. The film was called El Sonido Prehistorico. Everyone who was anyone in Spanish theatre or film – plus me – was in that movie. There was Jose Bodalo, Lola Gaos, Arturo Fernandez, Soledad Miranda, Antonio Casares and, for the American market, James Philbrook. I can’t remember much about the film or the other players, but it was great fun, especially learning to do Zorba’s dance. Nieves Conde, the director, was not very inventive or demanding, but he did come up with a new, and cheap, line in monsters. We had an invisible dinosaur! On top of the terrible haircut I was given, I think I was quite bad in the film, didn’t have a single good line to say and what I did say came out all prissy and naff. Of course, Lola Gaos stole the show. She had the best part and also did the best job.

  While we waited for our scenes Lola and I cooked up all sorts of plots. We schemed that she would bring me into the Teatro Nacional de España, and I would translate Mother Courage so she could take it to the hierarchy of the company and get it put on with her as the lead.

  Back in Madrid I still seemed to be on a roll. The Sam Bronston Studios were about to make a film called A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum with Phil Silvers and Zero Mostel. Richard Lester was directing. I had a friend who had already been cast and put in a word for me. I couldn’t believe my luck. However, when I turned up for the audition, expecting the red-carpet treatment, I found myself in a cattle call with about a hundred other hopefuls. This wasn’t for me. Wasn’t I a star? Hadn’t I just done two films back to back?

  With the help of my accent, which made me stand out, I wangled a part in A Funny Thing . . . Though small, it was worth it for the great time I had on set with the two stars. They were both fantastic to me and we shared many jokes, but my horsing around didn’t help when it came to the final edit and most of my scenes ended up on the cutting-room floor.

  Seventeen

  It seemed to me that my future might well be in Spain, where apparently I could walk from role to role. To perfect my language skills I insisted that everybody spoke to me in Spanish. I listened only to Spanish radio and read Spanish newspapers, books and magazines. It put Maria’s nose out of joint a little as she wanted to practise her English, but I was the breadwinner paying her wages so I put my foot down and before long I was chirruping away like a native.

  With the help of Maximo and Maria I undertook the translation of Mother Courage. I didn’t hold out much hope that Lola Gaos would be able to persuade the Teatro Nacional to put it on and was decidedly gobsmacked when I was asked to pay the resident director a visit. In Franco’s Spain the egalitarian message of the play could have spelled real trouble, so he was taking a bit of a chance. I hoped I might be given a speaking part but news of my near performance as the mute Kattrin in the Ensemble must have leaked through and they wanted me to reprise the role. Or it could have been that my Spanish wasn’t as good as I thought and a silent part suited me best. Whatever, in the end I was happy to be appearing in Spain’s National Theatre.

  My work in the theatre, though furnishing a regular income, could not support the three of us, so I started moonlighting. Dr Zhivago was being filmed nearby so I breezed into the production offices and offered my services. I was given several parts, which staved off poverty for the run of the play, but nothing that was going to lead to a glittering career. On set I met some incredible actors such as Rod Steiger, who was wonderful to me, Tom Courtney, who had one of the best parts in the film, and Omar Sharif, who thought he wasn’t good enough in his role, and worried that he didn’t look like a Russian doctor. Julie Christie was not allowed make-up and made up for it by eternally putting on more mascara. The most exciting part for me was watching David Lean at work. Since I didn’t have a single demanding line, I had ample time to observe the great director and I was repeatedly impressed by the calmness with which he handled the daily dramas. He treated everything and everyone with great restraint, never got riled or lost his cool. The greatest outburst of temper I witnessed was when he raised his voice just a little and said, ‘Please, gentlemen, can we just keep it down a little?’ I understand he lost his rag completely in an incident with Judy Davis on A Passage to India, but that’s another story.

  I loved working on Zhivago for every day brought something new. The most memorable of my five roles was when as a gypsy I danced around the pot-belly stove on the train. The rest were the sort of parts where you sit in the cinema and say ‘That’s me’ but before you can get it out the image has long gone. It was paying the rent, though, and for that I was grateful.

  Dr Zhivago wrapped in Madrid at the same
time as Mother Courage’s run came to an end. I wasn’t really worried. To cover our rent I picked up jobs from the big film companies, parts which might have been called glorified ‘extras’ by the uncharitable but I didn’t see it that way. When the lack of cash was most severe, I worked as a stunt-rider in Almeria. Even though I hadn’t learned to ride I galloped like Zorro, pulled the reins to the left as I was told and was thrown to the ground, my head an inch from a rock. A couple of times I worked with Charles Bronson before he was a star. Charlie and I would sit under a solitary tree in the middle of nowhere and eat our sandwiches. He’d mumble that he’d never get anywhere in the movies with a face like his and I would tell him that with a face like his he’d become a star.

  Although there was plenty of work, I began to realise that, in a world dominated by the English and by Hollywood, Spanish films would not get me far. I resolved to pay less attention to my Spanish contacts and to focus on the American studios. With this in mind, when I heard Orson Welles was making Chimes at Midnight in Spain, I was determined to be in it. I had long been an admirer of Welles. He seemed to typify everything that was great in the film world.