Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow: My Life

by Sophia Loren

  Maria and I settled into the suite of a lovely hotel, with a huge balcony. I appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, then one of the most popular TV shows of the time. But as my celebrity status grew, so did my responsibilities and my fear of failure. Now everyone scrutinized me ready to judge and criticize me, to prove I was a fake. My English was improving fast, but my movie parts were becoming more and more important, more and more spoken, and they required my complete concentration.

  Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper, two of the gossip columnists with the sharpest tongues of all, simply terrified the stars. Luckily, they were always kind to me, because I was basically an outsider. After all, I was just an “Italian girl” who would be going back home sooner or later.

  The first movie I made was Desire under the Elms, adapted from a play by Eugene O’Neill. I was expecting to play an intense, hard character, one filled with passion. At my side was Anthony Perkins, as handsome and neurotic as we all remember him in Psycho. A gentle, polite, somewhat sullen young man, he didn’t know how to hide his restlessness. Between us there was a certain complicity. He helped me with my English, and I tried to make him laugh. His dressing room looked like a room a student might live in: a table, a few books. It had the austerity of a monk’s cell.

  The movie was entirely made in the studio—California didn’t have the streets of our neorealism in Italy. This gave the film a very theatrical dimension, which was balanced by superb black-and-white photography. A few days ago, my grandson, while looking at the cover of the film, blurted out: “Nonna, were you Chinese before?” The makeup that was worn back then elongated the eyes in a striking way. I had been the first to use that effect with Goffredo Rocchetti, my makeup artist at the time. I set the trend, and everyone followed suit.

  In California, I also finished shooting the last scenes of The Pride and the Passion, which we hadn’t been able to finish in Spain because Sinatra had suddenly left the set. The rumor was that he had learned that Ava Gardner would not take him back, and she was the reason he’d accepted the part in the first place.

  I started seeing Cary again, who hadn’t given up on us. Heedless of the fact that Carlo was around, every day he’d send me a big bouquet of roses, call me, write to me. Maybe Carlo was hurt, but he never said anything. I was slightly embarrassed, but I was simply waiting for something final to happen. We couldn’t possibly go on as we were.

  At the start of the summer I went back to Italy for a short vacation. While I was in America, I wrote to my mother every day, but I also needed to see her, embrace her again. She, in my absence, had pursued her illusion of love. Riccardo had left his wife and gone to live with Mammina, only to abandon her for the umpteenth time. I’m glad I hadn’t been there for that. I’d spent my whole life trying to protect Mammina from her impossible love for Riccardo, having long ago realized it was hopeless.

  Maria had left LA before me and had actually been home for some time. Although Sinatra had encouraged her to pursue her dream of becoming a singer, she hadn’t felt up to it. Maybe she also hadn’t wanted to leave Mammina all alone. Such is the ebb and flow of history: Romilda, whose dreams had been shattered because of her parents, had given me my freedom, but not her younger daughter.

  After a huge party in my honor at Casina Valadier, in the heart of Villa Borghese, Carlo and I moved to Bürgenstock, on the shores of Lake Lucerne, for some weeks together. Far from the limelight, we found the peace that had been missing from our everyday lives. It was an enchanted place, filled with woods and light, far removed from the excesses of the jet set. There we could read, take walks, spend time together without being afraid that someone might see us, accuse us, judge us. Our one heart rested in the silence and solitude of nature.

  On August 8 we were back in America. Another set, another round. From Los Angeles I traveled to Washington, D.C., on the Super Chief, the train the stars rode in. Waiting for me there was Cary. We were going to make Houseboat together, one of those sophisticated comedies written just for him. But the magic of our period in Spain had ended. We were at a standstill.

  In my treasure trove of memories there are letters and notes written in his elegant, joyful handwriting that still fill me with tenderness: they speak to me of a fondness that, although it changed over time, never waned.

  If you can, and care to, have someone leave a note for me at the desk—a few words—any words. I need something from you today as all days—(perhaps it should be a punch in the nose, but a note bringing your love would please me more) . . . If you think and pray with me, for the same things and purpose, all will be right and life will be good. PS If this note means as much to you as yours do to me, I shall be glad I’ve written it.

  Two days before the shooting ended, Carlo and I were sitting on the hotel balcony having breakfast, a couple of croissants, and reading the newspaper. While leafing through it, we happened to see a piece by Louella Parsons announcing that our marriage by proxy had taken place in Mexico the day before.

  I almost fell off my chair. Even Carlo, although it was he who had unleashed his legal office in search of a solution outside of Italy, was taken by surprise. His lawyers, evidently, had gone ahead with it without his knowing.

  We were soon to discover that the marriage wasn’t legal, and that it would cause us some huge problems back in Italy. But for the United States and the rest of the world, all our papers were in order. In the United States, in fact, living “in sin” was considered unbecoming. In America, unlike in Italy, it was not only possible to get a divorce, it was also quite easy. Which explains why Elizabeth Taylor got married eight times, as did many other stars.

  It wasn’t really the kind of marriage I’d dreamed of as a child, but at the time that seemed to be the best we could do. Despite the surprise, we dined by candlelight and started thinking about a short honeymoon.

  On the set, Cary, who was slightly dazed and, at last, resigned, reacted in a truly gentlemanly way: “All the best, Sophia. I hope you’ll be happy.”

  Then, Cary and I got married in front of the movie camera of Houseboat, he wearing a gardenia in his buttonhole, I in a gorgeous white lace wedding gown.

  LIFE GOES ON

  Carlo’s and my troubles began a month later. The first jab came from the Catholic newspaper L’Osservatore Romano, the second one from a woman whom we’d never even heard of named Brambilla, who, on behalf of an association for the protection of the family brought charges against us for bigamy and concubinage, which would be considered a crime in Italy until 1969. In the meantime, having shelved the idea of a honeymoon, we’d left for London, where William Holden and Trevor Howard were awaiting me to make The Key.

  On the plane, Carlo would have the final word about those last trying months. We boarded in the midst of a flock of reporters who bombarded us with questions about our marriage, Hollywood, the movie we were on our way to shoot. An explosion of flashes, the kind of confusion that goes with stardom. I was hardly twenty-three, and of course I was dazed, but happy. I smiled at Carlo as I took my coat off and placed my bag in the overhead compartment. He looked like he was sulking, but I thought maybe he was just tired from all the hubbub, or something about work was on his mind. I got my breath back and started leafing through the in-flight magazine in search of my favorite perfume. I watched the passengers as they paraded by, trying to imagine what kind of jobs they had, their loves, their dreams. I was just starting to relax when I let an innocent comment slip. Or maybe it really wasn’t that innocent.

  “Cary sent me a bunch of yellow roses before I left. Yellow for jealousy? He’s so adorable . . .”

  Carlo turned toward me suddenly and slapped me in the face, in front of everyone. My face turned bright red with anger and shame, the white impression of his fingertips on my cheek stinging. I felt tears land one by one on my cheeks. I wanted to die, but inside I knew that I had somehow deserved it. And yet I still didn’t regret what I’d said.

  When you’re twenty-three you’re learning how to live, and Cary’s
love had given me so much. Maybe even the courage to fight for a normal life with Carlo. On the other hand, I may have been young, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew that Carlo’s slap, which may be hard to understand today, was the gesture of a man in love, who had seen his love threatened by another man, who had risked losing me and was only now getting over his scare, his hurt. I wept—but not for long because the plane was full. The flight attendant came over to me timidly, asking if I needed anything. I didn’t know where to look, but in my heart of hearts I was content. This was the confirmation I had been seeking for a long time: Carlo loved me, I had made my choice, and it was the right one.

  In London I fought my first battle on my own, and I won. As soon as I got there I discovered, to my chagrin, that Sir Carol Reed, the director, and Carl Foreman, the producer of The Key, had changed their minds about having me in the movie. According to them, I was too young to play the main character, and Ingrid Bergman was ready to take over from me. But I knew instantly that the script had nothing to do with it, and there had to be another reason. I’d read the script thoroughly, and there was nothing preventing me from playing the part of the sweet, mysterious Stella. The truth of the matter is they wanted a name, a big name at the time, and they thought that just mentioning Ingrid Bergman would be enough to make me step aside. Foreman visited me, taking advantage of the fact that Carlo wasn’t around, convinced he’d already won by default. But he had no idea whom he was dealing with. I pulled out a toughness he wasn’t ready for, and I defended my position.

  “It’s out of the question. I signed the contract, so the part is mine. I’m sorry, but I have no intention of giving it up. I feel as though that character belongs to me. And I know I can play the part well.”

  For me it was an important role, a dramatic one that would contribute to freeing me from the prison of the full-figured woman in which I risked being straitjacketed. I was never going to back down. He was speechless, but then started in again: “You know we’re going to give you a load of money . . .”

  “I don’t care,” I answered sure of myself, “I’m doing the movie, let me know when we start.”

  A contract was a contract, and he left with his tail between his legs.

  Naturally, after having raised my voice, for the next few days I was scared to death. But by throwing myself heart and soul into the script I eventually won their respect. It was a beautiful story, set on the gray and stormy English coast. A story about war, the sea, love, with a dramatic side that called for a certain presence. When we finished, Foreman congratulated me, telling me he was happy I’d put up a fight.

  For the premiere of the movie, we were invited to the Royal Command Performance, where I made a small, innocent gaffe that went down in history. For the reception, to match my splendid gown by Emilio Schuberth, whose styles I had started wearing regularly, I had chosen a small jeweled headband, a diadem. Although I was growing up, I was still a young girl, who in her heart aspired to being a queen. Unfortunately, however, the person receiving us really was a queen, Elizabeth, and royal etiquette demanded that no crown could be worn before a member of the royal house. The queen didn’t seem to be bothered by it, but the following day the newspapers had a field day publishing some of the most striking and imaginative titles.

  During the same period, I crossed paths with Ingrid Bergman for a second time. I knew that Cary was in London to make Indiscreet with her, and one morning I went to see him on the set. But when Ingrid saw me, perhaps surprised by my unexpected visit, she missed her cue. These things happen even to the very best, and she was undoubtedly one of the greatest actresses ever, for whom I have absolute reverence. “Maybe it’s best if I leave,” I whispered to Cary, and I slipped out.

  Carlo and I spent Christmas of 1957 in the snowcapped peace of Bürgenstock with Maria and Mammina. Our neighbors, who were as reserved and peaceful as we were, were Audrey Hepburn and Mel Ferrer, whom we would often meet during our walks in the woods. Our friendship was discreet, the company very pleasant; there was never any interference in each other’s lives.

  One day, while Mel was away for work, Audrey invited us to lunch. To get to their house, we had to walk along a trail surrounded on both sides by the peaceful, silent snow. It was like being in a fairy tale. The chalet was very beautiful, luminous, all decorated in white, set on a hill overlooking the lake. Audrey was all dressed in white, too, as was the table, on which she’d placed a few flowers and lots of candles. It was the height of elegance.

  “This place is enchanting,” I said. And she answered lightly: “I need solitude and beauty . . .”

  We chatted amicably, talking about the movies, friends we had in common. We took a tour of the house. Then we sat down at the table. In came the appetizer, or so I thought upon seeing it. A leaf of lettuce, a curl of fresh cheese topped by a smidgen of raspberry compote. In the plate next to it, a crisp roll, bite size. The conversation was pleasant, the raspberry compote even more so, but when the help came back to take our plates away, Audrey got up from the table and with one of her airy, delicate, perfect smiles, she said: “I ate too much!” Our lunch was over. Diplomatically, I said: “It was so much, and all so delicious!” I was dying of hunger, and as soon as we got home I made myself a sandwich.

  Audrey and Mel had been married nearly three years earlier in a delightful chapel just a stone’s throw away from their home. A very tiny church, not much bigger than a room, it was as austere and solemn as a cathedral. Its greatness lay in the woods all around it and in its openness to all religions, from Catholicism to Buddhism, from Hinduism to Lutheranism. Each time I passed it I thought of how they’d been able to have their dream wedding. That dream was still very far away for me, just as Italy, too, was becoming ever more distant. The two of us had been banished as though we were criminals.

  In January 1958, Carlo and I went back to Los Angeles, where we moved into King Vidor’s mansion, which was unoccupied for a few months. We lived a very reserved life. When we weren’t working we mostly stayed at home. In the evening, we watched television and went to bed early. It felt like we were in a quiet bubble in the eye of the storm.

  My next challenge was called The Black Orchid, and I was to act alongside Anthony Quinn in the role of mafia widow who fights to make a new life for herself. It was another Italian, maternal role, paired with a great, solid, and experienced actor, who didn’t do much to help me out, however. One morning, while we were sitting at a table preparing an outdoor scene, he scornfully asked me: “Are you going to do it like that?!”

  “Dear Tony,” I replied, “I do what I can.” I was trying to control myself, but inside I was dying. However much I tried, it never seemed to be enough. “I’m going,” I’d say, “I’m going back home.” But then I’d start over again, as if nothing had happened.

  Quinn had also had a complicated childhood, with a father who was an adventurer and a revolutionary, a friend of Pancho Villa. His mother was Mexican, of Aztec origins. After having done a thousand odd jobs, including stuffing mattresses in a factory, Tony had landed in the movies, and married Cecil DeMille’s daughter, which had paved the road for him. While he was grumpy and standoffish in front of the camera, away from the set he was very pleasant and really liked my spaghetti with tomato sauce.

  The Black Orchid won me the first important prize of my career, the Coppa Volpi as best actress at the International Film Festival in Venice. When they told me I’d won—by then I was in Austria making Olympia, known as A Breath of a Scandal in the United States—my first instinct was to go there to receive my prize. But things weren’t that simple.

  “If we land in Italy together they’ll arrest us,” Carlo warned me while we were spending a week vacationing on the French Riviera. In the end, we decided I’d go by myself, after having received all the necessary assurances from Venice. He accompanied me to the train station in Saint-Tropez and, with some bitterness in his heart, watched me leave. In Venice I was welcomed by an incredible throng of people, they say as many as
five thousand, who greeted me by shouting, “Welcome home, Sophia!” It was a welcome I wasn’t expecting at all, and that made me feel right with the world once more, beloved by my public, acknowledged by my country. Before the members of the jury I was so moved I could hardly say a word. I kept my best smile for Tony Quinn. “See? I wasn’t so bad, was I!”

  The movie gave me another great satisfaction, which I will never forget. In Rome I watched the premiere while sitting next to the great actress Anna Magnani. When the lights went back on, Nannarella, who wasn’t famous for being ceremonious, exclaimed, “Brava, Sophia, I really liked it!” Few compliments have ever made me happier.

  After a short time in New York to make That Kind of Woman, a film that wasn’t much of a success, despite the fact that a great artist like Sidney Lumet directed it, Carlo and I were again without a home. We traveled around the world like two exiles and in spite of our privileged life, we felt lost. In the fall we were in Paris, on rue de Rivoli. When we were about to leave, Yves Montand, Simone Signoret, Kirk Douglas, and Gèrard Oury came to say good-bye. After our few months there, we had begun to feel like citizens of the world, with no home of our own but with friends in every harbor. In January—now it was 1959—we were again in Hollywood to honor our contract with Paramount.

  This time I was appearing in a movie directed by George Cukor, Heller in Pink Tights, and once again Tony Quinn was my partner. Working with Cukor wasn’t easy, and only in hindsight did I realize just how much he taught me. Unlike De Sica, who made suggestions but never forced you to do things a certain way, Cukor insisted I imitate him, making me feel like a puppet. He’d also spend a lot of time correcting my English. I was becoming more and more fluent, but was still far from being perfect. But in time he earned my gratitude, and this somewhat atypical musical Western found a place for itself among my favorite movies.

  From the Wild West to Imperial Austria, all it took was a night on a plane. But even the set for A Breath of Scandal, a costume movie based on the life of Sissi, Princess Olympia of Austria, had its complications. Our director Michael Curtiz, who also directed the legendary Casablanca, had a heavy Hungarian accent, which was hard to understand, and which made shooting much harder than had been expected.