by Sophia Loren
We eventually did find the certificate—it had been stolen by an Italian journalist—and the hearing was postponed to February of the following year.
The situation, from one postponement to the next, remained the same, and gradually all the attention focused on us faded away. What can I say? It was your typical Italian farce. And Giuliana found us a solution: if all three of us were to become French citizens, she explained to Carlo, this conundrum could be solved instantly, and would melt like snow in the sun.
So that’s why, in 1964, we moved to Paris, to a fabulous apartment on Avenue George V. France awarded us honorary citizenship, for our contribution to French and international cinema. And Giuliana was given citizenship by marriage. It was a complete joke: an Italian woman was given French citizenship because she was married to a Frenchman, which was the only way she could get a divorce from him.
Not much more than a year later, on April 9, 1966, the mayor of Sèvres, a suburb of Paris, was ready to join us in matrimony. I made two phone calls in advance.
“Basilio, take the first flight out without letting anyone see you. And don’t forget the wedding bands.”
“Marì, we want you here with us tomorrow morning. Don’t let anyone see you. What? Your hat? Wear whatever pleases you, it’s going to be a simple ceremony, just the family. “Sì, chillo verde, me piace assaje” (Yes, the green one would be perfect). Mammina? It’s useless, she’d never come, she’s too afraid of flying. We’ll tell her when it’s over. And anyway, with no church and no white dress, she’ll say it doesn’t really count . . .”
The evening before the wedding, Carlo slept in a suite at the Hotel Lancaster, while I went to my friend Sophie Agiman’s house. Besides sharing the same name, we also resembled each other physically. The following morning, when it was time for me to leave the house for the ceremony, I saw a photographer lying in wait in front of the main door. The news had gotten out, I don’t know how. Sophie put on my raincoat and my sunglasses, and walked briskly toward my car. The poor photographer fell for it. While he followed her, I left with her husband for my wedding.
How long had I been waiting for that day? It didn’t even strike me as real anymore.
The ceremony was quick and solemn, and felt both old and new. Life is never exactly as you might expect it to be. Dreams make way for reality, which often surprises you.
According to the local custom, it was the mayor and not Carlo who placed the ring on my finger. Je vous dèclare unis par les liens du mariage. Wearing a yellow dress and holding a bouquet of lilies of the valley, I felt strange, tired, and happy.
And then I burst into tears and couldn’t stop.
Interlude
Outside my apartment, the snow has shrouded everything in silence as I’ve gone through my treasure trove of memories. What time could it be? Memory is a strange friend. At times it carries you away, without your even realizing it. It’s wonderful to go back, to let yourself be transported. Memory can play kind little tricks on you, too, wiping out the pain or the love that was too intense. Maybe you’ll get a date wrong, mix things up. But if you’re patient enough to follow it, memory takes you to where you really lived. To the place where you really were, not where you thought you were. You have to resist the temptation to take shortcuts. Let yourself be guided along longer pathways. Sometimes, hidden right around the corner, is a surprise.
Tonight my bed is covered in memories—in the lines of a letter, in the look and colors captured in a photograph, in the voices that come back to life. They all invite me to browse through my past like a book, as though it were someone else’s story.
I’ve often had the chance to see myself from the outside, to watch my success as though it were someone else’s. It’s a peculiar feeling that, when I was younger, bewildered and annoyed me. I would suddenly go outside of myself, observing myself and all that was going on around me. Today I’m not afraid anymore, I’m used to it. Sometimes I think this distant perspective I get doesn’t just happen randomly. I think it’s meant to help me see something that’s bigger than I am, to catch sight of a direction that is possible even where there seems not be one.
Now, I make myself comfortable and treat myself to one of those crescent-shaped chocolate cookies that Ninni left with the tea. Its round flavor caresses and consoles me. If I eat it without anyone seeing me, it won’t count, I think with a smile. I pull up the blanket. Winter in Switzerland is merciless.
I’m tired, but all my senses are alert, ready to capture everything that emerges from my box of secrets. Having relived the birth of my children, the wedding I had so desired, Marcello’s and Vittorio’s cheerfulness, support, and friendship, I feel excited about what I will discover next. A name shows up among the papers, more real, more alive than ever, just as I can hear his words echoing inside me, more real, more alive. “Sophia, the time has come for you to learn to say ‘No.’ ” I read this short note on a piece of paper and I feel bigger, stronger. That’s what happens when you’re lucky enough to be touched by a genius like Charlie Chaplin: the light that resonates from that person’s heartstrings enlightens and transforms you.
X
STARS
THE IMPORTANCE OF SAYING NO
“Signora Loren, there’s a phone call for you.”
“Who is it?” I shouted down from the top floor, where I’d gone to get my shawl.
“Charlie Chaplin.”
I was sure I’d misheard, so I tried again.
“Who? Speak louder, I’m upstairs!”
“Chaplin! Charlie Chaplin!”
It must be another one of Carlo’s or Basilio’s pranks, I thought. It had to be a mistake, I had to be hearing things. Then I picked up the receiver and uttered a timid “Hello?” The maestro wanted to come and see me. He was asking me when that might be convenient.
As soon as I’d hung up, I dialed Carlo’s number at his office in Champion’s in Rome. “Carlo??? Carlo??? Are you sitting down? You have no idea, you can’t possibly know or imagine who’s just called me!” He listened to me touched by my excitement. But at bottom I could tell he was very proud of me.
On the morning Chaplin and I finally met, in that faraway spring of 1965, I was alone at home. Even Ines had gone out. Outside, a typically English rain was falling, an invitation to stay in and rest. The cottage we’d rented was near Ascot, a few miles from the studios where I was making Arabesque, a spy movie in 007 style, with a gorgeous Gregory Peck. The plot was too complicated for anyone to really understand it, but we were having loads of fun with it, what with dangerous escapes, kidnappings, horse races, and Christian Dior’s wonderful fashions. When the doorbell rang, I slowly got up from the sofa and moved toward the entrance. I was hoping that if I took my time I might be able to control my emotions. When I opened the door, before me was Chaplin’s round face, wearing what seemed to be a quizzical expression, under his mop of white hair.
“Good morning, Miss Loren,” he said, in English. “Pleased to meet you!”
I smiled at him, stood to one side so that he could come in, and showed him into the living room, without saying a word. Charlie Chaplin was dressed in dark clothing. He had on a tweed jacket that was slightly worn, a pair of gray trousers, and a blue polo shirt with three buttons fastened all the way to the top. As he handed me a bunch of violets, I noticed that under his arm was something that looked a lot like a script. I couldn’t seem to get a single word out. He looked at me patiently, the way you look at a child who freezes up out of shyness. He was in no hurry.
Finally, almost in a whisper, I asked him: “Can I get you something to drink? Tea, coffee, a glass of water . . . ?”
“Please, don’t bother, thank you,” he said. Then, having become aware of my impasse, he started talking. He skipped all the formalities and went straight to the point.
“I’ve had a story on the shelf for a long, long time. When I saw you in Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, I realized how perfect it was for you. I’d really like . . .”
�
�Yes,” I interrupted him on impulse, regaining control of my voice, conquering my fear. “Yes, Mr. Chaplin, of course, whenever you wish!”
He had written A Countess from Hong Kong for Paulette Goddard, one of his many former wives, the unforgettable star of The Great Dictator and The Diary of a Chambermaid. And now he wanted to adapt it for me.
Acting alongside Charlie Chaplin was every actor’s dream, in every corner of the Earth. It was like being summoned to court, hailed by the king, invited to the prince’s ball. It was the fairy tale to top all fairy tales, the complete fulfillment of a trade, a vocation, a career. Under his guidance, I would even have been willing to recite the telephone directory.
He gave me a rundown of the story, which was set on a boat on its way from Hong Kong to America. Natasha, a Russian countess and refugee sneaks aboard and stays in the cabin of an American diplomat, wreaking havoc in his life.
Chaplin acted out a few of the parts, doing all the voices himself. He mentioned Marlon Brando as a possible partner and invited me, along with Carlo, to Vevey, where he lived with his family.
I had a contract to honor at the moment, I said, but that as soon as I finished shooting Arabesque I would be at his complete disposal. He got up and, bowing imperceptibly, said: “Well, then, we shall be in touch soon.” I was about to ask him for his phone number, an address where I could contact him, but then I bit my tongue. Geniuses never have a phone or an address, I thought to myself. Their address is always “somewhere in the world,” and they seem to exist just to make it more beautiful every day.
We said good-bye like two people who had a common goal, something to become excited about together. We felt comfortable with each other, and if we had been speaking Italian we would no doubt have been using the informal “tu” form.
As soon as we could, Carlo and I went to Vevey, where Charlie, who was seventy-six, was living with his very young wife, Oona, Eugene O’Neill’s daughter. They had so many children it was hard to keep count. Together they were both an odd and beautiful couple, a couple whose every gesture was thoughtful. Despite the warmth of our first encounter, I felt tense and emotional, my heart was pounding. There’s nothing you can do about it, you can never get accustomed to geniuses.
The Chaplin home was close to Lake Geneva. All around it was an enchanted garden, more like a park than a garden, the silence broken by the cheerful shouting of children. I didn’t know what to do, to think, or to say. I didn’t know where to begin a conversation that would make any sense at all. Carlo, who might have been more relaxed than I was on an occasion such as this one, was hampered by his shaky English. Oona was gentle and shy, used to living in the shadow of that extraordinary man whom she looked after with love and affection. So Charlie Chaplin took it upon himself to entertain all of us, with his marvelous elegance. He would be talking about the script, but then suddenly tell us something about himself, about when he was a child in the poorer quarters of London. Then he’d go back to talking about the movie, but suddenly, without warning, walk over to the piano, sit down, and pick out a movie theme he’d started composing. He was a whirlwind—a great, imaginative storyteller, absorbed by his own magic.
As proof of his affection for us, he had prepared his favorite dish himself. He had us sit down, then he raced into the kitchen, and came back smiling triumphantly. “And here, specially for you, is my famous recipe for potatoes with caviar!” he exclaimed with the sweeping gesture of a magician as he set the tray down in the middle of the table. He served us himself, and he showed us how to eat them.
“You see,” he said solemnly as he removed the tin foil around the potatoes, “this is how you cut them, lengthwise. Then you thinly spread them with some butter, and set them on top of the caviar, with a drop of lemon . . .” He was meticulous about every detail. There was never anything slapdash about what he did or said. If he didn’t think he was capable of doing something perfectly, he preferred not to do it at all.
I went back to Vevey a second time, this time with Marlon Brando, when Chaplin had finished writing the script and wanted us to see it. He welcomed us with an embrace, accompanied us to see the lake at the other end of the garden, then invited us into his study. When it was time to get the show on the road, he read the script straight through, reciting every single part, every single line. It was sheer ecstasy: I listened to his words, trying to grasp every inflection, every nuance. I watched him as he became each of the characters one by one, from seductive Natasha, which was supposed to be my part, to the handsome and somewhat grouchy ambassador, concerned about his career, from the old bed-ridden heiress with a chronic cough, to the commander of the ship, a halfhearted man who strutted about.
Like Vittorio, Chaplin was a director but also an actor, and he put his talent at our disposal to inspire us, to show us, with his body and soul, what he expected from us.
And what about Brando? Despite his charming looks, his great talent, he was a man who seemed to be ill at ease in the world.
The first day of shooting, I arrived on the set as I always did. I arrived early, all my lines learned by heart, my heart in my throat. The first scene was to take place in the ship’s ballroom, where all the couples were ready to dance. I was wearing a white evening dress, which I would actually wear for most of the movie. All of us, the extras, the stagehands, the director, were ready to begin. But something was missing. He was missing.
“Do you know where Brando is?” Chaplin asked me nervously.
“I have no idea, Charlie, I’m sorry,” I answered, slightly embarrassed. It wasn’t my fault, but I felt responsible all the same, I don’t know why. There I was, standing before this living legend of world cinema, and I just couldn’t bear the idea that something could go wrong, that someone might be disrespectful. Chaplin was quiet, intense in his vexation, almost scary. He kept pacing up and down, like a father-to-be, and every three minutes he’d look at his watch, knitting his eyebrows. I looked around, trying to find a place where I could rest my eyes. The others, too, didn’t know where to look anymore, the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
After three quarters of an hour Marlon finally waltzed in, as fresh as a daisy. Perhaps he hadn’t even realized what he’d done. For sure he wasn’t at all expecting what was about to happen. Chaplin slowly walked over to him, sternly, warlike. He glared at him, from the bottom up, looking straight at him without an ounce of compassion, in front of the crew that was standing at attention all in a row.
“If you’re planning on arriving late tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after the day after tomorrow, well, as far as I’m concerned you can leave the set right now and not come back at all.”
Brando deflated like a balloon and mumbled his apologies. He took his place, his head hanging, and at last he was ready to start. But just as he was about to say his first line, his voice wouldn’t come out. It had vanished, along with his brash facade.
Brando never arrived late again, but things didn’t improve much all the same. It didn’t take long for me to see that he was an unhappy person, wrapped up in his own problems. He didn’t know where his place was, what to do with or make of his immense talent, his body. At the start of the shooting he was in great shape, as handsome as only he knew how to be. But this malaise of his tormented him, it wouldn’t leave him alone. I don’t know why, but at a certain point he decided he was only going to eat ice cream. And, of course, he put on a huge amount of weight, to the point that his role was compromised.
He had absolutely no qualms about ruining our working relationship. One day, just before shooting one of the most romantic scenes in the movie, he suddenly reached out and grabbed at me. I twisted around and very calmly hissed in his face, like a cat when you pet its fur backward: “Don’t you dare. Don’t you ever do that again.”
As I gave him my dirtiest look, I suddenly saw how small and harmless he really was, almost a victim of an aura that had been created around him. He never tried anything again, but it became increasin
gly difficult for me to be near him.
Chaplin had his own problems. He hadn’t made a film in a long time, and the first week he found it hard to get behind the camera. As if he didn’t dare take control of the situation. What helped him through his difficulty was the gentle patience of a marvelous cameraman who, little by little, persuaded him to once again take over his command post. I think he was also reassured by the silent presence of his wife, Oona, who was always on the set, ready to come to his aid if need be.
However, a few days later, Charlie gave me the biggest compliment I’d ever had. The script said that after listening to Brando’s words I was to respond with a look, without saying a word.
“You’re like an orchestra answering its conductor,” he said, almost moved. “If I raise my hands, you go up, if I lower them, you go down . . . Outstanding.”
From those words, which were sown inside me, a strong, green plant grew, which continues to bear its fruits today.
Working with Chaplin was an unforgettable experience. He was a meticulous filmmaker, fussing over even the smallest details. He could spend hours on just one scene, suggesting intonations, gestures, and, most importantly, moods, using the most remarkable images to evoke them. But it was when he stopped explaining and started acting that the world suddenly changed. Those were the moments when he forgot he was the director and he would leap around like a ham actor, despite his age. And you’d find Little Tramp right there in front of you. It energized you, but could also inhibit you. We all knew that he was one of a kind, and that everything started and ended with him.
Chaplin was very demanding, he wanted things to be exactly as he had imagined them, and he refused to budge. He was always very straightforward. If he liked you there was no ulterior motive, he just liked you and that was that. He always spoke his mind, and if someone gave him the impression of being disloyal, he’d turn his back on them and erase them from his life.