Film stars: Night after night they rise on the screen horizon and cross the sky in
luminous orbit. Their youth cannot age, nor can their beauty fade. Vienna, Heidelberg,
Monte Carlo, Paris—all the world’s splendors serve the sole purpose of providing
them with a backdrop. In the end, they are always blessed with true love and a convertible.
And if they ever cry, their tears are dried, and they once again shine as radiantly as
ever.
Flickering so high above us, they shine into offices, girls’ schools, and factory rooms,
fulfilling the dreams of countless typists, salesmen, shopgirls, and apprentices. It would
be sheer foolishness to try to drag the stars into the eight-hour day. But for those who
take pleasure in the stars’ extraterrestrial glory, should it not at least be possible to seize
a small piece of heaven for themselves? It is surely possible. And the dreamers can in fact
achieve their wishful goal in the magazine Filmwelt.1
This widely read magazine, which is distributed in cinemas alongside programs, contains
a rubric that constitutes a kind of observatory for stargazing [Starwarte]. From this
observatory, male and female film fans in Dortmund, Bautzen, or Magdeburg can look
up toward higher regions and make out details invisible to the naked eye. However, some
questions are forbidden from the outset. Stringently, the editors declare, “We do not publish
the age of film stars,” and they rebuff anyone who tries to sound them out on this
point. As consolation, they reassure all those who write in to guess the stars’ age on their
own that their guess is just about right. Then they share the birthdays and addresses of
the artists and promise to forward their readers’ greetings.
With a stirring thirst for knowledge, which ought to be directed toward other things,
the unknowns in the lowlands approach their heavenly favorites. They burn to find out
the stars’ favorite flowers, and we must hear, for example, that Willi Forst is a fan of roses
and carnations, while Brigitte Helm treasures hydrangeas and orchids. Incidentally, I
would have expected as much from Brigitte Helm, since there is something exotic about
her. To judge by these magazines, a film artist without favorite flowers is nearly impossible.
And what about their external appearance when they are out and about or at home?
“Liane Haid is blonde and brown-eyed,” writes Filmwelt in response to an admirer,
“Forst and Verebes have black hair and brown eyes.” The magazine also divulges the
main facts of stars’ private lives without further ado. “You are right,” it confirms, “Henry
Stuart’s father was Swiss.” We hear further that Käthe von Nagy has divorced Constantin
David; that Heinz Rühmann is a husband, and Gustav Fröhlich has never even been
engaged; that Marlene Dietrich and Hans Albers each own a car. Some questions come
from understandable concern for the stars’ well-being. “Rest assured,” an apparently agitated
coffee party in Neukölln is informed, “Dina Gralla has not shot herself.” It is true
that Dina Gralla has not been seen for a long time, and nobody can know for certain
what artists are capable of doing in the heat of passion. But as well informed as Filmwelt
is, the audience frequently asks more questions than ten issues of Filmwelt could possibly
answer. “We have not yet been able to ascertain how much the actress weighs,” runs one
of the negative replies, which nevertheless allows for hope that the weight of the actress
might one day be known.
The actress in question is Lilian Harvey. She and her partner Willy Fritsch are positively
mythical figures, with which popular imagination concerns itself time and again.2
Since film fans believe them to be inseparable, however, they cannot understand that
these two heavenly bodies recently split. “Lilian Harvey and Willy Fritsch will certainly
film together again someday”—Filmwelt often has to console disappointed readers with
future hopes. Or they feel compelled to explain that the two stars, despite their appearances
together, are not married and that Lilian Harvey has no plans to poison herself.
Just how far this hero worship goes can be seen from the following reply, which tries not
to destroy any illusions: “We do not know whether Willy Fritsch was ‘bright’ in school,
but we certainly assume so.”
Needless to say, those who adopt the title “Film Buff Fridel H. Sch.,” “Curious Movie
Nut,” “Mickey Mouse from Hamburg,” or “Film-Ruth 9695 from Düsseldorf” cannot be
satisfied by mere knowledge of their darlings. If they cannot consume these gleaming
paragons down to the last crumb [mit Haut und Haaren],3
they at least want to hold
a token in their hands that allows them to participate in the existence of their ideal
types. They go after autographs like the now-eradicated Indians once hunted for scalps.
Luckily, the stars seem to understand that they must not merely shine but also let their
signatures trickle down from the sky. “All film stars,” our information bureau writes,
“give autographs. You can address yourself directly to them. Naturally, the appropriate
picture card and a self-addressed stamped envelope should always be included.”4
Sometimes
the token of favor fails to appear, but Filmwelt admonishes the tardy ones or urges
those awaiting reply not to despair. “We are genuinely sorry that Gösta Ekman has not
granted your autograph request. But unfortunately, we cannot help you. Perhaps you
might try again! After all, as you know, ‘Good things come to those who wait!’” In certain
circumstances, the saying “Constant dripping wears away the stone” might also not
be out of place.
Some particularly ardent admirers are not even satisfied by possessing the valuable
names. They want to live among the holy themselves, sun themselves in the beams of the
floodlights, and storm up to the heights where the Fritsch-Harvey constellation is in
orbit. But the editorial office of Filmwelt stands like the angel with his fiery sword before
the gates of film studio heaven. “If you want to be in sound films,” it declares time and
again, “you must first be trained in elocution.” Or, out of a sense of obligation, they simply
snub the various film fans: “In order to save yourself from disappointment, we recommend
against a career in film.” Rightly so. I doubt whether the advice makes a lasting
impression, for the admonished readers can appeal to the aforementioned saying that in
the end, good things come to those who wait . . .
It is absolutely clear from this game of questions and answers, which regularly fills
several single-spaced pages of the film magazine, what kinds of dreams haunt so many
young people. Film kitsch has awoken these dreams within them. It fabricates a marvelous
world on high, full of princes and princesses, and from now on the ignorant will
mistake appearance for reality and gaze as though intoxicated at the fairy world above.
They will thus be made useless and distracted from a struggle that could actually help
them achieve better conditions of existence. But the correct task, which film too ought to
share, is precisely not to mesmerize them into sleep, but rather to awaken them from
their spell. Meanwhile, we still seem to be far from a time when all film fans will be
cured of their stargazing.
Notes
1.
2. Between 1929 and 1939, Fritsch and Harvey costarred in Ufa productions including Liebeswalzer
(Waltz of love, 1930), Die Drei von der Tankstelle (The three from the filling station, 1930), and
Glückskinder (Lucky kids, 1936). Ufa deployed a marketing strategy suggesting that the two were also a
couple offscreen.
3.
4. The “picture card” refers to cards with star photos, which fans collected in cigarette packs and
pasted into photo albums. See the final text in the current chapter (no. 157).