The Woman All Women Want to See
“Why Have I Not Been Given a Woman?”
Illustrations
The Man Who Asked for Onions
“Do you have a hobby?”
“Yes. Chinese philately.”
“Why that?”
“I wanted a subject I could not exhaust.”
—Conversation between Josef von Sternberg and the author
“ONIONS?”
The waiter stared at the man who’d made this request.
We were in the Emerald Room of the Australia Hotel, the most prestigious hotel in Sydney, if not the most modern. Six meters above our heads dangled a huge Italian chandelier. In every direction, tables covered in linen, ironed glossy with starch, extended to infinity. Out of sight a fountain played, while marble nymphs observed us covertly from a jungle of potted ferns.
The table settings, like the décor, belonged to the age of Queen Victoria. Each plate, bowl, dish, cup, and saucer bore the hotel’s emblem. The flatware, scratched to dullness by generations of use, had the heaviness of tools—soup spoons like shovels, knives as hefty as trowels. We might be dining in 1967, but we were eating in the style of 1889, when French tragedienne Sarah Bernhardt officially opened the hotel. The register with her signature was displayed in the lobby.
“Yes. Onions,” repeated the short man with the gray beard. He didn’t raise his head, so he didn’t see what we saw: a portly, middle-aged waiter of European origin, judging from his voice, in confusion.
“You mean … an onion salad?” the man suggested hopefully.
I suppressed a wince. Even in my brief acquaintance with Josef von Sternberg, I’d learned not to question his orders, nor try to anticipate or interpret them.
The third person at our table was David Stratton, director of the Sydney Film Festival; he was responsible for inviting von Sternberg to Sydney and knew him better.
“Mr. von Sternberg would like some onions,” he explained. “Just onions. That’s all.”
As the waiter retreated, I mentally wound back our conversation to the moment, minutes before, when von Sternberg had cleared his throat and remarked, “You must excuse me. I have a slight cold. Back home in California, I would eat onions and garlic, which cure such things.” (He didn’t add “it’s believed” or “in my opinion.” Von Sternberg presented all statements as incontrovertible fact.)
His right hand—the one usually clenched around the handle of his cane—worried at the remains of a bread roll, which he’d reduced to crumbs without eating any of it. Like his low, uninflected voice and the avoidance of eye contact, the fidgeting was another symptom of a nervous temperament rigidly controlled by an effort of will.
“Jules Furthman,” I said, guiding the conversation back to films. “You worked with him more than any other person.”
This was an understatement. From The Drag Net in 1928 to Jet Pilot in 1957, his name appeared on almost every von Sternberg film, though in so many forms—credited with writing the screenplay, adaptation, or original story, or even as producer—that their relationship eluded definition.
“I wondered,” I went on, “what was your working method?”
“We had no method,” von Sternberg said. “I simply told him what I wanted done, and he did it.”
The waiter materialized at his elbow.
“Your onions, sir.”
He deposited two large brown onions by von Sternberg’s twitching right hand. The slightest of nods indicated his acceptance.
“Um … well,” I continued, “when you say you ‘told Furthman what to do.’ …”
But it was no use. For the rest of the meal, von Sternberg responded to my tentative inquiries with an evasion or a lie. If he could be obdurate about onions, he was, on the subject of his work, adamantine. But at least he was responding. Even as noted a critic as Peter Bogdanovich was fobbed off with a succession of “I don’t remember”s and “I don’t know”s. Some journalists got not even that much—just a silent stare and a snapped, “Next.”
The waiter cracked before I did. Standing by the wall, he watched for a few minutes and, when it became obvious von Sternberg had no immediate plans for the onions, returned to wrap them in a
