studio, she talked non-stop: ‘It’s fine for stage actors, they’re the fortunate ones, they don’t have to be acting a love-scene at 9 a.m. after being in Make-up since 6 a.m.’
‘Any country that can make a dog a film star is not to be taken seriously.’
‘Harlow was at the dinner. That shows you the level of intelligence there last night!’
‘Abominable country, America.’
Mother was always edgy during pre-production. I listened and nodded and smiled and tried not to get carsick. I longed for the studio, and the hum of the carpenter’s saw. Only then would I know I was home.
She continued to complain that no drawings had been sent to her, and Nellie, her hairdresser, had not seen a single wig sketch. Von Goldberg, she knew, was still making adjustments to the script. What was everyone doing at Paramount? Hiding W. C. Fields’ gin bottles?
We drew up at the Bronson Gate. In those days – before the big earthquake – there was an elaborate stone belfry framing the famous archway. I nodded to the frieze of Shakespeare, who seemed to be presiding over the studio lot.
‘Good morning, Miss Madou. Good morning, Miss Kater.’
‘Harry, take me straight to Wardrobe. I need to speak to Travis.’
‘Yes, Miss Madou.’
That was the day I became my mother’s dresser.
Like most little girls, I thought my mother was perfect. Except my mother really was perfect. Everyone told me so, and she had the face and body to prove it. I guess that’s why I never told anybody the truth. Who would believe me? It’s strange how people refuse to think badly of the beautiful.
I remember the first time that my mother went to an airport full of ‘civilians’ – that is, not ‘Hollywood People’. She was horrified by the ugliness, the commonplace, the fleshy bodies. At the top of her voice, she exclaimed, to whoever cared to listen: ‘No wonder they pay us so much!’
In later years, when she had left the film industry, she was bemused by modern actresses, who relied on their talent and not their good looks to succeed. Not that she truly cared about her beauty; it was a commodity: ‘Glamour is what I sell. It’s my stock in trade.’ Mother liked her maxims: ‘Darling, the legs aren’t so beautiful; I just know what to do with them.’ Another favourite: ‘The Possible we do immediately. The Impossible may take a little longer.’ And another: ‘Nothing bad can ever happen to you when you’re with your mother.’ But the one she liked best was this: ‘Kater, remember, the mirror never lies.’
Here they come, podgy daughter trotting alongside her, little piggy on the way to market. They’ve buffed and polished me so that I’m ready for her. And I go wherever she is. They all need me, the stars and the starlets, but nobody loves me more than Madou. The feeling is mutual. My passion for her remains unimpaired. Even when she is tired, she is staggeringly beautiful. I live for the moments when she gazes into me, and we become one.
Madou is to play a Russian empress. Perhaps the most famous woman of all time: Catherine the Great. Mr Goldberg (everyone knows that he added the von to make himself appear noble) could not resist. And who can blame him, darlings? The transformation from vulgar tart to sovereign ruler is just too delicious.
Naturally, his star cannot envisage the role until she has first created the wardrobe. Every seed pearl, every sequin, every feather, has to be perfect. Travis, head of Wardrobe, a man of indescribable and imperishable charm, will set her right. Travis dresses impeccably, like an English gentleman, exuding elegant masculinity. He always looks as if he has just stepped off a yacht, so unlike that vulgar imposter, Mr Moses von Goldberg, who looks like a Jewish schmatta tailor. Never trust a man with short legs, I always say, his brain is too near his bottom.
Travis’s rooms are exquisite; book-lined and stuffed with antiques. I reside in the right-hand corner: a huge floor-length looking-glass, dotted with bulbous lights. The daughter never looks my way, studiously avoids my gaze. Well, who can blame her, when she looks like a baby porpoise?
Madou looks directly at me and speaks.
‘She must look young, Travis. But who will believe that Madou is virginal? You must overdo the image. We need frills and flounces for the early gowns. Then later, when she gets to Russia we will need pelts; sables, mink, ermine, white fox, not chinchilla. So vulgar, so Garbo.’
Travis chuckles: ‘Kater, dearest, have a sandwich. It’s an American standard, egg-on-white. Delicious.’
Madou casts a critical look at him. She dislikes other people feeding her child: ‘Now, where are the sketches? Kater, lay them on the floor, so we can see.’
Madou emits a sigh of appreciation as she scrutinises the gorgeous designs: ‘Travis, sweetheart, that black velvet gown trimmed with ermine is magnificent, but it must be bottle-green. You understand? It will film better. And the fur should be mink, the white of the ermine will make the trim too distracting against the dark material.’
‘Joan, my dear, are you absolutely sure about the dark green?’
Travis is one of the select few who is permitted to use her first name, just as she is one of the select few permitted to use Goldberg’s, which she shortens to Mo.
‘Of course I’m sure, sweetheart. You must remember how difficult black is to light well. The wedding dress is good. The antique silver lace is perfect, and the white seed pearls and diamonds. But the hoops should be wider. I need to check the width of the doors. Mo will need to make them bigger. The fur hat should not flop over the face, the face is important, Travis, not the hat. Kater, let’s go and ask Mo about the doors.’
Before she leaves, she turns to look at me, and there, reflected in me, is her image. Venus could not look more lovely. Joan Madou: you are the fairest of them all.
Oh boy, there it was. The familiar smell of sawdust lingering in the early-morning Californian air. And then I was whizzed through the soundstage door into freezing St Petersburg. Gee, it was busy; horses neighing, cameras being pushed around on wheels, carpenters moving planks, grips high above, on ladders and scaffolds, rigging lights into position. I could smell glue, spirit gum, and the disgusting smell of sticky, fake snow.
In the centre of the winter set was a beautiful ebony carriage, the royal coach. Its silver lanterns sparkled in the bright lights, and a team of eight black stallions strained against a heavy, ornate harness. Extras, dressed as Russian soldiers with resplendent black moustaches, sat around waiting or stroking their Siberian horses. I later learned that they were polo ponies, rented from the Riviera Club’s team, and given fake manes and tails, courtesy of Hairdressing. But, as Mother would say, why spoil the illusion with the bald truth?
When I first came to America, it was Mo who taught me my first important English words; Hair and Make-up, Wardrobe, Dressing Room Row, Soundstage, Grips. Mother insisted that we speak German at home, and even our maid was sent over from Berlin. One of the reasons Mother refused to let me go to school was because she didn’t want me to speak English with an American accent. But Mo understood that I needed to try to fit in a little, in
