Film Star

The old days. Some superannuated duffer telling us how much better life was in the old days. The old days! Dust them up! Chuck them in the bin! And yet, there were good things back then, far more than we are likely to credit, when we hear those pensioned off phrases. In the old days Britain wasn’t nearly so well educated, it was therefore far more tolerant of idiosyncrasy and talent. Christopher Isherwood, Prater Violet. The old days, when even crazy Krauts could have a swell time….

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A new world bursts upon a familiar one. America flying into Britain; the troops, the dollars, the orgies, the movies…. Or the reverse journey, our author parachuted into Hollywood’s court, where, dazzled by those princely moguls, he loses his innocence amongst their Xanadus.

Rewind the film.

In a novel published in 1946 the shooting star that explodes across the English firmament is a German; Doctor Bergmann a colossus amongst post-war characters. Actually he is an Austrian, but then so was that nasty Adolf; but unlike that Adolf his invasion is successful. We are reminded of Frieda, when another German conquers the country. It says something of the culture’s tolerance that it can portray the enemy with such sympathetic understanding; for in the 1940s, we Brits, yet to be taken in by crude concepts that squeeze out the peculiarities of people, still believed in individuals; experience of their person coming before any idea held of them, of their conduct, their belief. These Londoners may laugh at Bergmann, but they love him too; his eccentricities endearing, that passion infectious.

We suspect Isherwood is safeguarding those gorgeous Weimar years, both from the taint - not all Germans are bad - and the destruction, of the Nazis. To bring back that magic, resurrect those magicians, by exiling one of its extraordinary characters to England. The year is 1933, Hitler recently in power, his effects are beginning to be felt; already in Vienna the war on the workers has begun; it is why Bergmann, a Jew and socialist, is no longer safe in Austria. A renown film director, he has been invited over to make a popular movie: Prater Violet. However, his own performance is greater than anything seen on celluloid.

Bergmann enacted the entire drama and represented all the characters. He was Dr Buenger, the testy embarrassed President of the Court. He was van der Lubbe, doped and apathetic, with sunken head. He was earnest, harassed Torgler. He was Goering, the straddling military bully, and Goebbels, lizard-like, crooked, and adroit. He was fiery Popov and stolid Tanev. And, in the biggest way, he was Dimitrov himself.

Bergmann actually became Dimitrov, with his furiously untidy hair, his grim ironic slit of a mouth, his large gestures, his flashing eyes.

‘Is the Herr Reichsminister aware’, he thundered, ‘that those who possess the alleged criminal mentality are today controlling the destinies of a sixth part of the world, namely the Soviet Union - the greatest and best land in the world?’

Then, as Goering, bull-necked, infuriated, he bellowed: ‘I’ll tell you what I’m aware of! I’m aware that you’re a Communist spy who came to Germany to set the Reichstag on fire. In my eyes you are nothing but a dirty crook who should be hanging on the gallows!’

Bergmann smiled; a faint, terrible smile. Like a toreador, who never takes his eyes from the enraged and wounded bull, he asked softly: ‘You are very afraid of my questions, aren’t you, Herr Minister?’

Bergmann’s face contorted, bulged, seemed to swell into an apoplectic clot of blood. His hand shot out. He yelled like a lunatic: ‘Get out of here, you crook!’

Bergmann bowed slightly, with ironic dignity. He half turned, as if to withdraw. Then he paused. His eye fell on the imagined figure of van der Lubbe. His hand was raised slowly, in a great, historic gesture. He addressed all Europe:

‘There stands the miserable Faust… But where is Mephistopheles?’

Then he made his exit.

‘You wait!’ Bergmann-Goering roared after the retreating figures. ‘You wait till I get you out of the power of this court!’

Bergmann, described as a supernaturally intelligent and charismatic bull, is contrasted with the (seemingly) effete aristocrats, who run the studio, and the sardonic sangfroid of the workers and clerks, who warm to his odd personality, which they find both comic and sympathetic; his strong emotions, always close to the surface, more endearing than the cool heads of their heads, Chatsworth and Ashmeade. His sincerity attracts. The performances of Bergmann, unlike Chatsworth’s, are for real: his roles are his life; he performs not to disguise his feelings and manipulate others but to express who he is, what he thinks. He is an actor in everyday life, where the act is the most important thing in the world. One day Isherwood - he plays the straight man here - finds our hero in tears: the civil war has started in Austria and he is worried about his family’s safety. For the first time he sees the person behind the role, and a connection deeper than friendship is formed. A bad time for Bergmann. Losing control of his emotions he falls into depression, a black hole that sucks the life out of himself and the crew, who complain. The studio is worried. Costs are skyscrapering. Time, an impatient child, a dictatorial customer, is calling: ‘get a move on!’ Nothing can prick Bergmann out of his passivity. Certain, it seems, that he will be thrown off the film. Paranoia now quickly follows; everybody, he thinks, is turning against him. There’s even another director looking at the rushes….

‘And so you invite this analphabet to take my place?’

‘I hadn’t got as far as thinking of anybody taking your place. I didn’t know you were going to walk out on us.’

‘And now you set this Kennedy to work, who will carefully annihilate every fragment Isherwood and I have built up, so lovingly, all these months - ‘

‘A lot of its damn good, I admit… but what am I to do? You’ve left us in the lurch.’

(Oh gosh, I thought, he’s smart!)

‘Everything destroyed. Obliterated. Reduced to utter nonsense. Terrible. Nothing to do.’

‘What do you care? You’re not interested in the picture.’

Bergmann’s eyes flashed. ‘Who says I am not?’

‘You did.’

‘I said nothing of the kind. I said I am not interested in the picture your Kennedy will make.’

‘You said you weren’t interested… didn’t he, Sandy?’

‘It is a lie!’ Bergmann glared at Ashmeade. ‘I would never say such a thing! How could I not be interested? For this picture, I have given everything; all my time, all my thought, all my care, all my strength, since months. Who dares say I am not interested?’

‘Atta boy!’ Chatsworth began to laugh very heartily. Getting to his feet, he came around the desk and slapped Bergmann on the shoulder. ‘That’s the spirit! Of course you’re interested! I always knew you were. If anybody says you're not, I’ll beat the hell out of him.’ He paused, as if struck by a sudden idea. ‘And now, I’ll you tell what: you and I and Isherwood are going down to look at those rushes together. And we won’t take Sandy along, either. That’ll be his punishment, the dirty dog.’

By this time Chatsworth had walked Bergmann right over to the door. Bergmann looked somewhat dazed, He didn’t resist at all…

A marvellous scene. Never underestimate the good sense and cleverness, the cunning, of an English aristocrat. Underneath that affected mask there are enormous reserves of intelligence and tact. Artists of another sort, of power and government, they can manipulate others at will. Society is Chatsworth’s canvas. He an old master. 

Following Chatsworth’s act Bergmann regains his energy and completes the film; his direction a magnificent performance, all the cast and crew - even Ashmeade - loving him at the end. This crazy genius has captivated the country; his brilliance overcoming his foreign ways. Yet if it wasn’t for Chatsworth….

This is not just a character study of an Englishman, his composure and ability to command; the book highlights a political point that a foreigner is apt to miss. Bergmann, obsessed by the Nazis, convinced there will be a war, and that Hitler will win it, has underestimated the English; their irony and affectation a screen behind which they run an effective and efficient machine. What appears weakness is strength; built on centuries of rule. One doesn’t need bombast to prove you can govern when you are convinced you cannot be overthrown. These aristos allow a tremendous amount of freedom because they have both the confidence and the means to make the whole thing work; this film to be completed on schedule. They also know their citizens. Us Brits don’t need to be forced by truncheon or emergency degree; a quiet word preferred to an exclamation mark: we are civilised enough to be persuaded to perform well. And we trust our leaders to run the show. These aristocrats have the authority and the experience - plus the bureaucracy and industrial might - to manage not only a film studio but to conduct a long and brutal war. These cool-headed men not only to bamboozle Bergmann but to defeat that hot-headed Kraut….

But this is not what the novel is about.

For beneath our disguises, and despite all the kind-unkind things we might ever say or think about each other, we knew. Beneath outer consciousness, two other beings, anonymous, impersonal, without labels, had met and recognised each other and clasped hands. He was my father. I was his son. And I loved him very much.

It is Bergmann’s desperate need of a friend - he is alone in England - that resonates with the author. Isherwood, a writer who speaks German, allows Bergmann to relax in his company, who for once he can be wholly himself; this reticent Englishman a stand-in for his own family. Isherwood has become a sort of wife; an intimate who understands him, emotionally even more than on the intellectual side. In this foreign place Bergmann has found someone he can trust. He just accepts it, we think; doesn't notice its peculiarity. Not so the author - it is why he had to write this novel. To experience such a friendship is a revelation. That he can be this close to a man without desiring him; that you can have the deepest intimacy without sex demanding its painful rights: this is a surprise, and creates its own kind of love. A love not diluted with desire. Christopher Isherwood has found a guru.

Like all big characters Bergmann makes us see the world differently. Prater Violet one of the great novels about Hollywood, though set in a Fulham film studio. This German genius forcing our supercilious writer to recognise that the medium has its own qualities, and those of the first order; such as its professionalism, its talented employees, the brilliance of Bergmann, the masterly politics of Chatsworth, and the bloody hard work that goes into making even something as poor as Prater Violet. It takes a virtuoso to direct even a third-rate movie. The novelist, with all those claims to art, has been put in the shade. Bergmann is a character out of a film. Isherwood remains stuck to the pages of his book. And yet…. And yet, this is a novel, a minor masterpiece. I shall leave you, my friend, to work that one out.

Review: Prater Violet