I have searched for many things in the women I have known: loveliness, ecstasy, stimulation,
solace, but mainly I know that beyond them all I have wanted to be mothered. My
mother's love and the love which I gave to her seemed to brood over me after her
death, and to colour every action and thought and emotion I knew. I had a feeling
that, understanding and wonderful as she my wife was not able to give me that mothering
for which, in my grief at mother's death, I was hungry. We drifted. At that time
I was meeting and working with many famous personalities at the Reinhardt Theatre
and in films. Maurice Stiller, whom I later met in Hollywood with the woman who was
destined to become the greatest actress in the world, was already an important film
producer. The woman was almost unknown. She had made one or two pictures in Sweden.
Stiller brought her to Berlin, and although she was recognised immediately as a
personality, something unusual and potentially great, he was the one who impressed.
Stiller had a deep voice, a big, powerful head, greying hair, dynamic eyes. A magnetic
man, the first real artist producer on pictures. He asked me if I could go to Constantinople
to make a picture with the two of them and Einar Hanson, the brother of Lars. "Yes,"
I said, I would be delighted to go; I admired his work so much. Just as we were
about to start the company smashed. He could not make the picture. That is why he
went to Hollywood, a bitterly- disappointed man. It was only natural that Reinhardt
should have made a very deep impression on me from the time he picked me out of the
crowd and listened to my recital of 'Faust'. Reinhardt was an actor before he began
producing; very good too, in every sort of part. As a result his work is not only
superb in those astonishing spectacles for which he is world famous, but perfect
in the smallest detail. He would sit watching. He would call out 'Do this! Do that!'
like any producer. If he could not get exactly what he wanted, he would hop up on
the stage and play the part as he wanted it, as it should be played. A kind man
with the most beautiful eyes, dark, very serious. He did not laugh much, but when
he did, it was clear and loud, spontaneous, like a child's. Nearly all the really
big people I have known have humour. Reinhardt especially. When he comes into a
room. something happens. He walks slowly, a little importantly, with the unmistakable
air about him of greatness.
I think Reinhardt is one of the greatest producers of your own Shakespeare. It was
fascinating to see him in the initial stages of production. Himself, he would write
in his own production comments and observations on every word, every line, every
action. At the first rehearsal the whole production is a complete whole in his mind.
When Reinhardt first knows you, and you are still small fry, he takes hold of your
personality, picks it up in his hands, squeezes it into the shape he wants it to
be, puts it in his pocket, and you emerge "Reinhardted". He "Reinhardted" me, of
course, and I am proud of it. He gave life to every one who associated with him,
as a mother does to her child. Just as a child is dependent in early life on the
mother, so we were dependent on him. Then, in the way of nature, a child runs from
its mother, finds its own feet. So, growing up, we ran from him to find our own feet.
But we always come back to him, still as the child to its mother, to learn something
fresh and important. Any man or woman who has ever associated with Reinhardt must
have something of him in their own personalities. A whole generation of great German
actors are entirely the product of his genius.
If he said to any of his actors "Come to me" they would be proud to, on half the
salary they were getting, if necessary. You see it was, and it is, always worthwhile
being in a Reinhardt production. He was, and he is, a guarantee of success and prestige.
I close my eyes and hear his voice, slow, a little hard, decisive. When he arrived
at the theatre, his presence would somehow make itself felt. Even if you didn't
see him, there was a feeling that he was around. Everyone knew, from the hall porter
to the leading lady. "Max is in the house," somebody said, and the whisper went all
over the theatre. We stirred and got excited. Sometimes the day with him would go
on until six o'clock, and remember that at seven o'clock we would have to be made
up and ready for the evening performance of the current play. He took everything
out of us, our bodies, our souls, but how well it was worth it. Emil Jannings and
Werner Krauss were already established players in the Deutsches Theatre when I began.
Ernst Lubitsch was also in the group, a comedian, very good indeed, just beginning
to get into pictures, Murnau, who later made some very great pictures for Hollywood,
and Lothar Mendes, a young, good-looking actor who years later was to direct me in
the English film "Jew Suss".
Ernst Lubitsch, small, but full of flame and energy, with black twinkling eyes that
missed nothing. Today he looks exactly the same. Hardly a hair has changed. There
is still a cigar eternally in the side of his mouth - his cigars were a legend, heaven
knew how many he smoked in a day. He was always laughing inside at some gay, cynical
side of life which he could see a little clearer than the rest of us. His sense
of rhythm is an outstanding feature of every film he has made. Ernst is actually
a brilliant musician. He sits down at the piano and plays Chopin with exquisite
melancholy.... crashing the keys the next moment into crazy harmonies of syncopation.
I used to eat with him sometimes in a little cafe near the theatre which all of
us frequented. You went downstairs to a lain little room. No tablecloths on the
table. There were hard benches, and little comfort, but the cooking was good and
so cheap that you could fill yourself with food and drink for a shilling. We used
to talk shop and art and philosophy, and many of the younger actors - maybe myself
too - thought we were Bohemian. I used to think then that I was Bohemian, but I
know now that I am not. I prefer order and precision to untidiness and looseness.
Anyhow, I think there are few Bohemians left today, the spirit is gone. Who remain,
I think, are synthetic poseurs. So, you see, I was rubbing shoulders with greatness,
beginning to feel I was part of the German theatre, and also making a name for myself
in films. Yet my mind was tortured, twisted. I was elated by my success in my work,
but shattered over my mother's death, and miserable about the way my marriage seemed
to be foundering. And one day when my wife was away, I walked out of the house,
and out of her life, trying to escape from something I could put no name to. Don't
imagine that for one moment I found happiness. On the contrary, I was haunted by
memories, torn by self reproach. I can see now that I should have been strong enough
to conquer myself. But it seemed that that other force in me which was so strong
that it was the mainspring, of my career was unrelated to my own private life. In
this there was no will, no effort. I was restless, unstable, searching for something,
trying to escape from something else. And I didn't know what, except that it had
something to do with this mother complex that I have tried to explain. And at this
time, when I was most unhappy, most bewildered by the complexity of my nature, I
was cast for 'The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari'. This film was the turning point in my
career. Everything I had done up till now, on the stage and the films, was building
me up, but 'Caligari' established me, and made my Continental reputation. The film
became a classic. Whole books were written about it. It was a daring experiment
in cinema, as much before its time as the first expressionist painters. Robert Weine
directed it, though many others received the credit. "Caligari" added lustre to
the reputations of all who were concerned with it. Werner Krauss, already established
in the Reinhardt Theatre, became a European star. It was a privilege to act with
Krauss. One of the most delightful men I know, his life bound up in acting.
So there was Conrad Veidt, star in the ascendant, feted, written about, praised -
and very unhappy. I was like a forlorn child. I am a man who has never had a
real friend. Plenty of people I have liked, loved, enjoyed being with, but I have
always needed something more than companionship and mutual interests for what I call
friendship. I mean some tremendous relationship, intense and deep down. There has
never been anybody to make sacrifices for, to go to in distress or happiness. At
such times I have always felt specially alone. The fault lies in me, of course.
Obviously, you do not receive what you do not give out. And I have known some days
when it would have been marvelous to have a real friend. Jannings, Stiller and Murnau,
when they were alive, and Lothar Mendes were nearer friendship with me than any other
people I have known. Nobody could help being Jannings' friend. He is altogether
lovable. A great person, endearingly childlike. I have never felt Jannings is clever
in the ordinary way in which we regard cleverness. With him it is instinctive, native.
He is a grand companion.
It took me a long time to recover from the effects of the failure of my marriage,
especially as I felt myself to be entirely responsible for the flop. My life became
purposeless, curiously empty. And yet in my inner being was the real Conrad Veidt,
the forlorn child, searching; searching for something he knew not what.
Months dragged on rather wearily. I was meeting many women who were beautiful, gay,
companionable. I wondered: is this for what I was searching - a woman who could
satisfy my mother complex.
Until my reputation had been rather what might be called high-brow. "Caligari", of
course, was the joy of the high-brows and what are now called surrealists.
