Before the Nazis burned most of her films,
Europe swooned to dignified suffering,
her dark eyes mastering agony, whims
of coquettes, passion for lost wedding rings.
She preferred thorn pricks to rose petals, lack
of gesture to dramatic swoons. Shunning
makeup for soap and hard water, she packed
a hundred films into twelve years, cunning
leading her to out-earn Pickford. Seeing
her in Tosca, Puccini—shocked
to hear
his music in the movie—smiled, pleading
to meet her. She refused. Snarling, she’d tear
up Hollywood’s contract, marry Cartier,
retire for years till Bertolucci called her.
Roger Armbrust
May 4, 2013
