A Foreign Affair

Front matter

A FOREIGN

\ AFFAIR |

Billy Wilder's merica Films

Contents

List of Illustrations ix Acknowledgments xi Introduction 1 1 An Accented Cinema 6 2 The Insurance Man Always Rings Twice: Double Indemnity (1944) 30 3 Inthe Ruins of Berlins: A Foreign Affair (1948) 54 4 Ghosting Hollywood: Sunset Boulevard (1950) and Fedora (1978) 76 5 All Dressed Up and Running Wild: Some Like It Hot (1959) 100 6 Being a Mensch in the Administered World: The Apartment (1960) 125 7 Inthe Closet of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: The Private Life of

Sherlock Holmes (1970) 147 Chronology 167 Filmography 170 Bibliography 182 Index 191

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Introduction

In a scene from Hold Back the Dawn (1941), the Romanian immigrant Georges Iscovescu (Charles Boyer) is lying on his hotel bed in a Mexican border town, unshaven and sloppy, and observing a cockroach. As the insect crawls on the wall toward the mirror, Georges impedes him with his cane and asks: “Where do you think you are going? You're not a citizen, are you? Where’s your quota number?”! The scene reverses an earlier one in which Georges had been interrogated by US custom officials about his intentions to cross into the United States. Georges’ identification with the cockroach illustrates the abject nature of the immigrant who is constantly harassed while waiting for a visa to enter the United States—for Romanians, Georges had been told, the quota is so tight that the projected wait is five to eight years.

The cockroach scene was written by Billy Wilder and Charles Brackett but omitted from the film Mitchell Leisen directed because actor Charles Boyer felt it below him to speak to an insect. In interviews, Wilder has repeatedly voiced his dismay for Boyer and Leisen’s butchering of his script, and various biographers of Billy Wilder have given this anecdote special weight for Wilder’s subsequent decision to become a director in order to gain more control over his work.’ Wilder’s anger was fueled by what he perceived to be Boyer and Leisen’s ignorance, but there are other reasons, both personal and political, that come into play. Although based on a novel by Ketti Frings, the script for Hold Back the Dawn was Wilder’s most autobiographical work to date. The story of how Iscovesu charms a naive US schoolteacher named Emmy (Olivia de Havilland) into marrying him, so he can become a US citizen and resume his career dancing professionally with his ex-partner Anita, had much in common with Wilder’s own open-ended stay in Mexicali in 1934 when he had to leave the United States in order to renew his visa. It also recalls his subsequent struggles to make a living in Hollywood when poverty forced him to reside in the antechamber to the ladies’ room at the Chateau Marmont Hotel. Furthermore, Wilder, a Central European, shared the Romanian’s background as a gigolo: as a young man, Wilder had been an “Eintanzer,” a hired dancer for single women in an exclusive Berlin café. But more important than these autobiographical suggestions are the structural implications of the scene. By explicitly likening the immigrant to a helpless insect, the cock-

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roach scene was to steer the audience toward seeing Iscovescu more as a victim of political circumstances and less as a manipulative con artist; its omission, therefore, casts the immigrant in a much less sympathetic light, while the ending of the film, with Georges’s change of heart regarding his exploitation of Emmy’s emotions, remains rather implausible. Thus, when Wilder objected to the tinkering with his and Brackett’s script, it may not only have been a perceived disrespect for his professionalism, but the feeling of being censored from showing US immigration practices through a foreign, and more critical perspective.

This perspective of the exile, and of the outsider more generally, is indeed central to the films and scripts of Billy Wilder, as it is to his life. Often celebrated as a master of Hollywood entertainment, his fluency in the language of classic Hollywood film always retained a strong accent. His overwhelming commercial and critical success—which includes six Academy Awards—shows that he understood what the American public wanted, and yet his insights into their minds are clearly those of an outsider. Films such as Double Indemnity, Sunset Boulevard, or The Apartment belong in the pantheon of American film, but they also attest to the plurality of vision of the foreign-born artist. There is a decidedly transcultural dimension to Billy Wilder’s work, a status of being in-between nations, and drawing on very distinct cultural sensibilities.

Although Billy Wilder had his eye on America from the very beginning of his career, the European baggage he carried with him would always be present; America was a completion of Wilder’s character, but it also remained an alien culture. Throughout his career in the United States, Wilder would draw on his German and Austro-Hungarian background, frequently rewriting his own earlier work, adapting European plays, or simply infusing his American material with generous helpings of Jewish humor, Viennese fin-de-siécle decadence, or Weimar Germany modernism. If his early scripts at Ufa, Berlin’s biggest and most commercial film studio, attest to his fascination with things American—including speed, gangsters, Hollywood stardom, and a general fascination with life in the modern metropolis—his American films revisit Germany and Europe from the perspective of a thoroughly Americanized artist and US citizen, confronting the traditions of the Old World with the achievements of the New.

It needs to be emphasized that Wilder’s experience of displacement, with its implied sense both of nonbelonging and belonging to more than one culture, did not begin with his arrival in America. It is prefigured in his growing up in the province of Galicia, then part of the vast Austro- Hungarian Empire, where his father, Max, managed a chain of small cafés for the passengers on the train line that connected Vienna and Lemberg. A frequent traveler, Max later took his family to nearby Kraków where he purchased a railroad hotel, but when World War I broke out the family moved on to Vienna. Here the son apprenticed as reporter for some yellow

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Introduction 3 journalism papers. In 1926 he moved on to Berlin, continuing his work as a reporter but also ghost-writing scripts for the burgeoning German film industry. Hitler’s rise to power cut short a promising career at Ufa and Wilder fled to Paris where he directed his first feature before boarding a ship to the United States with a contract for Columbia Pictures.

Wilder’s sense of not being one of the natives thus goes as far back as his upbringing as a German-speaking Jew in a Polish peasant country, only to be reinforced time and again wherever he moved. For the Viennese, he was a Polack from the province; for the Berliners of the Weimar Republic, he was an Austrian; for the Nazis, he was a Jew; for the Parisians, he was a météque; and in Hollywood, he was a Central European refugee from a faraway continent. When he returned to Germany after the war, it was as an American citizen in US uniform, an Emigrant who had sided with the enemy. Even after having established himself as a major screenwriter and director in the US, Wilder would feel the sting of being considered an intruder; after a screening of Sunset Boulevard, Louis B. Mayer attacked the director as a foreigner who had bitten the hand that fed him and who “should be tarred and feathered and run out of town.”°

The films of Billy Wilder register exile with all its complexities and contradictions. They often revolve around experiences of nonbelonging and loss, frequently told from the perspective of an outsider or underachiever—an insurance salesman turned criminal (Double Indemnity), a mediocre screenwriter prostituting himself to an aged star (Sunset Boulevard), a drunk betraying his friends and family (The Lost Weekend), a clerk advancing his career by renting his apartment to his superiors for their extramarital affairs (The Apartment). Because of Wilder’s disenchanted views of sordid human frailty, his films have been called cynical, bitter, and misanthropic. I would argue that they simply tell the truth about unpleasant areas of human behavior. No one is comfortable coming out of a Wilder film; ideologically unpredictable, Wilder spares no one and nothing. This harshness and refusal to betray sympathy has been read as contempt for audiences. Yet this refusal of hypocrisy reflects the bitter lessons of exile. Chuck Tatum (Kirk Douglas) in Ace in the Hole and Sefton (William Holden) in Stalag 17 may be cynics, but their cynicism shows off a society morally far inferior, attributing to these antiheroes a sense of courage and integrity. Many of Wilder’s films celebrate the humanism of the survivor, no matter how scarred.

Unlike so many writers who found refuge from Hitler in Los Angeles, Billy Wilder was not silenced by the experience of being uprooted from one’s home, nor did exile translate into longing portrayals of by-gone times and lost places. Nothing could be further from Wilder’s acerbic wit than self-indulgence, self-pity, or an unchecked nostalgia (except for the extremely kitschy The Emperor Waltz). Though remarkably successful within the studio system, Wilder’s experience of exile did not lead to overassimilation but to an innate, bristling independence, which increased as

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he moved from writing to directing and producing. Also, unlike other successful exile directors such as Fritz Lang, Douglas Sirk, Robert Siodmak, or William Dieterle, Wilder never made any attempts to find permanent employment in the German film industry after the war. He felt thoroughly at home in Hollywood, which had made him rich and famous. Yet he never forgot where he had come from and how he had gotten there.

Even though Wilder may attack the American way of life in his films, he remains aware that the possibility of such a critique attests to the existence of an open society. The very process of Americanization is ultimately one of enrichment and creativity, which he celebrates, even though he never tires of satirizing it. It must also be emphasized that this process began long before he left Europe. Americanized in Vienna and Berlin during the 1920s, once in Hollywood, Wilder had to square his imaginary America with lived experiences. This is one reason why a central theme in almost all of Wilder’s film is a confrontation with the American way of life—its myths, its ideologies, and its double standards in the realm of sexuality, the family, and the culture industry.

To study Wilder’s work, therefore, is to examine the reworking of several rich and varied cultural sensibilities. Rather than providing the last word on Wilder, I hope to underscore complexities, unpacking underlying contradictions where previous commentators routinely smoothed them out. In this portrait, Wilder emerges as an artist with roots in sensationalist journalism and the world of entertainment as well as an awareness of literary culture and the avantgarde, leading to productive and often highly original confrontations of high and low. His work in three national film industries exemplifies a wide generic spectrum, ranging from light romantic comedy to dark satire, and a sophisticated, unpredictable use of stars.

It is commonly assumed that in the process of translating one language or culture into another, something is lost. In her moving memoir, Lost in Translation: A Life in a New Language, Eva Hoffmann chronicles her experience of life as an immigrant in Canada and the United States.* Like Wilder, Hoffmann grew up in Krakow, where she spent the first thirteen years of her life before immigrating with her family to Vancouver, British Columbia in 1959. Having to leave her beloved home was a traumatic experience that, as the chapter titles of her book have it, disrupted a blissful childhood through a sudden expulsion from “paradise,” casting her into a Canadian “exile.” Edward Said has similarly described exile as the “unhealable rift forced between a human being and a native place, between the self and its true home.” Like Hoffmann, he understands exile as a “condition of terminal loss,” but he also calls attention to the contrapuntal dimension of exile—the way in which the experience of abandonment forces exiles to be inventive, creative, mobile, and resourceful. Despite a deeply pessimistic assessment of exile, Said therefore celebrates the plurality of vision that comes through the negotiation of two cultures. For writer Salman Rushdie, the challenge of translating the self from one culture into another may

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Introduction 5 provide the very seed of creativity: “The word ‘translation’ comes, etymologically, from the Latin for ‘bearing across.’ Having been borne across the world, we are translated men. It is normally supposed that something always gets lost in translation; I cling, obstinately, to the notion that something can also be gained.”°

The central premise of this book is that the films of Billy Wilder tally with great accuracy the losses and gains of translating oneself into another culture. To better understand the mechanisms of this translation, the following chapter provides a commentary on a number of important aspects—the director’s cultural roots in Vienna and Berlin; the central role of writing and reporting in his work; his position in the various film industries in which he worked; the critical discourse surrounding his career; and the generic and stylistic quality of his films. This chapter develops the argument that informs the analyses of the six subsequent chapters devoted to individual films. It is my intention that these observations go beyond the films of Billy Wilder and tell us something about the relationship between classical Hollywood cinema and the experience of exile.

1. Hold Back the Dawn, unpublished script, Academy of Motion Pictures Library, 21. There is no evidence that Wilder actually ever read Frings’ novel.

2. Not prone to forget an insult, Wilder “got even” with Boyer in his first film as director, The Major and The Minor, where he inserts a newspaper headline, “Why I Hate Women— By Charles Boyer.”

3. Quoted in: Otto Friedrich, City of Nets: A Portrait of Hollywood in the 1940s (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986): 421.

4. Eva Hoffmann, Lost in Translation: A Life in a New Language (New York: Penguin, 1990).

5. Edward Said, “Reflections on Exile,” Out There: Marginalization and Contemporary Culture, ed. Russell Ferguson et al. (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1990): 357-366; here 357.

6. Salman Rushdie, Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism 1981-1991 (New York: Penguin, 1991): 9-21; here 17.

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Chapter 1

“An accent is the tell-tale scar left by the unfinished struggle to acquire a new language.”

—André Aciman!

“TWhen I came to the US], it was too late for me to lose my accent, but not to appreciate this country.”

—Billy Wilder?

Modernity and “Amerikanismus”: Two Tales of Mass Culture

In the mid-1940s, when Billy Wilder had established himself as a major director in Hollywood after the success of Double Indemnity and The Lost Weekend, only a few miles away, his fellow exiles Theodor W. Adorno and Max Horkheimer were setting forth their take on the US film industry in their now famous essay, “The Culture Industry.” In it, they described Hollywood as part of a system of mass entertainment that exemplified a modernity gone awry. They understood the culture industry to be a centrally controlled force that produces standardized and homogenizing cultural commodities, that negates individuality and style, and that turns its receivers into a mass of duped consumers. Even though Adorno stressed elsewhere that what he saw in Hollywood he had already seen prefigured at the Ufa studios in Berlin in the early 1930s, it is clear that his dark view about American popular culture was shaped in no small measure by his experience of dislocation during his southern California exile.

In many ways, Billy Wilder’s view about Hollywood could not have been further apart from that of Adorno and Horkheimer. A central player within the studio system and the beneficiary of its professionalism and proficiency, Wilder was an eloquent defender of its classic era and mourned its demise in the 1950s. Even if there were stabs at studio bosses or producers, Wilder took pride in the films he and others wrote, directed, and

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produced, and he valued the intelligence of his audience. As Ed Sikov, the most thorough and astute of Wilder’s many biographers, wrote: “At an early age he learned to work the system, in middle age he became it, and he hung on as long as he could, to his own enormous benefit.”

Drawing on the writings of Theodor W. Adorno may be an unusual way to introduce the films of Billy Wilder, as there is little common ground between the forbiddingly difficult philosopher and the creator of some of the most entertaining films of the 20th century. If I do bring up Adorno, then it is not only because his inability and unwillingness to adapt to the American way of life provides a contrasting experience of exile to Wilder’s achievement in Hollywood, but more importantly because his thoughts on the culture industry permit us to better understand the contested role of mass culture in 1920s Vienna and Berlin, which shaped both Adorno’s and Wilder’s career. In fact, Adorno and Wilder’s very different success stories in southern California were prefigured in the aesthetic views and professional skills they developed during the 1920s. In important ways, Adorno’s writings and Wilder’s scripts and films can be seen to articulate different responses to the same historical experience, namely the belated and furious modernization of Germany and Austria after 1900 and the rise of fascism. They offer opposite, but not unrelated assessments of the role of mass culture for the process of modernization, and what role modernism, understood as a discourse articulating and responding to modernity, should play vis-a-vis the increasing commodification of culture. To understand these different assessments, a historical digression is in order.

Germany and Austria’s military defeat in World War I brought about the end both of the Austro-Hungarian Empire as well as the rule of the German Kaiser. The demise of the Austrian monarchy was in fact foreshadowed by the death of the Emperor Franz Josef in 1916, whose ostentatious funeral the ten-year-old Wilder witnessed in Vienna. After 1918, in both Germany and Austria all traditional and aristocratic notions of culture became subject to heated public debate, and a central issue in these debates was the influence of American culture. While the postwar economic and political presence of the United States in Germany and Austria was more or less accepted, culture, many people thought, had survived without casualties. Thus discussions about Americanization were mapped onto discussions of German culture per se, and about the relationship between high culture and popular or mass culture.

Germany and Austria, as well as other European countries and Russia, experienced after the war an unprecedented onslaught of what was dubbed ‘Amerikanismus,’ a buzzword that implied both peril and promise. This onslaught was felt on the level of both economics and culture. American loans provided the backbone for postwar recovery. The Model T became a symbol of middle-class prosperity, the autobiography of Henry Ford became a German bestseller, and Fordism and Taylorism became widely discussed and influential modes of production and consumption.

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The Austrian writer Karl Kraus, a dominating figure in the Vienna publishing world into which Wilder would enter in 1925, invented the term “Fordschritt,” a pun that underscored that Fordism had become synonymous with “Fortschritt,” the German word for progress. American dance, whether in the form of the Charleston or the performances of Josephine Baker, as well as boxing and other spectator sports became widely popular among Germans and Austrians. While for some American mass culture foreshadowed a homogenization of the world, for others it became a force that could subvert the pretentiousness of traditional elite culture. The import of jazz, for example, provoked a heated debate that showed that more than a mere form of entertainment was at stake here. For the critic Hans Siemsen, jazz became an agent for democracy: “Had only the Emperor danced jazz. All that happened would never have occurred. But oh! He would have never learned it. To be the Emperor of Germany is easier than to dance jazz.”* In a similar vein, young Billie Wilder saw jazz as an agent for a cultural rebirth, concluding a review of a performance of Paul Whiteman’s jazz orchestra in Berlin with the words: “For jazz? Against jazz? The most modern music? Kitsch? Art? Necessity! The exigent rejuvenation of a fossilized Europe!”®

For the broad mass of Europeans, the main agent of Americanization was the moving picture. Parallel with America’s rise to global importance, it emerged as the dominant form of entertainment. As a vehicle for exporting the American way of life and stimulating demand for American products it proved unrivaled. Combining leisure with commercialism, Hollywood became the strongest promoter of the American dream and the primary instrument for selling American culture in Europe. Cinema thus assumed a central position for the Americanization of Weimar Germany, and particularly Berlin, a city so close in spirit to the American metropolis that Mark Twain dubbed it “Spree-Chicago.” At the intersection of commerce and art, of industry and craft, Hollywood cinema became representative of the erosion of traditional distinctions between culture and commodity, art and artifice, personal creativity and assembly-line production, the fusion of high and low culture, and a catalyst for the formation of a homogenized mass culture. Cheaply produced and easily exported, film became a truly international medium and art form, which easily transcended geographic, cultural, and, until the introduction of sound, linguistic barriers. For the German film industry that emerged after World War I, Hollywood became the role model for its own rise to international significance as well as its strongest competitor in its domestic market. As I will show in more detail below, it was precisely the competitiveness between the world’s two biggest film industries at that time that would also guarantee their compatibility, making it possible for many German film directors, stars, cameramen, set designers, technicians, and writers (including Wilder) to enjoy a successful transition from Berlin to Hollywood (and sometimes back).

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For Billy Wilder, as for so many of his contemporaries, the cinema was the institution, medium, and art form that became the very engine of modernization. Even more than other forms of American-influenced mass culture it promised a break from stifling traditions, an alternative to 18th and 19th century notions of Kultur, which often excluded the less educated and the less wealthy. Having grown up in the outer provinces of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the American-influenced metropolis of Berlin gave Wilder the opportunity to reinvent himself. Only a few years later, the experience of exile would force Wilder to square an imaginary America with the real thing, but even though that process entailed personal hardship and disillusionment, it did not change his belief in the cinema as a vehicle for modernization and the democratization of society.

For Theodor W. Adorno, however, mass culture was not an agent of democratization but of repression. His exile in Hollywood amplified his already existing skepticism toward mass culture into a dark and pessimistic account of the overall project of modernity. Writing from an immediate postwar perspective, Adorno saw a close relationship between the Nazi's use of mass culture in the service of mass deception and the role of the culture industry in capitalist America, a triangulation, in fact, of mass production, mass consumption, and mass murder. Adorno concluded that what had begun in the Enlightenment as a process of liberation had turned on itself; the glorification of reason had itself become the myth it had set out to shatter, leading to an instrumentalization of reason that served to dominate the self, and that eventually led to Auschwitz.

Adorno and Wilder’s very different assessment of mass culture led also to their contrary understandings of modernism. For Adorno, the value of modernist literature lay precisely in its resistance to the increasing commodification of culture. The prose Adorno favored (Beckett, Proust, Kafka) eschewed mimetic forms of representation, thereby insisting on the autonomy of the work of art. Art for him was the negation of the negativity of reality, a negation through which the work of art preserved its claim to truth. He therefore relegated to an inferior realm of art all that which compromised this autonomy—realism, naturalism, reportage literature, and political art. If Adorno is the critic of the Great Divide, Wilder, in contrast, is indebted to a version of modernism that tries to overcome or undo that divide. Wilder’s cinema follows an aesthetic that challenges that divide by blending high and popular culture, art and artifact. His films strive to articulate and mediate the experience of modernity as it manifested itself in journalism, fashion, advertising, architecture, photography, radio, and of course the cinema itself. Miriam Hansen has called this a vernacular modernism, “because the term vernacular combines the dimension of the quotidian, of everyday usage, with connotations of discourse, idiom, and dialect, with circulation, promiscuity, and translatability.”° Wilder’s scripts and films can indeed be seen as an extended commentary on the multiple and rivaling forces of modernism, depicting with nuance and wit

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its ambivalent and often paradoxical repercussions. Thus next to celebrating its innovations, its challenge to tradition, and its rejuvenating power, Wilder’s films also tally its negative impact—the alienation and isolation of the individual, and the cynicism and hypocrisy of society.

From the Shtetl to the Studio

The preceding discussion of 1920s modernity puts us in a better position to understand Wilder’s early career, which is shaped by the influx of American popular culture in Vienna and Berlin, as well as a good dose of self-styled Americanization. Born as Samuel Wilder in 1906 in Sucha, a small town in the province of Galicia in the eastern part of the Austro- Hungarian Empire (now Poland), he was the son of assimilated Jewish parents who had little in common with the more orthodox communities in which they lived. His father, Max Wilder, owned a chain of train station restaurants and later a hotel in Kraków. His mother, Eugenia Baldinger, came from a Polish family of hotel owners; as a young girl she had spent some time with relatives in New York, and her enthusiasm for all things American led her to change the names of her sons Samuel and the twoyears older Wilhelm into Billie and Willie. The latter would eventually also go on to work in Hollywood, producing and sometimes directing B-pictures under the name W. Lee Wilder.

If Billie’s name was inspired by the Wild West show of Buffalo Bill which his mother saw at Madison Square Garden, his and his brother’s imaginations were shaped by their mother’s tales of cowboys and Indians, New York skyscrapers, the wealth and wholesomeness of the American people, and the speed and excitement of the lifestyle in the United States. It is not surprising, therefore, that Billy Wilder’s professional interests would be nurtured by a heavy dose of Americanization. After his family moved to Vienna in 1916, Wilder got interested in the world of theater and entertainment. Upon graduating from high school in 1924, he enrolled at the university to study law, but quickly abandoned that pursuit to take a job as a reporter for Die Stunde, a sensationalist daily newspaper. His role model and later mentor was the star journalist Egon Erwin Kisch who was known for his fast and furious investigation style, calling himself a ‘rasender Reporter ’ (racing reporter) in a widelyread 1924 collection of his writ- Figure 1.1. Billie as Racing Reporter ings. Kisch himself consciously

Billie. `

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imitated the American newspapermen he had observed during a stay in the US a few years earlier.

In 1926, Wilder’s enthusiasm for American jazz led him to quit his Viennese reporting job in order to accompany the band leader Paul Whiteman to Berlin, and Wilder fell in love with the capital of the Weimar Republic— theater, film, the arts, architecture, cafés, night clubs, sports, speed, decadence, it was all happening here. Berlin in the 1920s was the most Americanized of German cities, and Billie Wilder was one of its most Americanized inhabitants. The journalist Hans Sahl described Wilder’s appearance as “a slender young man who wore his hat slanted, buried his hands in his pockets, and played the American long before we had even discovered America.”’ At the Romanisches Café and other venues, high and low culture mingled. Here Wilder made the acquaintance of writers such as Paul Erich Marcus—known as Pem—Hans Lustig, Max Kolpe, Oskar Maria Graf, Kurt Pinthus, Erich Maria Remarque, Klabund, and Kisch, but also of show business people such as Peter Lorre, Felix Joachimson, Friedrich Hollaender, Carola Neher, and Marlene Dietrich, with many of whom he would work again as part of the community of exiles that flocked to Hollywood after Hitler’s rise to power.

In the mid 1920s, when Wilder arrived in Berlin, the Weimar Republic had finally emerged from the severe political and financial crises that had marred the first years of the nascent German democracy, entering into a phase of relative economic and political stability that would last until the stock market crash on Wall Street in October 1929. The vibrancy and vitality of this recovery was perhaps nowhere more visible than in the expansion of Germany’s press, which at that time could boast over four thousand titles, including daily newspapers, weeklies, tabloids, special interest magazines, many of them part of the increasingly popular illustrated press. In Berlin alone, there were forty-five morning papers, two lunchtime papers, and fourteen evening papers. A significant number of them were owned by the immensely influential Ullstein Press, which had become the largest publishing house in Europe and probably the most diversified in the world. Through the help of Kisch, Wilder found work as a freelance writer with the popular B.Z., B.Z. am Mittag, Berliner Nachtausgabe, and most notably Tempo, writing short tabloid pieces on film and entertainment, celebrities, and all aspects of daily life in the metropolis. He continued writing more feuilletonistic pieces for the Viennese Die Stunde and Die Biihne, but eventually succeeded in also placing longer articles in the upscale Berliner Börsen Courier and Der Querschnitt. The latter was a literary and artistic review that can be best described as Ullstein’s answer to The New Yorker, featuring a broad mix of celebrated contemporary writers, photography, and popular culture, and promoting a new cosmopolitan outlook and sophisticated lifestyle.