From Dresden to Hollywood.

Lotte as Goslar (1907-97), the great Dresden-born mime, was hailed as a comic genius, on two continents. A student of modern dance pioneer Gret Palucca, she emigrated to the U.S. in 1937 and performed with her Los Angeles-based Pantomime Circus for decades. Following are excerpts from her upcoming autobiography, What's So Funny?

PALUCCA

My mother used to tell me that I started dancing in the cradle. I would throw myself up in the air, turn over, plunge down, and smile. Now, thinking back to my Dresden childhood of, the 1900s, I see myself always in motion. In the hallway of our home I secretly "danced." Running back and forth between the huge armoires and swinging my mother's gauzy handkerchief, I believed myself to be a fairy or a lovely nymph. Nobody was allowed to see me, though. A Christmas performance of Puss in Boots was the greatest--and for a long time the only--theater experience I had. It was unforgettable how Puss kicked his leg high up in the air, hitting the king's nose--my first encounter with foolhardy audacity. My secret imagination grew in the direction of clownery and fairy tale.

And then one day in school the great shock! At some celebration two older students danced a gymnastic etude. Somebody told me that they had been taking classes with Gret Palucca. Palucca? Who was Palucca?

I had never seen her, but I had heard that she had been a member of Mary Wigman's company until she left that group and made herself independent. And Wigman, of course, was the high priestess of modern dance in Germany, comparable to Martha Graham in America. Suddenly, with tremendous impact, an utterly new world confronted me.

Modern dance!

I hadn't even known it existed. Plain, simple, and unadorned. No gossamer veils, no decorations, no little bells. Instead, something like leotards, one bright blue, one shining yellow. Strong colors, simple shapes. The movements don't tell stories; they are movements for movement's sake. The only thing that connected this new world with my former one was the same exhilaration, this joy of dancing, that--it seemed a thousand years ago--had made me chase as a lovely nymph through the hallway at home.

There was only one way out: Palucca. I had to study with her. Nothing could stop me. An aunt paid for a short beginners' course, not with Palucca but at Mary Wigman's school. I don't remember the reason for that, but at least it was "modern dance." I was totally obsessed. I ate, slept, dreamed, bicycled modern dance. I couldn't afford a pianist or even records when I invented my first dance, In the Green Light, a rather lugubrious, deadly serious affair. Something was clearly wrong. Where on earth was the joy of dancing? In the beginners' class I had hardly any contact with Wigman. Her world remained mysterious to me, and her tremendous power did not touch me at that time.

That's when I met Palucca. After much hesitation, I finally found the courage to ask her for a scholarship. She told me to come to her studio. In the much-too-long loden coat inherited from my very tall father and wearing his felt hat that looked like a pancake on me, I went to her studio. My God! White walls, a huge black Bluthner grand piano, and behind it a painting by Mondrian: fields of primary colors, nothing else. This--I knew instinctively and immediately--this was my world!

And then: a young girl enters, somehow boyish, with a strange face like a sculpture that hasn't been finished. This is Palucca--high forehead, audacious nose, very simple and totally relaxed. I am dancing for her. In the Green Light, of course. What else? That's all I have. It dawns on me that I am in the presence of a great artist and I have dared to show to her unbelievably awful and pretentious nonsense. Halfway through the number, I stop and run crying from the studio.

Palucca followed me to the dressing room. She had not said a word but had watched with interest. Now she was friendly and encouraging and said that she would call me. I ran home, deep in the dumps, and gave up all hope. Never before had I felt so worthless. Why do I tell all of this? Because it became the big turning point in my life; my first encounter with real greatness. Through Palucca's presence alone, I suddenly knew, as clearly as light, what was true and what was fake. Miracle after miracle! She did call me, and very soon, almost without training, I was taken into her first company. Later she told me that precisely in my unfinished and somewhat confused condition she had discovered a natural talent.

Now a most wonderful time began. I was determined to live up to the qualities of the much better members of the company. And as soon as possible. I rehearsed and rehearsed and rehearsed from morning till midnight. Added to this came the big event: I saw Palucca herself dance. Not only onstage, but also improvising at her studio. Everything I could only guess at before became reality.

No one who never saw Palucca dance can even imagine what she was like. Her dancing would be as impossible to describe as a storm or a sunset or the ocean would be to someone who had never seen one. What she did was so basic, so elementary. Again and again, when I saw her dance, I asked myself, Why can I not be so simple? People much more qualified than I have written about the lonely greatness of Palucca. For me, everything that was important and valuable to me came together in this incredible artist.

And now something very strange happened--although seen in retrospect, it was exactly what was to be expected. The more I tried to learn Palucca's style, the more I turned away from it. In spite of my unlimited admiration for her, this was not my language. As before, I started to design my own dances secretly, at home. I was amazed. What I loved about Palucca's art was the abstraction; what came out of me was foolish, clownery, theater. I was bewildered, but couldn't stop. Not to be like her, but to be as true as she in my own way--that was the great goal. I cannot explain how she discovered my dilemma, how she tried to understand me (although I did not make it easy), or how she helped me bring my first attempts to an audience. Only later did I fully realize how great a guiding spirit she was, how much she had given me through her own great example: the courage to be myself and the way to simplicity. And much, much more.

Before she died in January 1993, in Dresden, we finally met again. Of course, we were both older, but she had retained the same luminous quality; she was still generous, wise, and witty. And, yes, the same charm, and the same eternal youthfulness. How lucky her students were!

THE DISGRUNTLED 

The Disgruntled was the very first clown dance I ever made. Although I usually think of any of my clown characters as "it," I shall, for simplicity's sake, use the pronoun he. He was born in my studio in Dresden. [Goslar remained in Germany until Hitler came to power, when she emigrated to Prague, Zurich, and eventually, in the 1940s, to Los Angeles.] I remember laughing myself silly ,when he appeared, but I doubted that anybody else would find him funny. I have no idea which comer of my fantasy he came from, but he became sort of my trademark for many years. I must have danced him more than a thousand times. Different audiences have seen him as a symbol of different concerns; I was told that he became the pinup picture of an English squadron in World War II. For me he was just angry. Nonsense anger. I thought that nonsense anger is funny. Stupidity is funny. It can be laughed away.

When I was performing at the Turnabout Theater in Los Angeles, the audiences would include women--we called them "our Pasadena Ladies"--who looked very much like the Disgruntled. They would come backstage and exclaim, "Miss Goslar! That Disgruntled! How did you think of a thing like that? It's uncanny!" I was sometimes tempted to tell them to look into a mirror. There was a certain similarity between them--except for the hats that the ladies wore.

Many years later, at the start of a European tour of our Pantomime Circus, I was interviewed in my hotel in Amsterdam. I was asked if I could tell a human interest story. For the occasion I had dressed rather elegantly. I was in the middle of my Disgruntled story, miming those dear Pasadena ladies to the hilt, when I heard the click of a camera. Next morning at breakfast, on the front page of the biggest Dutch newspaper, there was my picture, in full regalia with the distorted Disgruntled face. No explanation whatsoever, simply, "Lotte Goslar Back in Europe."

A few years ago, at the thirtieth anniverary of my Pantomime Circus at the Joyce Theater in New York, I added The Disgruntled to the program, thinking that it would be interesting for the audience to see the very first clown dance I had created. But I don't believe he survived too well. He is from another time. So I'd better let him rest. Goodbye, Disgruntled!

MARILYN

I'm often asked how well I knew Marilyn Monroe. She was a student of mine in Hollywood in the 1950s, and we soon became friends. But I cannot say that I knew her. I often wondered if she knew herself. She was caught on the cruel and relentless treadmill of fame and stardom. She had so much more to offer than merely being a sex goddess, such clear recognition of quality. I liked her and I liked her considerable talents, especially her sense of humor. I thought that later in life she might follow in the footsteps of Mae West. Many of her films show she was capable of spoofing her own sex appeal. But what impressed me most were the small and very telling human touches that showed up all the time.

I had been told by my colleagues at the Turnabout that she came every week with her young agent to see all four of our programs. I think this was during the shooting of her film The Seven Year Itch (1955). Soon she called me, not by way of a secretary, as several starlets had done, but announcing herself in her wispy voice simply with, "This is Marilyn."

Initially she asked for private lessons, but I thought it would be better for her to be in a class of regular young people and not to rest on the pedestal of her fame. She turned out to be an outstanding student, full of imagination and very eager to accept my criticisms, especially when I warned her that any over-display of her natural sexy qualities could only lead to parody. In contrast to her legendary lateness on film sets, she was always on time for our two weekly sessions. Obviously she was happy to be with us as a student, rather than as a star on display.

Relaxed and without fears, barefoot, in jeans, with tousled hair and without any makeup, she looked her most beautiful. The natural bone structure of her face was exquisite, and her hands always made me think of medieval wood sculptures. Amazing and really touching was her modesty. Whenever I said something encouraging to her, tears would well up in her eyes. How I wished I could have helped her more, but my marriage, my company, and the Turnabout Theatre were truly all-consuming.

Of course I went as often as I could when she asked me to come and watch her filming, but I must confess that I felt uneasy when after every take she would rush to me to get my comments. After I told director George Cukor of my concerns, he urged me to come as often as I could. "It helps me," he said. "She relaxes when you are here." How frightened, how insecure she must have been!

What do I remember most about Marilyn? The people who worked with her often told me that she was extremely generous; I found this generosity expressing itself in many different ways: in compassion, in concern, and in kindness. No matter where she or I were, she always called me on December 24--the German Christmas--and also on the anniversary of my husband's death; she never mentioned what had happened on that day, but simply let me know that there was a friend thinking of me. When one of the students in our class was drafted into the army, she took him out for lunch on his last day with us. All of this seems small, but to me it reveals a lot.

In the late 1950s I was visiting Marilyn and her husband Arthur Miller in Connecticut in the house they had just bought. She was leaning over a mangy-looking geranium which, she told me, she had found dying but had rescued. She had just discovered that a single tiny fresh leaf had sprouted out of the sick mess. She was euphoric!

Marilyn seemed to constantly confront the question, "Where do I belong?" Small wonder when you realize that, as a child and young adult, she had been in so many different foster homes! Do I think she killed herself? No, I don't. I rather believe that she was careless with her life, which is dangerously close to suicide. When I talked to her a few days before she died, she had just come back from a trip to Mexico, where she had bought all sorts of things for her modest new house--the first one she ever owned--pots and pans and tiles for ceiling and floors, all of it cheerful in the Mexican tradition. She seemed to be in very good spirits. But only God knows.

Joe DiMaggio, who even after their divorce had remained a caring friend, made the arrangements for her funeral. Only a very small group was invited: her much-revered acting teacher, Lee Strasberg, and his wife; one of her directors; her hairdresser; a few studio workers; her lawyer; her secretary; and me. We had all been at the simple service in the adjacent chapel and now we were standing in front of the vault. In our different ways, we had all loved that girl who had slipped away without warning.

The stone walls surrounding the cemetery were lined by a large crowd of strangers who had come to see the "show." It was a sunny California day, and everyone was dressed in colorful slacks and shirts. There was some murmuring and some shouting, even some laughter and the sound of transistor radios. It was like a picnic. Some handsome young police guards took care that nobody came close to the tremendous mountain of flowers from all over the world, piled high in front of the vault. If only that box weren't there. Then some people in black lifted that box of the loveliest and maybe one of the unhappiest human beings in the world.

We left soon after. So did the police, as the entire crowd from the stone walls descended in one big wave, tearing every single flower off that huge mountain. Not one flower was left. Maybe Marilyn would have liked that, just as she loved the adoration of thousands of soldiers when she entertained at military camps. It may have told her that she was beloved by the whole world. But I think what she needed was less adoration, and more of what is real.

This article was excerpted from What's So Funny?, the autobiography of Lotte Goslar, soon to be published by Harwood Academic Publishers of London.