Life's a Scream by Ingrid Pitt

Author:Ingrid Pitt [Ingrid Pitt]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2015-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Sixteen

I sat there crying, feeling a bit of a fool. All around me people were screaming and shouting. Off to the right a band was playing enthusiastically and there seemed to be only me and the poor bull in the middle of the arena who weren’t having a good time. I assured myself that this was all necessary as part of the indoctrination programme I had set myself. I was in Spain so the thing to do was to blend in and, as I could see, Spaniards were potty about bullfighting. At the least it was certainly better than sitting in the flat in Calle Dr Fleming, a flat that I couldn’t afford, and fretting.

When my flight had landed at Madrid airport I’d been down to my last $10 again. I didn’t speak a word of Spanish so the taxi driver had taken me to Calle Dr Fleming, where most English and American expats congregated. I’d taken a short rent on a one-bedroom apartment and had been delighted when my next-door neighbour, a photographer called Caesar Lucas, had introduced himself by coming over with a bottle of wine and two glasses. His English was good, so I was able to mine him for information, such as what work was available. At this time Almeria was just about the busiest film location in the world. I told him about my vast theatrical experience and he promised to introduce me to several actors staying in the apartment block.

The next time Caesar came round he invited me to the bullfight in the Plaza Monumental, where he was going to take photographs. He was as good as his word and from my first-class seat I had a close-up view of a dumb animal being sliced up alive, then bleeding to death when the matador pierced its lung instead of severing its spinal column. As I sat there bawling my eyes out my newfound photographer friend was busy snapping away.

The Spanish love a dolorosa and the next day my photograph appeared on the front page of Spain’s leading national newspaper, El Pueblo, where it was spotted by Ana Mariscal, one of the top directors in Spain at that time.

Mariscal called the newspaper and asked if they knew where she could find me. They did. I was invited to lunch and asked to do a screen test for her film Los Duendes de Andalucia, which was starting almost immediately. Not wanting to look good fortune in the face, I hardly dared to point out a rather glaring problem: I couldn’t speak Spanish.

‘I don’t care,’ said Ana Mariscal. ‘I want you for my picture. You’re perfect for the role of the boozy nymphomaniac American, who has a passion for bullfighters! We’ll dub it. As for the screentest, Fellini just gets his actors to count – one, two, three, etc. – instead of speaking proper lines. If it’s good enough for Federico Fellini, it’s good enough for Ana Mariscal. Learn the language as you go along.’

That was it. Steffka and I went to Seville and I began my first movie.

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