The Divine Garbo

A Tribute to Greta Garbo


THE SPHINX by Isabella Rosselini

Of the Swedes who made it big in Hollywood, Garbo was the star of the silent movies era; my mother, Ingrid Bergman, was the star of the sound era. That's how the press classified them.

When Mother first came to Hollywood, she immediately and politely sent Garbo some flowers and a note - she thought they could share some Swedish evenings: meatballs, aquavit, candles and relaxed conversation in their native tongue. Garbo sent a telegram accepting the invitation, but not until three months later, just as Mother was about to leave town. Mother told George Cukor, who was a friend of Garbo's, about it and Cukor laughed. "Of course, Greta wouldn't have sent the telegram unless she was certain you were leaving."

Mother greatly admired Garbo, whose understated style of acting was the same as her own. They shared that kind of Swedish spare and spartan elegance, the purity and straightforwardness. One knows they didn't lie. But their mystery and vulnerability were blended differently: Mother had a great deal of the latter; Garbo was enigmatic, magnetic and cool.

The only thing I remember Mother saying about Garbo, maybe because she often wondered about it, was: "She retired at 36. All those years afterward she got up in the morning with nothing to do. If you have children or grandchildren it's different, but she didn't have any. What can she possibly do all day?"

So I never met Garbo with Mother over a plate of Swedish meatballs. And when I think of her it's not as a real woman or even as an actress. Instead, I see a beautiful close-up with tears in her eyes, a man (I think) dying in her arms. I remember only Garbo's face, not what the tragic event was that caused her such desperation.

Garbo sticks in my brain as a series of stills. Cecil Beaton's, of course, but also frames from her movies. The way she walked in "Queen Christina," for example: fast, dynamic, decisive, masculine - like a premonition of feminist attitudes to come.