The Vienna-born actress who arrived at MGM, won consecutive Best Actress Oscars at twenty-six and twenty-seven — the first performer in history to do so — and then walked away from the studio system that had produced both of them, returned to Europe, married a publisher, and lived to one hundred and four. She outlasted everyone who had tried to define her.
Portrait · Luise Rainer
Born Luise Rainer on January 12, 1910, in Düsseldorf — raised in Vienna, trained at the Max Reinhardt Theatre Workshop, one of Europe's most distinguished acting schools, and performing on the Vienna and Berlin stages from her teens. MGM talent scouts saw her in Europe and signed her in 1935; she arrived in Hollywood speaking little English and carrying one of the finest theatrical training regimens of the era.
Robert Z. Leonard's The Great Ziegfeld (1936) — Rainer as Anna Held, the Ziegfeld Follies star and first wife of Florenz Ziegfeld, who is loved and discarded — gave her the telephone scene: Anna, having learned that Ziegfeld has married someone else, calls to congratulate him with the specific brightness of a woman suppressing complete devastation beneath impeccable social performance. Two minutes of screen time. The Academy Award at twenty-six.
Sidney Franklin's The Good Earth (1937) — Rainer as O-Lan, the Chinese peasant woman who is the moral and physical foundation of a family's survival across decades — won her the second Oscar at twenty-seven. The performance is of an entirely different character from Anna Held: where Anna's quality is suppression and irony, O-Lan's is endurance and silence, the woman who sustains everything precisely by asking for nothing in return. Two Oscars, two completely different registers, consecutive years.
Louis B. Mayer's MGM attempted to capitalise on both Oscars by scheduling her in increasingly inadequate material. She objected. The studio and she parted ways in 1938. She made a few European films, married the publisher Robert Knittel, and largely withdrew from acting. She returned for occasional television and stage work, was photographed by Richard Avedon at ninety-two, and died on December 30, 2014 — three weeks before her one hundred and fifth birthday. She outlasted every studio head, every costar, and every person who had predicted her career's arc.
The telephone scene is one of the most celebrated two-minute performances in film history: Anna maintaining the brightness of someone offering genuine congratulations while every other signal in the performance communicates the opposite. Rainer performed the suppression rather than the feeling — the social surface held in place over the feeling by sheer will — and the gap between the two is the performance's entire subject and achievement.
O-Lan's quality is endurance without sentimentality — the woman who survives not through emotional stoicism but through the specific application of all available energy to the problem of survival. The scene in which O-Lan kneels in a field to give birth alone and then returns to the harvest is the film's central image: the woman whose labour creates everything the film celebrates, played by Rainer with the complete absence of the self-consciousness that the scene's extremity might have produced.
The film has been overshadowed by the two Oscar-winners on either side of it, which is the specific hazard of consecutive record-breaking: the work that does not win the prize tends to become invisible. Her Countess is the clearest evidence that the two Oscars were not exhausting her available registers but sampling two of several — a comic intelligence that the MGM schedule, had it continued, might have found better uses for.
The departure from MGM at twenty-eight is the most significant decision of her career and the one most consistently misread as retreat. She had two Oscars; she had demonstrated the range; she had seen what the studio intended to do with both. She left. The life she lived afterward — in London, in Europe, married to a publisher, present but not performing — was a form of artistic self-determination that the studio system was not designed to accommodate and that she pursued anyway, at the cost the decision required.
Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul. I know, because I turned down the first offer often enough and held out for the fifty cents.
Luise Rainer's legacy is the telephone scene — two minutes of a woman maintaining the performance of happiness over the reality of loss, so completely that the gap between the two is the entire achievement — and the one hundred and four years that followed it. Two consecutive Oscars, the first performer ever to accomplish the consecutive win, two completely different registers demonstrated in the same twelve months, and then the deliberate withdrawal from a machinery that had produced both of them.
The withdrawal was called failure for decades. She was in London, living the life she had chosen, and outlasted every person who had called it that. The longevity was itself the final performance — not the one MGM had intended to schedule, but the one that proved everything MGM had got wrong about what she was and what she was for.