"A beautiful monster". Sergio Gobbi's title suited him perfectly. In his autobiography, Helmut Berger posed as a rival of Alain Delon, which was a bit of a rewriting of history. His physique struck, with his pursed lips, his face cut to a serpe. His legend was sulphurous. At the end of the sixties, Luchino Visconti had fallen in love with this Austrian figure who gravitated in the studios of Cinecitta. It was the chance of a lifetime. It is not forbidden to note that this was also his misfortune.
Someone who disguised himself as Marlene Dietrich in The Damned could hardly leave anyone indifferent. Against the backdrop of the rise of Nazism, he was in it the degenerate and incestuous offspring of a family that closely resembled the Krupps. The SS uniform suited him well. He abused it. This did not prevent him from being an unforgettable Ludwig II of Bavaria opposite Romy Schneider in Ludwig or the Twilight of the Gods. Obviously, it can't resist later to appear in a laborious remake. In Violence and Passion, he was a gigolo who was the lover of a mother and daughter (the son probably also lazily succumbed to his unhealthy charms), whom an old history teacher (Burt Lancaster) took under his wing. Joseph Losey offered her the same type of role in A Romantic English Girl (1975). It fit him like a glove. In Le jardin des Finzi-Contini to the sound of tennis balls, he competed with Fabio Testi under the eye of Dominique Sanda.
The death of Visconti, his mentor, in 1976 plunged him into deep distress. Then it was a long, slow descent into hell. His career turned into caricature. It was reported in a string of more or less erotic films, vaguely Italian. Some provoke a smile that is both indulgent and dismayed. Here it is, yes, in the credits of Deadly Trances and The House of Fantasies. No question for him to miss The depraved where he plays Dorian Gray. Chabrol made Fantômas in a TV movie. In the ineffable Salon Kitty, he runs a brothel in Berlin during the war alongside Ingrid Thulin. The evil angel parodied himself. He had excuses. When we started in masterpieces like Do you know what Stalin did to women?, it is unthinkable to make a fine mouth.
Helmut Berger, on the red carpet of Cannes in 2014. VALERY HACHE
We saw him in episodes of Dynasty, in a Madonna music video. Berger had slept with the whole earth (preferably with the jet-set), almost marrying Marisa Berenson. Andy Warhol was photographing him. He was the first man to be featured on the cover of Vogue. There was a price to pay. It was salted. His medal profile had thickened. His talk show appearances turned into an alcoholic puppet. Suicide attempts were at the rendezvous. Health problems interfered. This good son had returned to live with his mother in Salzburg. One of his last appearances was in Cannes to present Bonello's St. Lawrence where he perfectly embodied the aging couturier. The tired actor struggled to climb the steps. He died at the age of seventy-eight, in the middle of a festival. He leaves behind a path littered with illicit substances, empty bottles and disillusionment. "I have lived three lives in four languages," he used to say. Let us wish him to arrive in the afterlife to the sound of Wagner. He deserves that.