In time Miller was to wonder how much real use the analysis had been. Others were vocal in their scorn. Billy Wilder, Marilyn’s director on Seven Year Itch, offered a coldly professional point of view: ‘There are certain wonderful rascals in this world, like Monroe, and one day they lie down on an analyst’s couch and out comes a clenched, dreary thing. It is better for Monroe not to be straightened out. The charm of her is her two left feet.’
By any normal standards Marilyn was still an emotional mess. Henry Rosenfeld saw a Marilyn who ‘came out in red blotches at the idea of meeting a new acquaintance, such was her fear.’
Writer Adele Fletcher waited to have lunch with Marilyn one day in Elsa Maxwell’s suite at the Waldorf Towers. ‘She arrived at Elsa’s suite three hours late, at precisely the hour when she was supposed to be at the Cecil Beaton studio. I later learned that she had had her hair shampooed and set three times before leaving. She was continually apprehensive that she would not look her best and people would start saying her looks were fading.’
Marilyn’s aide in 1955, Peter Leonardi, said, ‘She sits and sits and projects before every interview or public appearance. Sometimes she stares out of the window for hours, thinking and pulling at a lock of her hair. She often worries so much she becomes nauseated.’
While working, Marilyn often scribbled her thoughts and acting notes in a notebook. ‘What am I afraid of?’ one prying crew member read in the book. ‘I know I can act. But I’m afraid. I am afraid and I should not be and I must not be. Shit!’
Milton Greene witnessed Marilyn gradually losing herself in addiction to barbiturates. She would take sleeping pills for insomnia at 3:00 A.M., knowing she had to be up to drive into the City at six. On the way to the appointment there would be more pills, often the stimulant Dexamyl, to shatter the stupor. Marilyn was drinking more, too, and in conjunction with the pills.
In 1955, Marilyn told Amy Greene and Henry Rosenfeld, she had had yet another abortion. It brought the total to thirteen at this point in her life — at twenty-nine years old — if Marilyn’s own account to Amy Greene is correct, and it was surely yet another blow to her reeling psyche. Amy Greene did not know the father’s identity, and Rosenfeld preferred not to identify him.
In spite of the security offered by the relationship with Arthur Miller, Marilyn still acted as though she were desperately lonely. More than before, she indulged her habit of telephoning people in the early hours of the morning. Compliant friends would accept her suggestion that they go for a drive anywhere, around Manhattan or into the darkened suburbs, till dawn. Marilyn was now afraid to be alone at night.
Lee Strasberg tried to help by inviting her to sleep at his home. ‘She was emotionally upset,’ he recalled. ‘She wanted a family. She wanted to be held. Not to be made love to but just to be supported, because when she’d taken the pills they’d somehow react on her so that she would want more. We wouldn’t give them to her. That’s why she got in the habit of coming over and staying over. I’d hold her a little and she’d go to sleep.’
In May 1956, Time magazine was to give Marilyn the accolade of a cover. Reporters worked for months on the research, doing interviews in places as far-flung as Tokyo, Paris, and London. Ezra Goodman, who had known Marilyn through Sidney Skolsky, spent weeks in Los Angeles unearthing facts about her. He sieved the myth she had spun about her past, talked to teachers from her schooldays, colleagues, doctors, and psychiatrists, and filed a massive report to Time.
Goodman concluded: ‘It may be, as has been psychiatrically observed about her, that she has such contempt for herself that she is really trying to make peace with the world, not by adjusting to reality, but by reconstructing herself and the world around her … there is in her some sort of enigmatic, almost magical, quotient, which no one has really been able to define, that has gotten her where she is today in spite of a background that might normally have found her ending up a schizophrenic in a state mental hospital or an alcoholic in the gutter. Perhaps the quality that many people find attractive in her is her very insecurity, her unhappiness, her sleepwalking through life. But the riddle that is Marilyn Monroe has not been solved. It is doubtful whether a year of ambulance chasing, flagpole climbing, and flatfooting would do the trick. That is probably one for the analyst’s couch.’
According to Goodman, Time magazine ignored most of his report and printed a reassuring story about an actress on the road to an even more glorious future. The public, perhaps, would not have had it otherwise.
Norman Rosten, perhaps the most compassionate of Marilyn’s New York friends, was not blind to her deep trouble. He hoped it could be balanced by the other side of her, the woman ‘wise in the ways of the survivor.’
Surviving, for Marilyn, meant going on — and ‘on’ meant more films. There was no one, it seems, to tell her otherwise. Had there been, she would probably not have listened. Marilyn had made twenty-four films in the first seven years of her career. In the seven years from 1955 to her death she would complete only five. The very first of them, as she promised Time magazine, proved that she was indeed ‘a real actress.’
*Not the photograph shown in the picture section.
20
IN FEBRUARY 1956, ENDING a year of self-imposed exile, Marilyn flew back to Hollywood to a tumultuous reception. Hundreds of photographers mobbed the plane, and a crowd churned around for two hours before she could leave the airport.
Marilyn was back, and on her own terms, to make the movie of the recent Broadway success Bus Stop, with a director tailor-made for the Monroe fresh from the Actors Studio. On Milton Greene’s advice Marilyn had asked Fox for Joshua Logan, the only American director to have studied in the Soviet Union under Stanislavsky. Initially Logan balked at the notion of working with Marilyn, but Lee Strasberg’s lavish praise of her persuaded him. Years later, more than any other director, he still bubbled with enthusiasm about Marilyn.
‘I had no idea she had this incandescent talent,’ Logan said. ‘She made directing worthwhile. She had such fascinating things happen to her face and skin and hair and body as she read lines, that she was — it’s a cliché, but she was inspiring. She got me all hot and bothered just with her acting. Sexually it went way beyond that, ça va sans dire. She was gorgeous to look at, to get close to, to smell, and feel — that, with her talent too. I was a goner for her. I still am.’
Bus Stop was the story of Cherie, a weary girl singer with too many men in her past, and Bo, the naive young cowboy who falls in love with her. Many in Hollywood sneered, saying the result would merely be a variation on the theme of Marilyn the sexpot. They were proved wrong, partly because of the disciplines she had learned from Strasberg, and thanks to Logan’s infinite indulgence.
Milton Greene had warned the director, ‘Watch the tone of your voice with Marilyn, because if you scare her, you’ll lose her.’ There were times Logan had to invoke patience worthy of Buddha.
For the first time Marilyn was included in key script discussions. Logan appreciated Marilyn’s contribution until she took exception to the way somebody else’s role was being planned. She called Buddy Adler, the new chief at Fox, and Adler called Logan. As any director would be, Logan was furious that an actor had gone over his head to a studio executive.
Marilyn now had no further use for her original acting coach, Natasha Lytess. Lytess had gone to see Marilyn on her return to Hollywood, only to be turned away from the door by an aide. Her last sight of her most successful pupil was of a lone figure watching stonily through the window. The replacement for Lytess was Lee Strasberg’s wife, Paula, a figure who now became indispensable.
Paula Strasberg was a lump of a woman in her mid-forties, described by her daughter Susan as ‘a combination delicatessen, pharmacist, Jewish mother.’ She dressed almost exclusively in flowing black robes, like a postcard Greek widow. She was never without a huge handbag crammed with food, medicines, flashlight, and magnifying glass. On hot locations — and many of Marilyn’s locations were swelteringl
y hot — Paula was to be seen cooling herself with one of a vast selection of fans.
Although emotionally estranged from her husband, Paula had turned herself into the indispensable doyenne of the Strasberg household. She had long stage-managed life for Lee, promoting him as a genius, and she never tired of extolling the virtues of her children.
Now Marilyn had become virtually the third Strasberg child, one who thought she needed the master’s help on all her acting endeavors. Lee Strasberg was tied to his work at the Studio. So Paula, who herself had experience both as actress and teacher, was now appointed to hold Marilyn’s hand. She offered genuine devotion to Marilyn, and vast irritation to film directors.
Joshua Logan was appalled when he heard Marilyn intended not only to use Paula as coach, but to have her on the set during filming. He appealed to Milton Greene, who was now diplomat and troubleshooter. Greene negotiated with Lee Strasberg, and it was agreed that Paula could be present, but only in the dressing room.
In many ways Paula Strasberg was beginning a thankless task. She received an excellent salary — as much as $2,000 a week — but she was to become the butt of derision, and sometimes hatred, from film crews, and the target of Marilyn’s increasingly arrogant whims. On Bus Stop, though, Greene’s peace formula worked partly because the language of the Actors Studio was compatible with Logan’s style of directing.
Logan was on the Studio wavelength when he advised Marilyn to slip into a coat ‘as though you were slipping into a bubble bath.’ On future films, though, the Strasberg system was ridiculed. On Let’s Make Love, Paula exhorted Marilyn to kiss Yves Montand ‘as if it were cold water going over an iron fence.’ Script supervisor Rosie Steinberg never forgot that one.
On at least one occasion, Marilyn took method acting a step too far. A scene required her to slap co-star Don Murray with a piece of torn costume. Marilyn had not got on well with Murray, and now struck him viciously enough to slash his face. Marilyn may have been emulating her recent lover, Marlon Brando, who was known for carrying acted violence to extremes, but this incident caused a crisis. Despite Logan’s pleas, Marilyn could not bring herself to apologize, and screamed at her colleagues in helpless fury. The Miller relationship seemed to be supplying neither stability nor peace of mind. During Bus Stop Paula Strasberg made sure that Marilyn’s friends in a bottle — her tranquilizers — were always within reach.
Marilyn was also to rely on Paula Strasberg for functions far removed from acting. On special occasions, it would be Paula who went in first to vet the other guests. If she disapproved of them, Marilyn would sit waiting in the limousine, while Paula did the courtesies inside. Paula became a sounding board for Marilyn’s problems in love, a nurse when she was sick. On Bus Stop, as almost always from now on, she was needed as a nurse.
In April 1956 came the now-familiar headline, MARILYN MONROE IN HOSPITAL. The doctor’s diagnosis was ‘virus infection, exhaustion, overwork, and acute bronchitis.’ In a more relaxed comment the doctor said Marilyn was just ‘tied in knots.’
Director Logan said his star was sick, ‘but not two weeks’ worth.’ Since the company had to be paid anyway, Logan whiled away the time shooting and reshooting a scene that did not require Marilyn’s presence. The company spent fifteen days, at $40,000 a day, filming a fight that lasted half a minute in the movie.
Once, when Marilyn was working, Logan realized she was going to be late for a key scene in which she had to run through the streets at sundown. She had had three hours to get ready. He ran to the dressing room and found ‘the poor darling still looking at herself in the mirror.’ Logan wasted no words. He physically lugged Marilyn to her camera position, shouting ‘Run!’ to her and ‘Roll ’em!’ to the cameraman.
Logan was able to forgive Marilyn for everything. He remembered with admiration her total involvement in her part, her ability to weep real tears when other actors would reach for the glycerine. He shared with her a determination to sneak risqué shots past the censor, a gleeful delight in sexual innuendo that was ahead of its time in the fifties.
Logan indulged Marilyn’s hesitant performances by letting her do a speech over and over while the camera consumed a vast amount of film. He tolerated her on the days when she failed to deliver one usable take and when, with Paula Strasberg’s support, she walked wordlessly away ‘to work out the motivation.’ Others were not so patient.
The press, which Marilyn had courted to her advantage for so long, was kept away from her during Bus Stop. She was whisked to the door of her trailer in a limousine, then hustled in through specially constructed entranceways. No facilities were provided for the photographers, who were there in force. The press fell back on guerrilla tactics. They sat in ambush in neighboring hotel rooms, then lured Marilyn and her entourage to her balcony by abruptly switching on high-powered strobe lights.
Bill Woodfield, then a photographer for This Week magazine, found himself snatching pictures of Marilyn during the rodeo location in Arizona. Woodfield said, ‘It got so bad that we were all hiding out and taking pictures under the stands at the stadium. I got some pictures of Marilyn throwing up under the bleachers, damn near on top of me. She’d be playing a scene and she’d lean over and throw up, or dry heave, and I was underneath. I had the pictures printed, threw them down in front of Milton Greene and said, “This is what we have to go with unless you give us some pictures.” Finally he broke her loose, and I got my shots.’
When Time magazine mounted its first cover story on Marilyn, during the shooting of Bus Stop, its researchers began uncovering a good deal about Marilyn’s parentage. This was a vulnerable area because of her various deceptions. As a result, one of Time’s youngest reporters, Brad Darrach, was granted a personal interview, in bizarre circumstances.
Darrach collected Marilyn at Fox at 11:00 A.M., and drove her to her hotel, the Chateau Marmont. Marilyn, herself a fast driver, asked the reporter to drive slowly. She seemed to him to be afraid, not of his driving, but ‘generally frightened.’ Once in her suite Marilyn soon declared she was tired, and asked if they could do the interview in the bedroom.
So it was that Darrach ended up, he laughingly remembered, ‘spending ten hours in bed with Marilyn Monroe.’ She lay down with her head at one end of the bed. He settled at the foot, and there they talked until long after dark.
‘She was Marilyn, and reasonably pretty,’ Darrach remembered. ‘And of course there were those extraordinary jutting breasts and jutting behind. I’ve never seen a behind like hers; it was really remarkable, it was a very subtly composed ass. Yet I never felt for a moment any sexual temptation. There was nothing about her skin that made me want to touch it. She looked strained and a little unhealthy, as though there was some nervous inner heat that dried the skin. But there was no sexual feeling emanating from her. I am sure that was something that she put on for the camera.’
For a while during Bus Stop, Marilyn’s press was handled by Pat Newcomb, who worked for Arthur Jacobs, owner of one of Hollywood’s top public relations firms. Newcomb, a very young woman from the East Coast, was new to the job. Her father was a judge, her mother a psychiatric social worker, and she herself had majored in psychology. Even this background, however, was insufficient for the handling of Marilyn Monroe.
‘We had this terrible falling out almost immediately,’ Newcomb said. ‘I didn’t know why for years, but it turned out to be over some guy that Marilyn thought I liked, someone I didn’t have any interest in at all. I didn’t know how to cope with it, and Arthur Jacobs told me I’d better get out of there at once.’
Newcomb had to leave the location. Ironically, years later she would become Marilyn’s key press adviser and confidante, and was one of the last people to see Marilyn on the day she died. Even then, at the very end, they would be quarreling.
Rivalry, or jealousy, was not limited to her press assistant. Marilyn had a tussle with her director over Hope Lange, who was playing the part of a young girl in Bus Stop. Lange’s hair, Marilyn insisted, was
too fair; she feared it would detract attention from herself. Logan had to surrender and have Lange’s hair darkened. (In the last months of her life, during Something’s Got to Give, Marilyn was to go into a similar irrational panic over her co-star, Cyd Charisse.) On Bus Stop, for the first time, Marilyn’s New York psychiatrist was flown to attend her at the location.
Out of the folly and misery came an excellent film and a brilliant performance by Marilyn. New York Times critic, Bosley Crowther, said flatly that Marilyn had ‘finally proved herself an actress.’ He went on: ‘Fortunately for her and for the tradition of diligence leading to success, she gives a performance in this picture that marks her as a genuine acting star, not just a plushy personality and a sex symbol, as she has previously been.’
This was the accolade Marilyn had yearned for, even though, to her own dismay and that of many others, Bus Stop was not rewarded with an Oscar nomination. The tragedy, however, was that the woman was disintegrating even as the actress grasped her dream. In the midst of her success Joshua Logan sounded a warning. ‘She can become one of the greatest stars we’ve ever had,’ he said, ‘if she can control her emotions and her health.’
Logan knew the depth of Marilyn’s problems earlier than most. ‘I almost choke up when I really think of her,’ he said now. ‘I don’t think she ever really had two days of happiness, or contentment in her life, unless it was when she was working.’
As she approached her thirtieth birthday, Marilyn at last appeared to have found happiness in love.
21
EVERY DAY FOR EIGHT weeks, in the spring of 1956, the telephone rang in the office of the Pyramid Lake Guest Ranch, fifty miles northeast of Reno, Nevada. The caller, who identified herself as Mrs Leslie, would ask to speak to Mr Leslie. A genuine Red Indian would hasten to a small cabin with the message, and Mr Leslie, pipe in hand, hurried to take his call.