Marilyn Monroe

by Michelle Morgan

  During one of the several press conferences that took place after the Millers’ arrival in London, Arthur had expressed his desire to visit Stratford-upon-Avon. This intrigued fans living in the town, who waited with baited breath to see whether or not they would make the trip. Imagine the excitement then, when on 18 July, a chauffeur-driven car pulled up outside Shakespeare’s birthplace, and a woman, looking remarkably like Marilyn, stepped out of the vehicle.

  Brenda Porter, who was standing in the crowd of people who swarmed round the woman that day, remembered: ‘There were quite a few people in the crowd [and] we all stood and waited for quite a while when a chauffeur-driven car drew up outside Shakespeare’s house. A lady got out of the car and the crowd tried to cross the road to see her. There was no one with her, [and] she took video pictures of Shakespeare’s birthplace, but very quickly got back into the car. People in the crowd said it was not Marilyn. I can’t honestly say if it was either.’

  Indeed, when questioned by people in the crowd, the chauffeur claimed that the woman was a Mrs Horace Dodge of Windsor, but refused to say anything else on the matter. However, with no security and no husband, the chance of ‘Mrs Dodge’ turning out to be Marilyn was pretty remote.

  This may have been the first time a ‘fake Marilyn’ would make news during the England trip, but it certainly wasn’t the last. In October, another impersonator made headlines, this time by booking false appointments with five of London’s top dressmakers and booking singer Tommy Steele for a fake party. She gained a lot of column inches but this fake Marilyn was never found.

  The first week in England had been a busy one, for both Marilyn and the press who were reporting anything remotely Monroe-related, however weird or wonderful it seemed. Coverage included a report which stated that Dame Edith Sitwell wished to visit the star sometime soon; and on 20 July The Times ran the story of a German communist magazine called Junge Welt which gave Marilyn the thumbs-up for daring to become a serious actress and for marrying Arthur Miller. Certainly for the first week of Marilyn’s visit she could do no wrong, but it quickly became apparent that the mood of reporters was beginning to change from one of excitement to one of impatience.

  The reason for this sudden downturn seems to be related to Marilyn and Arthur’s desire to have privacy during their stay in England. Whereas she had made herself freely available to reporters during the first few days, once the press conferences were over, she almost completely dropped from public view, preferring instead to spend time at home, learning her lines for The Prince and the Showgirl. The British reporters did not like this sudden bid for privacy and were quick to comment on it in the newspapers.

  Marilyn and Arthur had decided to spend the next weekend quietly at Parkside House, but quite bizarrely some members of the press took this stance to assume that Marilyn was now playing hard to get. They complained that not only had she stayed in her house whilst fans waited outside to see her, but had also changed her phone number to discourage unwanted calls. Added to this, when one reporter had his request for an interview turned down, it prompted some members of the press to compare Marilyn’s apparent aloofness with the friendliness of the English star, Diana Dors, who was in the United States at the time and giving many interviews, a lot of which had more than their share of questions about her ‘rival’. When asked about Marilyn, the blonde star stated quite plainly that she did not like to be compared to her. Talking to Art Buchwald she quipped: ‘The only similarity between us is that she’s a sex symbol of her country and I’m a sex symbol of mine.’

  Meanwhile, back in England, there were some extremely personal comments being leaked to the newspapers, such as allegations that the honeymooning Millers actually slept in separate bedrooms (housekeeper Dolly Stiles confirms that this rumour was untrue), and there was even an article published in the News Chronicle that described Marilyn as dowdy, with a spare tyre and crumpled clothes.

  During the weekend of 21–2 July, Oscar-winning cinematographer Jack Cardiff visited Marilyn in order to talk about his involvement with The Prince and the Showgirl. She knew all about his work and was very excited to meet him, and Cardiff later wrote that on meeting her, he was convinced he had just met an angel. While Marilyn couldn’t be described as an angel to work with, Cardiff always thought of her as a warm and lovely person, and was one of the only members of cast and crew to socialize with her off set. He gave her books to read, visited an art gallery with her and even accompanied her to a private screening of Bus Stop at the Fox offices in Soho Square.

  Despite members of the Weybridge Division of the Surrey Constabulary working shifts around the clock, and a personal bodyguard in the shape of PC Hunt, there was a major security issue one afternoon, when journalists somehow managed to gain access to the roof of Parkside House. Once there, one of the enterprising men held on to the feet of his friend and dangled him upside down outside Marilyn’s bedroom. The aim was to take a photograph of Marilyn in her bedroom, but they were out of luck; the pair were spotted and escorted off the premises before any disaster could occur.

  But it wasn’t just journalists causing concern. Fans continued to hide in the bushes and dozens of admirers crowded around the gates, hoping to catch a glimpse of Marilyn coming and going. One of these was Mr G. Pearson, who was fourteen years old in 1956 and spent most of his school holidays at Parkside House. He was thrilled when Marilyn waved to him on two occasions, but was later involved in a more dramatic incident that showed security at Parkside perhaps wasn’t as tight as it should have been. Mr Pearson remembered: ‘I was outside the gates with my friend, when a couple of reporters approached us, and asked if we would like to earn a large, silver coin. We stated the obvious “Yes”, but what did we have to do for such a sum of money? One of the reporters handed me an envelope and said, “Go in and give this letter to Marilyn.”

  The envelope just had “Miss M. Monroe” written on it. I remember we had to jump over the gates (about four to five foot high), as they were locked, and walked up to the house. Upon reaching the house we rang the bell, the door was opened by a maid and I said, “Would you give this letter to Marilyn please?” She then shut the door, and we waited.

  ‘Shortly after the door opened again, and we were confronted by Arthur Miller. He enquired as to how we got in, and who the letter was from. I answered that we had jumped over the gates and that a man had given us the letter. He then told us to go back the way we had come. His actual wording I cannot remember, but it was loud, abrasive and in words that I had heard adults use before.

  ‘We hastily retreated down the drive, and I do recall being photographed as we hurdled the white gates. The reporters then took details of what had happened and gave us half a crown each. As far as I am aware, a short report of the incident appeared in a national paper.’

  Another fan with a delivery for Marilyn was fifteen-year-old Michael Thornton, who went on to become a highly successful author and critic. Michael was staying with friends during the summer holidays when he heard that Marilyn had arrived. After some initial research he discovered her address and set off on his bike, complete with some hand-picked roses strapped to the handlebars: ‘On arrival in the tiny village of Englefield Green, my breathless enquiries to highly suspicious locals – already alienated by the descent of countless Fleet Street reporters – elicited the information that Parkside House was in Wick Lane, which I eventually found. The house was white, with tall white windows and white chimneys, extremely attractive and very secluded, with a long drive through trees and hedges. I parked my bike opposite the main entrance, undid the rapidly wilting roses, and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited.

  ‘In all, I think I must have been there for several hours, until finally a large black car drove up and turned into the drive. Inside I saw two men in the front (one the driver), and another man and two ladies in the back, one wearing a headscarf and large dark glasses. I later learned that next to the driver was a plain-clothes detective, that the man in the back was Arthur Mil
ler, and the second woman – rather plain, round-faced and dumpy – was Paula Strasberg. The figure in the headscarf and dark glasses was Marilyn.

  ‘I moved up the drive, into a position where they could all see me standing with my bunch of wilting roses. The policeman/detective came towards me, waving his hands, and said, “This is private property. You cannot come into the drive.” At that moment, the lady in the headscarf and dark glasses divested herself of both and became instantly recognizable as the devastating siren I had only lately seen in The Seven Year Itch. In her unmistakably breathy voice, she called: “Hey, don’t send him away.”

  ‘She came trotting forward in a rather tight dress and white high heels, moved around the police officer and said: “Hello, honey, are you waiting to see me?” (in a tone that suggested that was the most unlikely thing in the world). I was conscious of blushing, and stammered nervously: “Miss Monroe, I just wanted to say, ‘Welcome to England’, and to give you these,” and I handed her the wilting roses.

  ‘The expression on her face and in her eyes was as if I had handed her something priceless from Cartier. “Oh sweetheart, that is so lovely of you.” I noticed that her blonde hair was rather dishevelled – possibly the result of wearing a wig – and that her face and eyes had traces of screen make-up that had not been entirely removed. There was nothing grand or stand-offish about her. One might have thought she had never been given flowers before in her life, and her simplicity of manner certainly did not suggest that this was the most famous woman in the world.

  ‘Behind her I saw her stern-faced husband, in heavy hornrimmed glasses, glowering and frowning at this encounter. He then called out to her in a very autocratic voice: “Will you come into the house now please?” “How old are you honey?” she asked. “I’m fifteen,” I said. “Fifteen? And you went to all this trouble to bring me these? I’m going to go and put them in water right away. Thank you, my darling.”

  ‘She turned towards the detective, then turned back, and to my amazement, she planted a very gentle kiss full on my lips – the sort of innocent kiss a child might give. “Bye bye honey,” she called as she walked away, leaving me in a state of surreal disbelief.

  ‘The detective said: “Don’t go telling your schoolfriends where the house is, will you?” I promised I wouldn’t.’

  On 9 July, shortly before the Millers arrived in England, Vivien and Laurence Olivier sent a letter to ask if the couple would like to attend a party given in their honour. The get-together eventually took place on Tuesday, 24 July, and was hosted by Terence Rattigan at Little Court, his home in Sunningdale, Berkshire. It was a lavish affair that included a hundred guests, twenty chauffeurs, waiters, a porter, a chef and a huge candelabra hired specifically for the occasion. The garden was adorned by fairy lights and the whole atmosphere was one of romance and enchantment. The drinks bill, which came to £103, included forty-two bottles of champagne, seven bottles of Gordon’s gin, two bottles of sherry and various other items.

  The guest list for the party consisted of such luminaries as Alec Guinness, Dame Margot Fonteyn, John Gielgud, Richard Wattis and Douglas Fairbanks Jr, but the person everyone had come to see was, of course, Marilyn Monroe. Everyone that is, except a policeman by the name of PC Packham, who had been asked to stand at the gate of Rattigan’s house to check invitations and prevent gatecrashers.

  Unfortunately for PC Packham, the young constable hadn’t been told Marilyn was on the guest list, so when her car pulled up, he treated it like any other and asked to see the invitation. Newspapers took great delight the next day in describing how the policeman had never heard of Marilyn Monroe and hadn’t recognized her in the back of the car. However, PC Packham’s version of events differs greatly from the exaggerations of the newspapers: ‘The peace was shattered when what was clearly a VIP limo travelling from the Sunningdale direction, swung into the drive to stop abruptly at my feet. Some lunatic immediately leapt from the nearside front passenger seat and, actually brandishing an empty wine glass in my face, told me aggressively to get out of the way. It was, to say the least, an unusual greeting; neither did his arrival inspire confidence regarding the other occupants of the car. I relieved him of the wine glass and was desirous of knowing what precisely he was up to. “It’s Marilyn, you fool,” he hissed, “Get out of the way.”

  ‘Of course! In a blinding flash of the absolute obvious the penny dropped. Everyone in England must surely have known that Marilyn was in town. The tabloids were full of it.

  ‘I looked in at the open door of the limo. It was, of course, Marilyn and, had any further proof been necessary, she was accompanied by her then husband, Arthur Miller. I told the driver to carry on, closed the door, and they sped away without the little dogsbody, or whatever he was. He was last seen hoofing it up the long drive to the house, muttering as he went dire imprecations on all coppers.

  ‘Press cars which had tailed the limo down the A30 had by then been bumped up on to the grass verges at the side of the main road, their occupants coming hot-foot to join the fray. They were a trifle late, for their real quarry had by then sped off, but they were not too late to weave their usual fairy tales. The tabloids’ following day’s accounts were founded principally on the story of one of “yer ole tyme rural bobbies” who spoke with a rich West Country accent, called men “Zur”, and didn’t know Marilyn. Any semblance of accuracy in their reports was purely coincidental.’

  An exaggerated version of the night’s events soon reached PC Packham’s boss, Sergeant Gray, who was told, incorrectly, that his constable had been threatened with a broken wine glass. This led Terence Rattigan to send a letter to Sergeant Gray, thanking him for the handling of the difficult situation, and enclosing a £10 cheque to be donated to a charity of his choice.

  Thankfully for everyone who had come to see her, Marilyn finally entered the party, wearing a dress very similar to the one she was to wear in The Prince and the Showgirl. Looking happy and relaxed, Mr and Mrs Miller made a big impact on the other party guests and danced cheek-to-cheek during George and Ira Gershwin’s ‘Embraceable you’. Sir John Gielgud remembered: ‘Marilyn wore an Edwardian dress – she had, I think, worn it in the tests for the film – and she held court in a tent in the garden, where everyone queued up to shake her hand. As I was speaking to her, a rather formidable-looking lady in black suddenly appeared at Marilyn’s side and introduced herself as Louella Parsons. Arthur Miller kept at a discreet distance. I had no opportunity of talking further with Marilyn, but remember how graceful she looked, dancing with Terry Rattigan as I took my departure.’

  Marilyn made an impression on everyone who attended the party, and Terence Rattigan received a great many letters after the event, thanking him for his hospitality and commenting on the famous guest. Marilyn herself was thrilled to have the party thrown for her, and wrote a very poetic letter on Parkside House stationery, thanking her host for the party, and commenting on the memorable Charleston, which she danced with him.

  Chapter 16

  Sir Laurence and the Showgirl

  Rehearsals for The Prince and the Showgirl finished on 3 August, and filming began on the 7th. Marilyn later described her role as ‘an actress from six in the morning until noon, and a producer during lunch. Then I was an actress the rest of the afternoon – and a producer from 6.30 until 9 p.m. when we looked over the day’s rushes.’

  For the first two-and-a-half weeks, Marilyn reported for work every day but her punctuality left something to be desired. At no time during those first weeks was she on time, and she repeatedly kept her co-stars waiting, so that by the time the film finally wrapped in mid-November, she had been on time on just three occasions, out of a total of fifty-three days on set.

  That said, although she was continually late throughout the shoot, she doesn’t deserve many of the stories that have been written about her lateness over the years. Various tales have been woven about Marilyn keeping cast and crew waiting until late afternoon while she went cycling with her husband.
However, on 9 January 1957, a document was written that detailed what time Marilyn arrived each day. Yes, she was continually late, but on most occasions it was less than an hour. Furthermore, according to the document, the latest Marilyn ever showed was on 30 October, when she arrived at 12.35 for a 10.30 call-time.

  From the beginning, Marilyn’s ‘Method’ approach to acting clashed with Olivier’s classically trained ideas. When he apparently told her to ‘Be sexy’, it put her on edge; she had no idea what Olivier meant by this comment, and despite reassurances from her friends, her confidence never recovered. From that moment on, she referred to him as ‘Mister Sir’.

  Marilyn did, however, get one-up on Olivier when she discovered that someone in the crew – she suspected it was Olivier himself – was running a book on how many takes she would need for a fairly tricky scene. Pianist Alan remembers: ‘Marilyn got wind of this and was not amused at the overt insult to her capabilities . . .’

  She went home and studied hard so that on the day of shooting she was more than prepared. She delivered the line and then left the room, closing the door behind her as directed. However, within seconds the door flew open again and Marilyn stuck her head through the gap. ‘Pretty good huh?’ she exclaimed, before shutting the door for a final time. This line was not in the script and was an obvious dig at those who doubted her ability to do the scene. However, it fitted in so well that it wasn’t reshot and can now be seen in the final cut.

  Marilyn’s continued distrust of her director made her reliance on acting coach Paula Strasberg even more apparent, and completely alienated her from other actors on the set. Whenever Olivier cried ‘Cut’, Marilyn was ushered away to discuss the scene and to rest, and on one occasion, when the director was in mid-sentence, Marilyn turned to her drama coach to ask what he was talking about. At one point Olivier became so enraged by Strasberg that he had her removed from the set, but his satisfaction was short-lived when an enraged Marilyn stormed to her dressing room, refusing to return until Strasberg was reinstalled.