by Donald Spoto
LIKE THAT of Audrey Hepburn and Jacqueline Onassis, Grace’s stardom depended on a mysterious amalgam of presence and reserve—of accessibility and distance. These women gave themselves to the camera, but they knew that they had to hold something of themselves back. This was not hypocrisy—it was merely self-preservation.
Stardom or no, these women did not enjoy unalloyed bliss in their marriages. For a period in the 1970s, friends of the Grimaldis knew that the couple had grown apart. “There’s absolutely no doubt about that,” said Gwen Robyns, who knew Grace well. “They put up a façade that they were together, but they were not.” Grace loved ballet, opera, theatre and the arts, and she had a serious interest in horticulture that extended farther than the occasional pastime of a wealthy matron. Rainier, meanwhile, was preoccupied with matters of state and finance—he had to keep Monaco running.
Whatever her private difficulties, her beauty remained undiminished. When the writer Roderick Mann asked Grace the secret of her beauty at the time of her fortieth birthday, she replied that she never thought of herself as “a great beauty. I think I’m quite nice-looking, but that’s about it. Frankly, I’ve always hated being known for my looks. I’d much rather be known for my ability. One of my few regrets is that I wasn’t able to develop more fully as an actress. I stopped acting before I could do that. But that was my choice. I just hope I’ve developed as a person, instead. That’s what’s important to me—to fulfill my role as a wife and mother and princess—not [to be] beautiful, but whether I have more character than I used to [have].” She was not, she added, “terribly pleased at being forty … because I feel I should be so much more grown-up and wiser about the world than I am.”
By 1980 the Grimaldis were, according to Robyns, “enjoying one another on a completely different level from before.” However tested the marriage had been, “it was certainly going to work out for the future.” Grace was “the pivot and center of that family, and no one realized how much she had given all of them until she was gone.” Those were sentiments with which Grace’s longtime friends wholly agreed; they were never out of the orbit of her life for very long.
The entire program of her private and public life was not easy. She had left everything—her family, her country, her friends and her profession—and she had left them for something of which she knew absolutely nothing. For years she had to fit in, submit, make do, conform, deny herself, learn a language and antique customs, and do everything with a smile. The births of her children gave her the most joy and sense of purpose, just as her several miscarriages pitched her into black depressions from which she emerged only after many months of withdrawal from public appearances.
EPISODES OF profound depression were infrequent. But there were many periods of melancholy and of loneliness, despite her efforts and her good works, and these feelings came upon her more often as the years passed. As early as the autumn of 1965, at the time of her thirty-sixth birthday, she told an interviewer, “I don’t expect to be happy, and I don’t look for happiness. So perhaps I am content in life, in a way. I understand myself, but I also argue with myself, all the time. So I guess I’m not really at peace. But I have many unfulfilled ambitions in life, and if I can keep my health and strength and manage to pull myself out of bed in the morning, some of them may be realized.” After 1970, letters to friends were often pointed requests for news “of where I am not,” and mild complaints that she felt “out of things.”
At such times, she turned to her friends and her faith. “She was basically a deeply religious person,” Rita Gam said, “and she understood the true role of religion in modern life. She did everything by example, to make it important for others, without referring to any particular denomination. And she had no neurotic religious guilt. She was very tolerant of people, and very liberal—not politically, but humanly. That was a part of her authentic piety.”
Grace’s melancholy and her loneliness derived from the fact that she desperately missed her career—especially after her children were grown and were away at school. She might indeed have “hated” Hollywood, as she said. But she also “loved acting,” and she retained, as she always said, happy memories of the work, which outweighed her unpleasant recollections of the place.
Despite Rainier’s early insistence that she give up her career, Grace never believed that her “Mediterranean husband, the head man, the one who says yes or no” would impose a permanent ban. “She never thought she would have to give up acting forever,” Rita continued, “and she often spoke about finding the right moment to return to the movies. With each year, she missed it more and more, something awful. She needed some of her old life back, and she was hungry for good conversation.”
In June 1962, Rita won the best actress award at the Berlin Film Festival for her performance in No Exit, and after the honors she visited Grace in Monaco. “Her excitement about my success typified all that was so special about her. But I sensed behind her loving and generous celebration a tinge of actor’s envy.” That same year, the photographer Eve Arnold came to Monaco to work on a CBS documentary. “I got the distinct feeling that Grace felt trapped,” Arnold recalled. “It wasn’t the fairy tale one had expected.” As Oleg Cassini later said, “They were living in a gilded cage, but she wanted to be respected as an actress.”
Alfred Hitchcock had the impression that “there would be a temporary interval [in her movie acting] after her marriage and the birth of a few required children—but then we would welcome the return of the native.”
Hitch’s plan to bring her back took the form of offering Grace the title role in Marnie, in 1962. She accepted—and then reneged. The fact itself is well known, but the reasons for Grace’s sudden withdrawal, and the timing of it, have been misrepresented for decades.
Many explanations have been put forward, some of them partly supported by Rainier’s account and others fabricated whole sale by inventive writers. The actual situation can be properly understood only by considering the timeline of events.
On the afternoon of March 19, 1962, a palace spokesman announced that Her Serene Highness would travel with her husband and children to the United States from August to November that year for the filming of Alfred Hitchcock’s motion picture Marnie. No other details were mentioned. This news broke in America the next day, when the New York Times reported it, along with a photograph of the Princess of Monaco and a comment from Hitchcock that he very much looked forward “to making a movie again with Miss Kelly, who is a wonderful actress.” This was, according to the later conventional wisdom, the news story that at once evoked the wrath of the Monégasque people and that forced Rainier to tell his wife to abandon her plans, for it was considered unseemly for their princess to play the role of a frigid compulsive thief, and to appear in love scenes with the actor Sean Connery.
But such objections were never raised, nor could they have been: no one knew at the time what Marnie was to be about, and Connery had not even been mentioned for the role of Marnie’s husband. “Grace told me,” recalled her friend Jacqueline Monsigny, “that at the time of the Marnie debacle, Rainier never told her to withdraw, he never forbade her participation—nor was there any public outcry. As Grace told us, ‘It was I who decided not to do it.’”
The fact is that Grace did not withdraw from the picture until June 6; an interview with her to that effect appeared in the newspaper Nice-Matin the next day, in which she simply confirmed that she had informed Hitchcock of her withdrawal around June 1. As for the public’s opinion of her original plan to appear in the movie, Grace mentioned only “an unfavorable reaction,” without adding specifics.
Rainier had from the start supported his wife’s decision to accept Hitchcock’s offer. “She and I talked about it,” he said in 1997. “We also talked to Hitchcock about it. She was very anxious to get back into the swing of things, and by that point, I didn’t see anything wrong with it.” In fact, Rainier suggested that since Grace would be working during the summer and autumn, he and the children co
uld accompany her for a family holiday—which would serve the double function of stifling any hypothetical rumors (1) of his disapproval and (2) of any marital problems prompting Grace’s return, alone, to Hollywood. Grace then announced that her fee for the film would go to a charity for destitute children. As for her credit in the film and in advertising, Rainier saw no problem in her billing as Grace Kelly, “because that’s the name she worked under.”
But after March 19, there were exchanges of both phone calls and letters between Hitch and Grace, detailing the problems of timing—of producing Marnie that autumn.
On March 19, when the original announcement was made, Hitch was about to direct The Birds, which began principal photography the following Monday, March 22. On Tuesday, Hitchcock’s office announced that Marnie would have to be postponed for at least a year.
There were several reasons for this delay.
First of all, The Birds was the most technically challenging picture of Hitchcock’s career, and soon it was very clear that the picture would not be completed until July at the earliest. But in a sense, that was only the beginning—the picture would require eight months of postproduction, editing, laboratory work, special effects and sound scoring. The Birds was not released until late March 1963.
Another problem that delayed Marnie was the screenplay, based on Winston Graham’s recently published novel in England. First, Joseph Stefano, who had written the screenplay for Hitch’s Psycho, had written a treatment. His version was considered and rejected, and Evan Hunter, who wrote the script for The Birds, then accepted the job and began working with Hitchcock. But writer and director seriously disagreed about both character and plot, and to Hunter’s astonishment, he was informed that he was fired, and that airline tickets for him and his family to return to their home on the East Coast could be collected the following day.
From that point, Marnie was the most troubled of Hitchcock’s movies. Jay Presson Allen, a novice screenwriter, was hired at a bargain rate, the writing of the screenplay plodded along by fits and starts—and Marnie, it was clear, would not begin filming for over a year. In fact, the first scenes were not filmed until November 1963, and the picture was released during the summer of 1964.
Of themselves, these postponements would not have made Grace’s participation impossible. Why, then, did she so abruptly withdraw in early June 1962? The main reason was never given, but it can be pieced together by a careful study of certain vital correspondence.
In early April, after she had accepted Hitch’s offer, Grace had learned that she was pregnant, and in mid-June she miscarried. On July 9 she wrote to Prudy Wise that she “had the great sadness of losing the baby two weeks ago [i.e., in mid-June]. It was just at the three-month mark. It was a terrible experience and has left me shaken both mentally and physically.” (She suffered a total of three miscarriages.) “The three-month mark” would place the conception in mid-to late March. This explains Grace’s acceptance of Hitchcock’s offer on March 19, before she knew of her pregnancy; it also justified her decision to withdraw on June 1, after the pregnancy had been confirmed but was not going well. An August commencement of Marnie (which of course never occurred) would have then been impossible.
For all her talent, it must also be said that Grace would have been wrong for this picture. But the outcome of this debacle was fortunate for both the movie and its eventual star. The role went to Tippi Hedren, who had no prior public image to overcome. Grace’s performance would have brought legions to the box office—but it would have been impossible to believe her in the role of a frigid compulsive thief, and audiences would have been merely watching the Princess of Monaco—twice a mother by 1963—playing the part. How did she look, how did she speak? How much did she resemble the Grace of 1956? Tippi Hedren, on the other hand, had acted previously only in The Birds, and audiences easily accepted her convincing portrait of a strange and finally sympathetic woman named Marnie—a role, not incidentally, that she performed to perfection.
The matter of Grace’s pregnancy was not considered appropriate to be made public, so the official reason for her withdrawal was later given as an outcry from the Monégasque press, and from certain citizens who thought that Grace’s participation in Marnie heralded her permanent return to Hollywood. That would have been unacceptable, and Rainier’s advisers would have counseled strongly against such a step, which would, some said, have delighted the French president, Charles de Gaulle, by its implication of trouble in paradise.
The political situation involving de Gaulle and Rainier was later given as another reason for her withdrawal. De Gaulle’s government was locked in a proverbial battle royal with Rainier. The French president was insisting upon the cancellation of a 1951 convention governing French-Monégasque relations so that taxes could be levied against French residents in Monaco, and the revenue be forwarded to Paris. Rainier refused to leave the principality while the matter remained unsettled, and he preferred that his wife remain at home, too, for de Gaulle had threatened to cut off Monaco’s water, electricity and telephone services, all of which were supplied and controlled across the French border. Grace joined her husband in the standoff with de Gaulle, and they remained in the palace until the dispute was settled—in Rainier’s favor, as it turned out. But this political situation did not occur until later in the year, after she had already turned down the role because of pregnancy.
On June 18, 1962, more than two weeks after she informed Hitch of her withdrawal from Marnie, Grace wrote a letter of apology: “It was heartbreaking for me to have to leave the picture. I was so excited about doing it and particularly about working with you again. When we meet I would like to explain to you all of the reasons, which is difficult to do by letter or through a third party. It is unfortunate that it had to happen this way and I am deeply sorry—Thank you, dear Hitch, for being so understanding and helpful. I hate disappointing you. I also hate the fact that there are probably many other ‘cattle’ who could play the part equally as well—despite that, I hope to remain one of your ‘sacred cows.’—With deep affection, Grace.”
Hitch’s handwritten reply arrived a week later: “Yes, it was sad, wasn’t it. I was looking forward so much to the fun and pleasure of our doing a picture again. Without a doubt, I think you made not only the best decision, but the only one. After all, it was ‘only a movie.’ Alma joins me in sending our most fondest and affectionate thoughts for you.—Hitch.
“P.S. Enclosed is a recording I have made for R. to be played privately.—H.”1*
THERE WAS some saber rattling from Hollywood. Joseph R. Vogel, then president of Metro, had read that Hitch wanted Grace for a movie, and wrote, from his headquarters in New York City, on March 28:
“When Miss Kelly left the country to become Princess Grace there were four and one-half years unfulfilled on her contract [with Metro]. The unexpired portion of her contract represented and represents an important but unused asset of this company…. As an illustration of how our interests were adversely affected by our inability to avail ourselves of Miss Kelly’s services, James Stewart, Joshua Logan [as director] and Miss Kelly were cast and set for Designing Woman. Miss Kelly then withdrew and this package … was upset. Instead, substitutes had to be made hastily with unsatisfactory results. Since that time, we have respected Princess Grace’s retirement. Furthermore, when she requested, we consented to her appearance in the documentary film Invitation to Monte Carlo.
“So long as Princess Grace remained in retirement, we felt that we had little alternative but to sit by with an unfilled commitment, although I did call on her in 1960 to endeavor to accomplish the very thing you appear to have been successful in doing, if the press reports are true. While the return of Princess Grace to the motion picture scene is most welcome, we do believe that in all sense of fairness and equity, her return should be made with the participation of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.
“I must say in all sincerity that there are very few, if any, independent producers whose standards and integri
ty are such that I feel I could write in this vein. I shall appreciate your consideration of the foregoing and would be very pleased to hear from you.”
Hitchcock replied on April 5: “Thank you for your letter of March 28. As the matter of the picture with Princess Grace has only just arisen so far as I’m concerned, I’m afraid that it would be premature for me to discuss it at this time. May I communicate with you further when the various matters connected with the preparations for this picture are resolved?”
“FOLLOWING THIS episode,” according to an account authorized by the palace many years later, “she was very sad and stayed locked in her room for several days.” For years afterward, her family sensed Grace’s regret at giving up her film career. “At different times, she felt she would have liked to do something more, and that she didn’t finish what she had set out to do,” said her son. Among Grace’s unfinished projects included two plays. She told her friend Gant Gaither she would love to play the title role in Hedda Gabler as the young girl she felt Hedda should be; another was the lead in Uncle George’s Behold the Bridegroom, which had once been successful for Judith Anderson on Broadway.
Her screen appearances after 1962 were limited to narrating travelogue documentaries about Monaco or the palace, and a voice-over narration for The Children of Theatre Street, in 1976. This was a noble but tedious exploration of the difficulties imposed on children as they struggle to pursue a successful career in Leningrad at the Vaganova Choreographic Institute, one of the finest ballet schools in the world. (The documentary was nominated for an Academy Award.) Then, in early 1980, she narrated a religious film of Bible readings, and in 1982 she again hosted two brief religious programs of readings and hymns (“The Nativity” and “The Seven Last Words”). In all these, Grace recited her lines with unaffected sentiment and looked more like an ordinary, devout pilgrim than like a princess. “She looked incredibly beautiful and she was, as always, totally professional and marvelous to everyone,” according to producer Frank O’Connor.
