Crypt 33

by Adela Gregory

  One month later at a press conference in New York in February 1956, Miss Monroe rose to what she considered the pinnacle of her acting career, announcing that she would be collaborating with the greatest actor of our times, the master of the classics, Sir Laurence Olivier. The Sleeping Prince was the vehicle that Olivier hoped would rejuvenate his sagging career. The worldwide publicity resulting from working with a star of Monroe’s magnitude would undoubtedly send his box-office revenues soaring, or so he thought.

  The press that usually kowtowed to the actress now opposed her, making insidious remarks about her new image, which projected confidence, intelligence, strength, and power. They much preferred the insecure innocent turned dumb sexy blonde. So the press attacked her. After a press conference at which the spaghetti straps on her dress broke and had to be pinned together, they thrashed her suggestive sexuality. They laughed about her wish to play Grushenka, a character created by Dostoyevsky. They quizzed her spelling, and she flunked. They no longer felt sorry for the woman who wanted success. Now that she was finally successful and attempting to assert her independence and self-assurance, they treated her like any adversary on the field of battle. She emerged from the conference visibly shaken and feeling defeated and betrayed.

  Fortunately, she was on the heels of Bus Stop, and Joshua Logan, who had followed the Stanislavsky teachings, was her amiable director. The Broadway director of South Pacific and Mister Roberts, Logan patiently watched and waited for the actor’s moment of truth; in effect, allowing his performers to inwardly direct themselves through a scene. Logan believed Marilyn was as near a genius as any actress he knew. Her approach to her Bus Stop character Cherie was her own conception, inspiring other actors and even writer George Axelrod to change dialogue to fit her suggestions.

  Reminiscent of Chaplin and Garbo, Marilyn molded Cherie within the interwoven bounds of tragedy and comedy. Cherie was a role that touched her on many levels. She identified completely with Cherie, an illiterate hillbilly devoid of self-esteem who dreams of making it big in Hollywood. Marilyn plunged into the role more deeply than any other she had ever done, living the character day in and day out for weeks at a time. At thirty years of age, the deeply insecure Marilyn already felt middle-aged. Her body was not quite as firm, her skin was drying, and stretch marks were appearing on her hips. But Marilyn nevertheless requested that her makeup adhere rigidly to the gritty, chalky white realism of her character, a very harrowing effect for the fair-skinned blonde and a daring choice for someone afraid of losing her trademarked beauty. She even went so far as to cut up the wonderfully designed costumes to make them look tacky. Gone was that fresh innocence from her round face. She accepted that competing with young women was hopeless, and though playing a scene with a youthful Hope Lange intimidated her, she played it real anyway.

  During the casting of her male lead, she worried she would appear too old for her young, strapping beau—that he might be as hopelessly miscast as costar Donald O’Connor had been in Show Business. She hemmed and hawed about Rock Hudson as the lead. The president of Monroe Productions left New York for Los Angeles still not knowing who her costar would be. Marilyn favored an unknown. By now more confident in her business ability, Monroe hired Paula Strasberg as her on-the-set coach during filming. She had become disappointed and disillusioned with Natasha Lytess’s character and style, so she was cold and abrupt when she handed Natasha her long overdue walking papers. Lytess had been a burden for years, and now, with a more qualified coach who nurtured and supported her current training, Marilyn finally freed herself of Natasha’s hold.

  The “new” Marilyn was again promoted by Twentieth, when the studio gave a party on her behalf. Chic and tastefully dressed, the actress exhibited the qualities of a confident businesswoman. New York’s women with their fashion sense, and Amy Greene’s suggestions, were pumping style into the actress. With her first taste of arrogance, gone was her self-effacing humility.

  Bowing to adversity was a family tradition, but Marilyn had refused to succumb. She had overcome tremendous opposition and become a success against long odds.

  After finally casting an unknown actor, one who could not upstage the actress, production was set to start. An impetuous Marilyn displayed confidence while meeting the film crew and Buddy Adler, who was in awe of Monroe. Though she was clearly in control of every aspect of film production, she did not lose perspective. Rather than appear flawed and frail as the role required, many vain actresses would want to look their most glamorous, thus destroying the integrity of the part, but Monroe extracted the minutest detail to find the reality in her character, checking her motivation in every scene and sacrificing her looks for authenticity.

  The front office was not pleased to see Marilyn so bent on realism. Her superior beauty was her claim to fame and what attracted men to her in the first place. Her male fans wanted to see a woman of perfection, not some tarnished doll. Marilyn insisted she play the character her way and Logan backed her efforts. But sometimes her obsessive efforts to look the part interfered with Logan’s timing. While the actress was still in makeup creating the pasty look, she was due on the set for a critical scene. An impatient Logan and cinematographer Krasner needed to catch “the magic hour” sunlight at 6:30 P.M. in order to make the scene appear on film as though it was the middle of the night, thus saving an entire day of shooting by avoiding a grueling night session. After calling for Marilyn three times, the director himself went to her dressing room, interrupted her using sense memory techniques, grabbed her by the arm, and literally dragged her onto the set just in the nick of time. Logan was increasingly unnerved as the actress repeatedly forgot her lines, feigning fear as her excuse. She would easily lose it when uncomfortable with another actor, or when an especially tight spot was chosen and she felt her designated marks confined her too much. She would then surprise everyone and cry real tears instead of the glycerin required by other performers.

  In the meantime, Marilyn and Arthur Miller had decided to tie the knot. Both wanted a shortcut. Monroe suggested that he either go to Las Vegas or Reno for a divorce from Mary. Miller chose Pyramid Lake in Nevada, surrounding himself by the isolation and destitution of the nearby Paiute Indian reservation.

  Other divorce hopefuls had gathered in this dismal setting, which inspired the ill-fated screenplay, The Misfits. Ironically this same Godforsaken land that brought Marilyn and Arthur together would eventually tear them apart. Miller had no way then of knowing the damning effect of his actions. He observed a troubled couple, the man a horsebreeder who allowed his unbridled stable to graze near the lake. That and the color changes of the mountain range from magenta to gray were nearly the only exterior events that permeated the writer’s thoughts. In solitude Miller anxiously awaited the end of the six weeks required for divorce while his fiancee completed Bus Stop. Miller had been swept away by Marilyn and her charms and thought a lot about her and their planned marriage. At first he figured he would be able to write prolifically in such a stoic, barren environment. But the only things that came easily were his regular long, brooding silences, broken only by desperate calls in the middle of the night from Marilyn. She panicked that her performance was poor and the pressure of being both producer and actress was intolerable. “Oh, Papa, I can’t make it, I can’t make it!” she cried to him over the phone. Marilyn had already accepted the father-daughter quality of the relationship. But Miller transformed quickly from the concerned benevolent father to a disapproving, withholding, passive-aggressive one. Even from the beginning, Miller was unable to give Marilyn the support she needed. He wanted to help, but he couldn’t find the right comforting words. As a man who was used to receiving love, support, and nurturing, he was unable to suddenly reverse roles. It was too early in the relationship for Marilyn to comprehend how little she would get from her husband-to-be. What he was able to give to her then at least was his patience and good listening skills during her middle-of-the-night ravings—“I can’t fight them alone, I want to live wi
th you in the country and be a good wife....” Her pleading only reinforced Miller’s desire to save the damsel in distress. But each day grew more taxing.

  Another sign of personal disaster was looming as the day of redemption was nigh. While Miller waited in an office full of cowboys for his attorney to finish preparing the divorce papers, the lawyer peered from behind his doorway to inform him that an investigator from the House Un-American Activities Committee had been trailing him. His gift on this day of reckoning was a subpoena. Arthur’s divorce attorney suggested he escape through the office back door, but the writer refused. A cowboy named Carl Royce even offered to transport him by a private plane to his Texas ranch, but again Miller declined. Arthur Miller had to be aware that his wife-to-be, the most famous, most glamorous woman alive, would invariably suffer the brunt of the negative publicity for his being labeled a Communist. William Wheeler, the Committee’s clever investigator, was sent to Nevada. He got his man. Wheeler hinted at leniency if Miller would “squeal” on other known sympathizers within the film community.

  Although no longer believing in the Communist myth, Miller refused to divulge the names of those who still did, saying that he “simply could not believe that anything he knew or any individual he could name was in the remotest sense a danger to democracy in America.” Wheeler could do nothing more, for the time being.

  When the divorce from his wife was granted, Miller returned to Marilyn’s apartment on Sutton Place, where photographers and reporters would begin their stakeouts as early as 8 A.M. Monroe did not pay them any mind, purposely dressing in dirty sweaters and loose jeans, with knotted bandanas wrapped around her head.

  Without notice, then-president of Twentieth Spyros Skouras dropped by one day, wanting Miller’s full cooperation with HUAC. He feared for his studio. To most people Arthur appeared to be a Communist Party sympathizer, and the president did not want Miller’s political affiliations to ruin Twentieth’s box-office potential, especially that of its biggest star. Skouras knew that anti-Communists picketed local movie theaters where certain films were playing and hoped to prevent such incidents altogether. With a reputation of working over his “subjects,” Spyros endeavored to charm his actress. With Miss Monroe still at odds with the studio chief, his acts of persuasion were more difficult. Monroe pushed Miller to comply with Spyros’s plea. But Arthur Miller was not dissuaded, even by Marilyn.

  Arthur Miller hired attorneys from Paul, Weiss, Wharton, and Garrison. Moments before he was to appear, his combative lawyer, Joseph L. Rauh, Jr., offered Miller an alternative to testifying. Chairman of the committee Francis E. Walter of Pennsylvania had requested a photo of himself and Marilyn in a handshake in exchange for cancellation of the hearing. Miller again refused.

  Richard Arens began the interrogation by reading a six-inch stack of petitions signed by Miller during his earlier, more rebellious years. From protests to release prisoners to appeals for friendship with Russia, Miller had signed hundreds of documents. As Arens read off the innumerable declarations, Miller was amazed how few he remembered signing. The repetition of the number of petitions only served to show the committee that the playwright was indeed a communist sympathizer. The countless dozens of reporters and foreign journalists gave Miller glaring looks throughout the proceedings. Previously Europeans gave Arthur Miller’s plays their highest respect. Only a handful of American playwrights were admired for their works, and he had been one of them. Even Washington’s best reporter, I. F Stone, was at Miller’s throat.

  Arens particularly questioned Miller about the Ezra Pound issue. Pound had been arrested during World War II for broadcasting and writing for Mussolini in attempts to demoralize American troops fighting in Germany and Italy. Miller expressed his opinion that Pound had committed an act of treason and “that he should be treated like anybody else would be had they committed such a treasonous crime.” Arens reflected that his opinions appeared to be quite contradictory to his claims of freedom of speech. Gorden Scherer, a representative from Cincinnati, asked whether “a Communist who is a poet should have the right to advocate the overthrow of this government by force and violence in his literature or poetry?”

  Miller replied that “a man should have the right to write a poem about anything.” Scherer, receiving the answer he was searching for, threw his hands up in disgust, concluding, “What more do we have to ask?” But Miller justified his inconsistency by feebly attempting to distinguish between writing a poem and broadcasting to American troops in efforts to undermine morale in wartime, adding that the latter was abhorrent.

  When asked to identify other writers present in the same room, Miller flatly refused, leaving himself open to going to jail. Luckily for Miller and Marilyn, the Committee hesitated to indict Miller on his refusal to identify known Communists, but covertly decided to keep an open FBI file on him. The Federal Bureau of Investigation also opened a running file on his soon-to-be-wife, Marilyn Monroe.

  After the tedious filmmaking process, and the release of Bus Stop, reviewers finally agreed that Marilyn Monroe exhibited the talent of a fine actress, comparing her to Garbo and Pola Negri. It was the first time they acknowledged she had talent and not just beauty. But still no Oscar nomination was forthcoming. Instead the Academy nominated newcomer Don Murray for his role in the film. Ingrid Bergman won the Oscar in 1956 for Anastasia. A disheartened Marilyn Monroe concluded that her peers were still not taking her seriously. In reality, academy members may have been merely intimidated and overwhelmed by her sheer beauty, sensuality, ability as an actress, and her newly cultivated capacity to produce a critically acclaimed, commercially successful film.

  During June 1956 Miller took Marilyn Monroe home to meet his mother. Marilyn Monroe romanticized that she had already reached the pinnacle of her career and was now willing to retire, settle down to play house with the famous writer, and bear him lots of children. His family lived near Avenue M in Flatbush, Brooklyn. This time she was certain to dress innocuously. The high-collar shirt, loose fitting skirt, and little makeup would do. Marilyn Monroe looked like the girl every man wanted to bring home to Mama. She felt so honored to meet his family that she vowed to convert to Judaism, as Elizabeth Taylor and Carroll Baker had done for their husbands. Marilyn Monroe knew she would have to be an “accommodating” housewife if she ever expected her mother-in-law to accept her. Arthur’s new shikseh wife-to-be ingratiated herself with Mrs. Miller by mastering the family recipes for borscht, chopped liver, and matzoh ball soup. Miller had pleased Marilyn Monroe by making the break from his wife and family with the quickie Nevada divorce, and she was rewarding him.

  At mid-June 1956, the news of their engagement had not yet been leaked to the press. But then the New York Post headlined that the couple would be exchanging vows before July 16, when Marilyn Monroe was scheduled to leave for England to shoot The Prince and the Showgirl. Immediately after the story ran, photographers and reporters planted themselves around the clock outside her apartment on Sutton Place. Miller fled earlier, but for another reason. He was being called in front of another committee in Washington, this one investigating unlawful use of passports. He was required to sign a State Department declaration that he was not a Communist. With no current income, Miller asked his fiancee once again to pay his attorney fees, which she promptly did. Marilyn Monroe had bought her own Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright! The shrewd attorney representing him before the State Department was able to secure his passport to travel to London with his soon-to-be bride.

  Monroe and Miller returned to their Roxbury, Connecticut, house only to encounter more publicity hounds staked out on their lawn. Newsreel men were competing to place their cameras in strategic positions. More than four hundred reporters clamored for the couple, asking rude questions while insisting that they pose for press shots. Marilyn was doing her demure act, snuggling up to her fiancee at the request of the photographers; she demonstrated self-confidence and dignity by refusing to even address their disrespectful and discourteous queries
. She was growing accustomed to dealing with the annoying press, but Miller was visibly flustered by the reporters’ insolence. The playwright had stepped into a glass house to live with Marilyn Monroe. His patience would wear thin as the marriage progressed.

  On the next day, Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller were married in the home of his agent, Kay Brown, by Rabbi Robert Goldberg in a double-ring ceremony with rings purchased from Cartier. Within days, she and her third husband flew off to London to start filming with Olivier. The Millers arrived in Heathrow Airport to mobs of fans crowding to see the American goddess and her erudite author husband. The Seven Year Itch had been a sensation in Britain. Amid the clamor, Olivier and his wife, actress Vivien Leigh, greeted the Millers with their limousine. Unflustered by hordes of hysterical fans, Marilyn focused on her impending work.

  Miller seemed preoccupied with his career and perennial search for a new director to revive his play A View From the Bridge. The Millers were driven to Ascot where Lord North, publisher of the Financial Times, had arranged living quarters for them in a large drafty “cottage” adjacent to Windsor Park, the vast estate surrounding the Queen’s Royal Castle. Parkside House in Englefield Green was not what the newlyweds had expected. Marilyn immediately despised the immense mansion. Without delay, the press pounced on the exhausted couple, releasing astonishingly favorable reviews regarding her beauty and dissecting her every answer to their prying questions.

  Early the first morning, Olivier came around to visit and show Marilyn Edith Head’s sketches of her costumes and the art director’s set designs. Still recovering from being rejected and overlooked at the Oscars for Bus Stop, Marilyn loathed everything Hollywood stood for, and unjustly respected anything that the legitimate theater and Olivier stood for. She had complete faith in Olivier’s ability to direct comedy, even though Prince would be his first comedy attempt. As a vote of confidence in Olivier’s genius, her production company was financing the film, the story of a turn-of-the-century Ruritanian prince who falls in love with a chorus girl—a difficult period piece at best.