On December 7, Zanuck called Jack Gordean to find out what the hell was going on. Marilyn had failed to report for rehearsals of The Girl in Pink Tights. DiMaggio was back and Marilyn had calmed down enough to remember their strategy and stay home. Gordean had already fielded calls from the casting director and the producer, to whom he reiterated that Marilyn couldn’t come in before she received a script. Siegel, guessing that wasn’t the real reason, asked whether Feldman planned to use Pink Tights as the basis for a new deal. Gordean reassured him that Marilyn merely wanted the courtesy of being permitted to read the script before she decided whether to accept the role.
Zanuck’s call came half an hour later. He was famous for his temper, and his tirade went on and on. He insisted that Twentieth had made Marilyn a star, and that the studio was best equipped to select her material. He claimed that Pink Tights had been expressly designed as a vehicle for her. He cited the many people he’d hired specifically for the production. He reminded Gordean that Marilyn’s contract did not give her script approval, and advised him to warn Marilyn that if she didn’t come in right away he would have to resort to drastic measures. When Gordean, knowing there was not a chance Zanuck would agree, reported Marilyn’s desire to be tested for The Egyptian, Zanuck, in a spluttering rage, declared that the role of Nefer had already been cast.
Elia Kazan once observed that Zanuck reached for his polo mallet the way other men light a cigarette. He did some of his best thinking strutting about like a rooster. Perceiving that it was in his best interest to talk to Marilyn face to face, Zanuck tried another tack. Instead of the threats and vitriol that came naturally, he would lure her in with a display of kindness and concern. Zanuck dictated a letter, ostensibly to Siegel and Henry Koster, the director of The Girl in Pink Tights, in which he gushed about how perfect it was for Marilyn. He said he was glad they’d decided not to let anyone read the script until it was ready. He loved the revisions they’d made so far, and raved about the new complexity of Marilyn’s role. He was delighted that this picture called for Marilyn to do some real acting. Any actress would jump at a part like this, he said, but only Marilyn could do it properly. He suggested that Siegel and Koster set up a meeting with Marilyn later in the week to tell her the complete story.
A secretary announced that Mr. Gordean was on the line. Gordean reported that he had just been to see Marilyn. He had told her all Zanuck said, but she remained adamant. (Gordean did not disclose that, having conferred with Loyd Wright, he had strongly advised Marilyn to leave town.) Zanuck, instead of exploding, cheerfully asked the secretary to read Gordean the letter to Siegel and Koster, obviously expecting him to repeat its contents to Marilyn, who would have to wonder whether she was making a mistake. Afterward, Zanuck got back on the phone to suggest that Gordean arrange a time for Marilyn to talk to Siegel. Zanuck offered to attend, but only if Marilyn wanted him to.
On Tuesday morning, Zanuck didn’t wait to hear from Gordean. He ordered Marilyn to appear later in the day to dub a song for River of No Return. As Marilyn saw, it was one thing to hold up a picture that had not yet gone into production, and quite another to refuse to do additional work on a film that had already been shot. She had to decide whether a song really needed to be dubbed. If this was just a trick to get her onto the lot to discuss Pink Tights, she feared she’d crumble under Zanuck’s pressure. After consulting with Joe, Marilyn sent word that she couldn’t come in.
Meanwhile, Zanuck attacked from another, unexpected direction. He visited Natasha on the Fox lot. That night she called Gordean to criticize Marilyn’s attitude to the studio. Natasha, whom Marilyn trusted to take her side on every issue, angrily insisted that Marilyn report to work immediately. Before she had a chance to call Marilyn, Gordean got through first. Marilyn, hurt and enraged by Natasha’s betrayal, refused to take her call. When the phone rang, Joe told Natasha that if she had anything to say, she should tell it to Marilyn’s agent. That was the end of Marilyn’s intense relationship with her dramatic coach. Though they would work together in the future, Marilyn never felt the same about her again.
When Zanuck learned that Joe was blocking the phone, he sent Roy Craft of the publicity department to the apartment on Doheny. Marilyn may have been one of Hollywood’s biggest stars, but anyone could open the high iron gate, cross the courtyard to Apartment Four, open the screen door, and ring the bell. The black enameled door opened and there was Joe, six feet one inch tall. Marilyn hid somewhere in the apartment behind him. On the baseball field, DiMaggio had a reputation for being what players called a “Red Ass”—an extremely tough, menacing character. His whole body would tighten, the veins and muscles in his neck throbbing. DiMaggio wouldn’t let Kraft in. Angry words were exchanged and the publicity man left.
On Wednesday morning, the phones at Famous Artists rang constantly with calls from Twentieth ordering Marilyn to report for retakes on River of No Return. Suddenly, three major sequences had to be reshot while Robert Mitchum and Tommy Rettig were available. The studio insisted that if Marilyn refused, the entire film would have to be shelved. Gordean, hoping to talk to Marilyn first, ducked Zanuck’s calls for most of the day. But Marilyn, holed up with Joe, had decided to let the phone in her apartment ring endlessly. There was no getting through to her.
When Gordean finally returned his call, Zanuck was breathing fire and fury. He pointed out that this was the first time in his twenty-five years in the film industry that an artist had refused to complete an assignment. If Marilyn didn’t report immediately he threatened to call Hedda Hopper, Louella Parsons, and other journalists. He promised to “assassinate” her. He insisted that he was prepared to “destroy an asset”—namely Marilyn Monroe—if that’s what it took to punish her.
“This will be the godamnedest story I have broken in this goddamned town,” Zanuck vowed. “It will be all over the whole damn industry.”
Meanwhile, Frank Ferguson, the studio lawyer, had drawn up documents officially notifying Marilyn to report for retakes. A messenger delivered the papers to Doheny, pushing them partway under Marilyn’s door. While he waited to see if she or DiMaggio retrieved the papers, the gate opened to admit Gordean and French. Since Marilyn refused to answer the phone, the only way to talk to her was in person. Gordean rang the bell, calling into the apartment to identify himself.
Joe and Marilyn didn’t open the door in case someone from the studio was watching, but they came close enough to confer in whispers with the agents out in the courtyard. Gordean asked Marilyn to call him at the office right away. He couldn’t say much more than that. On spotting the messenger, Gordean exchanged a few cordial words with him, saying he’d rung the bell without success and obviously nobody was in the apartment.
Joe and Marilyn waited until dark to sneak out. She called Gordean from a pay phone, instructing him to meet her in front of the Knickerbocker Hotel. There, Gordean reported his talks with Zanuck. He made sure that Joe agreed with everything being done. As things stood, Famous Artists believed the retakes were a ruse. So long as Marilyn was unreachable, the studio had no case.
Marilyn would be safe at Joe’s house in San Francisco. They planned to drive up tonight. Gordean warned that the studio would do everything to find her. Soon, the press would be looking for her, too. Fortunately, Marie was an old hand at screening people her brother didn’t want to hear from. Marilyn and her agents agreed on a code—“Mr. Robin is calling”—that would enable them to get through on the phone.
Zanuck, in the meantime, sent an angry telegram to Switzerland, warning Feldman that Marilyn’s career would be over if she didn’t show up. He declared that while he was perfectly willing to renegotiate Marilyn’s salary, he would never consider giving her story approval. The next morning, Feldman had a frantic call from his office. Gordean had put out feelers at the studio; he discovered that additional footage for River of No Return really did need to be shot. Under the circumstances, Famous Artists agreed to bring Marilyn back from San Francisco. They would have to hope
they could prevent Marilyn from accepting Pink Tights if Zanuck got to her on the lot.
Hugh French picked up Marilyn and Joe at the airport, and gave her script pages for the retakes. Marilyn dreaded a confrontation, and Feldman warned Zanuck that Marilyn would walk off the set if he pressured her about Pink Tights. There had been a time when she would have done anything to enter the production chief’s office; now she’d do anything to stay away. As French drove her to Doheny, she asked him to accompany her to the studio and stay with her all day.
To Marilyn’s relief, Zanuck was nowhere in sight as she arrived on the Fox lot on Friday, December 11. Nor did Zanuck show up during the day. He didn’t have to. Aware that Marilyn trusted Jean Negulesco, Zanuck had arranged for the director to have a nice little chat with her. When French was out of earshot, Negulesco urged Marilyn to go right over to Zanuck’s office and “straighten out the situation” on her own. Negulesco must have been very persuasive, because Marilyn was about to do just that when French managed to stop her.
That weekend, Feldman had two days of meetings with Skouras at the Plaza Athenée hotel in Paris. Skouras was on his way back to New York from Greece. They discussed Marilyn for six hours on Saturday. They had dinner together that night and another meeting on Sunday. They negotiated, as Skouras liked to say, “between men and friends.”
Marilyn had three key demands. She wanted more money. DiMaggio had shown her that money was a sign of respect. She wanted to make fewer films. Feldman had convinced her that this would help make her more valuable. And she wanted to control the choice of script, director, and cameraman on all her films. That, for Marilyn, was the most important issue; she saw it as non-negotiable. She believed that she alone had made herself a star, but that too often she had had to do it by fighting and subterfuge. She believed she had earned the right openly to determine the direction of her career.
Feldman, determined to postpone the actual negotiations until February, saw the meetings with Skouras as preliminary. He was merely laying the groundwork for later talks with Zanuck. Careful not to make specific demands, Feldman pointed out general areas of concern. He spoke of Marilyn’s salary. He spoke of the need for her to make fewer films. He said not one word about the issue of creative control.
The Old Greek, in the thick of negotiations, liked to play with yellow worry beads. He was known to grow oddly sentimental, suddenly bursting into tears. That, like his tendency to doze off, was probably just a trick. In the end, he agreed in principle that he wanted all the same things for Marilyn. Still, Skouras explained, “the Coast” bitterly resented anything that smacked of interference from New York. Zanuck liked to think he made all his own decisions. Skouras advised Feldman to get Zanuck to recommend a deal first. Once the Coast said yes, New York would enthusiastically concur, and then Skouras could take the matter to his board. Feldman sent word to Marilyn that she had a real friend in Skouras.
Marilyn finished the retakes two days before Christmas and went to San Francisco. The past few weeks had left her nerves in tatters. But the worst pressure was yet to come. The prospect of being officially notified to report for Pink Tights, and the likelihood of suspension if she refused, hung like the sword of Damocles over her head. Marilyn, having brought her career to this point, did not want to make a mistake.
DiMaggio was a rock through all of this, the one person Marilyn could always depend on. Because of the crisis, he now focused on Marilyn and her problems in a way he simply never had before. He didn’t just talk about baseball. He talked about Marilyn’s career, her salary, her troubles with the studio. He was in close contact with her agents and lawyers. In the past, Marilyn had complained that Joe was boring; now she listened eagerly to all he had to say because so much of it had to do with her. For many months, Joe had been asking Marilyn to marry him; finally, at Christmas 1953, she was seriously tempted.
On Christmas morning, Joe surprised Marilyn with a Maximilian mink coat, in a shade called black mist. Flinging the voluminous coat over her shoulders, Marilyn instinctively wore it “like a poncho” (as Mankiewicz says of Margo Channing in the screenplay of All About Eve). From then on, the mink became one of Marilyn’s props.
Marilyn was starting to feel safe in the stone house on Beach Street when, just before New Year’s Eve, Twentieth officially notified her that Pink Tights would begin filming on January 4, 1954. The carefully worded document, delivered to Feldman’s office, could be used in a lawsuit. The studio wasn’t talking about rehearsals; the cameras actually started to roll that day. On Joe’s advice, Marilyn ignored the notice. She learned of her suspension from reporters who called for her reaction. Marie didn’t put them through. Feldman had advised Marilyn to avoid journalists.
In New York, Feldman met with Skouras. There was nothing to be done so long as Marilyn refused to come in for Pink Tights. Due to return to Los Angeles, Feldman changed plans when he learned that Skouras was flying out as well. Feldman didn’t want to find himself in a room with both Skouras and Zanuck. What if they insisted on renegotiating Marilyn’s contract then and there? The minute they all sat down, things were likely to proceed quickly, and he had to delay until February. So on January 11, Feldman, lingering in New York, sent word to Marilyn that she faced a month or more of suspension. He urged her to try to hold on. That, as everybody knew, wasn’t going to be easy.
The next day, at a family birthday party for DiMaggio’s brother Tom, Joe yet again asked Marilyn to marry him. This time she said yes.
On Thursday, January 14, at 12:30 p.m., Marilyn called Harry Brand at the Fox publicity office. “I promised you that if I ever got married, I’d let you know, so I’m keeping my word.” Meanwhile, Reno Barsocchini, the manager of Joe DiMaggio’s Grotto on Fisherman’s Wharf, called his friend Municipal Court Judge Charles Peery out of a Bar Association lunch. He asked the judge to come to City Hall right away to marry Joe and Marilyn.
When Marilyn emerged from Joe’s Cadillac onto the pigeon-filled plaza outside City Hall, she was wearing a chocolate-brown broadcloth suit with a white ermine Peter Pan collar. She sported Bambi eyelashes and clutched a spray of three white orchids. Joe, in a dark blue suit, wore the same blue polka-dot tie as on their first date. He had a white carnation in his lapel. The wedding party included Mr. and Mrs. Barsocchini, Mr. and Mrs. Tom DiMaggio, and Mr. and Mrs. Lefty O’Doul. Lefty had been Joe’s manager when he played in the Pacific Coast league.
A court clerk escorted them to the third floor, where, despite their efforts to keep the wedding quiet, a crowd of reporters and photographers waited in an outer office. Marilyn, pent-up after many days of avoiding the press, couldn’t resist answering a few questions.
“I met him two years ago on a blind date in Los Angeles,” she explained, “and a couple of days ago we started talking about this.”
Joe, puffing on a fat cigar and sipping brandy from a paper cup, finally cut in. “All right, fellas, I don’t want to rush you, but we’ve got to get on with the ceremony.”
The single-ring ceremony in the judge’s chambers took all of three minutes. One journalist, standing on a desk in the outer office, watched through a transom as the judge pronounced Joe and Marilyn man and wife. When the newlyweds came out, flashbulbs popped and reporters shouted more questions.
“We’re very happy,” said Marilyn.
Did they want children?
“We expect to have one,” said Joe. “I can guarantee that.”
“I’d like to have six,” said Marilyn, holding Joe’s arm and looking at him adoringly.
“We’ll have at least one,” said Joe.
Where did they plan to live?
“We’ll probably be doing a lot of commuting,” said Joe, “but San Francisco will be our headquarters.”
Did Marilyn really plan to give up Hollywood to become a housewife?
“What difference does it make?” Marilyn grinned. “I’m suspended.”
When Darryl Zanuck learned of the wedding, he had little choice but to lift Ma
rilyn’s suspension. If he hadn’t, the press and public reaction would have been unforgiving. To allow the newlyweds time for a honeymoon, Zanuck notified Famous Artists that he expected Marilyn to report for work no later than January 25. Charlie Feldman, waiting until February to renegotiate Marilyn’s contract and sell the rights to Horns of the Devil, could not have been happier.
FIVE
The Cadillac with “JOE D” plates had been parked in front of the Clifton Motel in Pasa Robles since eight the previous night. At 1 p.m. on Friday, the door to room 15 opened and Marilyn appeared in the bright sunlight, bundled in a loose-fitting yellow polo coat. A red scarf concealed her cotton-candy hair. There was no sign of yesterday’s false eyelashes. Her face scrubbed clean of makeup, she put on a pair of oversized dark glasses and climbed into the passenger seat. Joe settled the bill—$6.50 for the night—with Mr. Sharpe in the office. He had requested a room with a double bed and a television set—the latter, presumably, so that he could watch the news about the voting for the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. As it happened, Joe wouldn’t be elected until the following year.
“We’ve got to put a lot of miles behind us,” Joe was heard to say as he and Marilyn headed south. The destination was Loyd Wright’s remote mountain cabin in Idyllwild, about fifty miles from Palm Springs. They planned to stay there for ten days, after which Joe was due in New York for a television commitment.
In all directions there was snow as far as the eye could see. The cabin had a billiard table but, to Marilyn’s delight, no television set. The only other people on the property were a discreet caretaker and his wife. There were no ringing telephones. There were no legal papers being served. There were no agents or studio employees or reporters pounding on the door. The newlyweds took long walks in the snow. Joe taught his bride to play billiards. And they talked—so much so that Marilyn later told Sidney Skolsky that she and her husband were finally beginning to get to know each other.
Marilyn Monroe Page 13
