When the tests for The Sleeping Prince were shown at Pinewood Studios in 1956, three years previously, the relief and delight in the room had been palpable. Whatever Marilyn may have looked like in person—and initially Olivier had been horrified by her appearance—she was enchanting on screen. She had an extraordinary ability to project. She had what cinematographers call “flesh impact.” The naked eye might not perceive it, but the camera certainly did. But on Thursday, December 17, 1959, when Marilyn appeared on screen, Buddy Adler was shocked and dismayed. The color tests were disastrous. Marilyn, it seemed, could no longer be relied on to be utterly magical on camera. Her makeup was peculiar. Her hairdo was unflattering. Her blue gown didn’t work. She didn’t look like herself. How was Marilyn supposed to look? Certainly not ordinary.
Adler advised Wald and Cukor to run a scene from Bus Stop. He instructed them to view The Seven Year Itch as an even better example of what he had in mind. Above all, he urged them to study any reel of Some Like It Hot to see Marilyn Monroe “as she should be.”
What did Marilyn think? Before anyone had a chance to ask, she had vanished. On Friday, Marilyn called in sick. On Monday, she called in sick. On Tuesday, she called in sick. On Wednesday, she called in sick. On Thursday, Christmas Eve, a half-day, she called in sick. Marilyn’s opinion of the tests was clear.
Meanwhile, Twentieth had once again brought in Arthur to work on the script. On December 23, he officially began a second set of revisions, for which he was to be paid an additional $5,000. The pages were due on January 4. That day, Marilyn reported for a wardrobe fitting, leaving after only twenty minutes, and a physician called Twentieth to say she was ill. In her bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Marilyn had been feasting on a suicidal smorgasbord of drugs: Demerol, sodium pentothol, Amytal, phenobarbital. Her speech was slurred. She could barely carry on a conversation.
Marilyn attempted to rehearse on January 6, 1960, but remained on the studio lot for a mere half hour. Obviously, at this rate the picture was never going to get made. Two days later, Lew Schreiber had a call from George Chasin at MCA. Marilyn’s agent indicated that she would return to work in ten days. Chasin said he’d had a long talk with her. Marilyn promised to report on time and to work diligently. With a January 18 start date, if all went well principal photography was now scheduled to conclude on March 25.
That meant Marilyn would have to go directly from Let’s Make Love to The Misfits. It was hard to imagine how she could do that in her present condition, but technically it was possible. Miller certainly appeared eager to get her through. The same day her agent talked to Schreiber, Arthur began a third set of rewrites on Let’s Make Love for an additional $7,500 fee.
Meanwhile, he was supposed to be trimming The Misfits. Frank Taylor, who had signed on to produce, did a good deal of fast talking to avoid answering United Artists’ queries about length. When Taylor talked to the author about cuts, Miller was a bit stubborn. He did, however, promise to take another look at the script. In particular, he would see what he could do about removing process shots, because Huston had complained there were too many. The action in a process shot is filmed against a background of previously filmed footage.
On January 11, Huston informed Taylor that he, too, was trying to cut. He was confident that together they’d be able to bring the script down to size. Huston was immobilized, having managed to break his knee in a riding accident. Proposing to mix work with a holiday, he invited Miller and Taylor to St. Cleran’s for a few weeks. If Marilyn hadn’t yet finished Let’s Make Love, she could join them a bit later. In fact, she had yet to begin.
On Saturday, January 16, Twentieth hosted a press party to welcome Yves Montand. Shy and awkward, he read a short speech in broken English. He had squinty eyes and pronounced ears. When he grinned, huge teeth flashed beneath a rubbery upper lip. The Millers and the Montands posed together, laughing and smiling. Marilyn looked adorable. She gave every indication of being ready to return to work. With a twinkle in her eye, she told reporters that besides her husband and Marlon Brando, Yves Montand was the most attractive man she knew. She did not, however, mention what she had been saying in private, that Montand reminded her of Joe DiMaggio. Studio executives went home confident the picture’s problems were behind them. With principal photography set to begin, Arthur made reservations to fly to Ireland on February 3 or 4.
On Sunday, in a green-carpeted bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Montand said his “English prayers,” as he jestingly called learning lines by rote. Signoret worked with him for hours, endlessly reviewing Monday’s scenes. He was admittedly terrified of going in front of the camera and, especially, of having to do it all in English. He would have felt considerably worse if he’d had any idea of what was going on next door.
In the hours since the party, Marilyn’s composure had shattered. At 5 p.m. the studio received word that she would not be coming in tomorrow after all. A frantic call was made to Montand. Cukor planned to shoot material that did not require Marilyn. Montand scrambled to memorize new lines. Soon, his brain was a porridge of words and phrases he barely comprehended. When, full of anxiety, Montand left for work the next morning, the curtains in the Miller bungalow were ominously shut. They remained shut throughout the week as Marilyn repeatedly called in sick. Day after day, Montand found himself shifting gears at the last minute. By Thursday, he was no longer able to cope, and the entire production ground to a halt. The next day, John Huston received word that Miller’s arrival in Ireland was to be delayed.
Clearly something had to be done. From New York, Marianne Kris had recommended a distinguished colleague in Los Angeles, Ralph Greenson. Marilyn’s psychoanalyst did not take lightly the matter of referring a patient to a new doctor; her dying husband had used his last breath to recommend new doctors for his patients. Dr. Greenson was in the circle of Marianne Kris’s lifelong friend Anna Freud. He was Clinical Professor of Psychiatry at the University of California Medical School at Los Angeles, Dean of the Training School at the Los Angeles Institute for Psychoanalysis, and on the Medical Advisory Board of the Reiss–Davis Clinic. He counted many Hollywood personalities among his patients, including Peter Lorre, Frank Sinatra, and Vivien Leigh. The doctor had pouchy brown eyes and a shaggy moustache. His New York-accented speech was forceful and deliberate. He prided himself on meeting people easily. He boasted that he was exceptionally good in the first hours with a new patient. He contrasted himself with most analysts who, in his view, suffer from stage fright; afraid to be seen, they prefer to hide behind the couch. Dr. Greenson insisted on encountering patients face to face. He was outspoken and confrontational. He wanted patients to react to him not as a god but as a fallible human being. He was the first to enumerate his own flaws. He readily admitted his tendency to exaggerate and to be too sure of himself. When, as Marilyn did, a new patient mentioned a previous doctor, he relished the opportunity to ask, “And what do you think about me?”
Greenson came to Marilyn’s bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He drastically limited her intake of drugs. He insisted that Marilyn discontinue her longtime practice of getting prescriptions from a number of different physicians. He listened patiently to her grievances about the picture she was making and about her husband.
Marilyn reported to George Cukor on Monday, January 25, and filmed part of “My Heart Belongs To Daddy.” Yves Montand had no call that day. She returned on Tuesday. Again, she worked on her own. Her first scene with Montand was to be shot on Wednesday. She arrived on time at 7 a.m. But two hours later, Marilyn, in full makeup, abruptly announced that she had to go home. Before anyone knew quite what had happened, Marilyn had disappeared. Yet again, Montand was left in the lurch. He frantically closeted himself with his English coach, trying to learn by rote a new set of lines. The company took three hours to move to Stage 14 in order to shoot an office scene.
After Marilyn departed, Buddy Adler screened Monday’s dailies. He was anxious to see what she looked like. After his complaints about t
he wardrobe and makeup tests, he assumed her appearance would be improved. Watching the rushes, he went wild. Nothing in the tests had quite prepared him for this. Marilyn didn’t look well at all. He grumbled that she was fat, and that in the dance number she actually looked pregnant. Though Adler had stated plainly that he didn’t want Marilyn to use the chalky white makeup from Bus Stop, that’s precisely what she had done.
Jerry Wald called Adler to smooth things over. Wald was famous for his ability to talk people to death. To explain what he delicately called the “bumpy look” around Marilyn’s middle, the fat producer claimed her sweater had been sewn to her leotard. Wald insisted that if Marilyn’s sweater were loose, the problem would be solved. Confidently he assured Adler that once the dance sequence had been edited, the speed and intensity of the number would cause viewers to be less conscious of Marilyn’s appearance. But in private, Wald was extremely worried. He sent a copy of Adler’s critique to Cukor in the hope that something could be done.
Meanwhile, no sooner had Marilyn disappeared from the studio lot than MCA officially notified Twentieth that she was scheduled to begin The Misfits between April 1 and April 14. The agents’ timing could hardly have been worse. At a moment when Marilyn had yet to appear in a single shot with Yves Montand, Buddy Adler had had about all he could take.
At long last, on Friday, January 29, Marilyn prepared to go in front of the cameras with her co-star. It was 10 a.m. and they were on Stage 11. Marilyn approached Montand.
“You’re going to see what it means to shoot with the worst actress in the world,” she declared.
“So you’re scared,” Montand replied, a pleading expression on his furrowed face. “Think of me a little bit. I’m lost.”
His display of vulnerability did the trick. Marilyn worked with him that day, and every day of the week that followed. Yes, she was constantly late. Yes, she wasted time postponing the moment when she emerged from her dressing room. Yes, she sipped gin from a teacup. Yes, she appeared unable to remember more than one line at a time. But it seemed that Cukor was finally getting the picture made.
Arthur was able to slip off briefly to New York to concentrate on cutting The Misfits. By the time he flew back to Los Angeles on February 4, Twentieth was estimating that Cukor would finish shooting on April 6. With post-production, that meant the start date for The Misfits would have to be rolled back.
Marilyn had been working steadily for eight days when Arthur flew to Ireland, planning to stay with Huston for two weeks. At seven that morning Marilyn called in sick. Her decision to stop the production again was clearly tied to Arthur’s departure. She did come in the next day, February 11, but was quickly sent home when it became apparent that she was in no condition to work.
That morning, the studio attorney responded to MCA’s notice that Marilyn had to be ready to start another picture on April 1, by declaring that the studio would need an extension to complete Let’s Make Love. He included a day-by-day breakdown of all the time that had been lost due to Marilyn. Exactly how long it would now take to finish the film was impossible to say.
In the days that followed, Marilyn alternated between working partial days and calling in sick. On Thursday, February 18, she escalated matters. She stayed out without notifying the studio. Twentieth called her bungalow repeatedly, but there was no answer. The hotel switchboard reported that Marilyn had made at least one outgoing call, so at least they knew she was alive.
Montand, boiling with rage, sent Signoret to see what was going on. She knocked on the door and called, but Marilyn refused to answer. Later, Montand put a note under her door. Presumably, Signoret had assisted in writing it. “Don’t leave me to work for hours on end on a scene you’ve already decided not to do the next day,” Montand implored. “I’m not the enemy, I’m your pal. And capricious little girls have never amused me.”
That night, Miller called the Montands from Galway. Marilyn had asked him to call. Fearful and ashamed, she wanted Montand and Signoret to come back to her door. When they arrived, Marilyn, weeping, begged their forgiveness. She admitted she had been bad. She promised not to do it again. Arthur, though he had been given an idea of his wife’s torment, remained at St. Cleran’s for one week more, working on The Misfits with Huston.
Everyone was walking on eggshells when Marilyn came in on Monday at 10:30 a.m. The Academy Award nominations had been announced. Billy Wilder had been nominated as Best Director for Some Like It Hot. Wilder and I. A. L. Diamond had been nominated for Best Screenplay. Jack Lemmon had been nominated for Best Actor. The film had other nominations in the categories of cinematography, art direction and set decoration, and costume design.
In what a good many people considered a glaring omission, Marilyn Monroe had not received a Best Actress nomination. As it happened, Simone Signoret had, for Room at the Top. Marilyn showed no irritation. When she saw Signoret, she made a point of cheerfully congratulating her. Marilyn seemed to take the affront well. Day after day, she dutifully reported to work. She viewed the rushes with interest. Yet something was bothering her. She seemed to do everything in slow motion. On Monday, Cukor had been more than seven days behind schedule. By Friday, he was running ten days late.
On Saturday afternoon, Lew Schreiber, at work in his office, had a call from the front gate. George Chasin wanted to see him. Schreiber told the guard to send Marilyn’s agent right in. Marilyn, it seemed, was terribly upset about being scheduled to work on Monday with an actress named Mara Lynn. She had complained to Chasin that Lynn had put blonde streaks in her hair. Unless Lynn’s hair was changed, or the actress was dismissed, Marilyn would not report to the studio lot next week. Schreiber was surprised she would take such an adamant position on a minor player’s hair color. Yet the fact remained that Marilyn had been angry enough to get her agent to show up on a Saturday. So something had better be done to humor her. Schreiber called Billy Gordon. He demanded to know why a blonde had been engaged for the scene. The casting director insisted that in fact Lynn was a brunette. They had put a red wig on her to be certain that her hair coloring was completely different from Marilyn’s.
As Schreiber listened, an even more disturbing fact emerged. Schreiber, like Chasin, had assumed Marilyn was talking about a bit actress who was to start on Monday. Now he realized that Lynn, in the role of Lily, was already established in the picture. She had started on January 29. Schreiber realized that he had seen Lynn in the rushes and that her hair was definitely red.
Chasin departed, faced with the unenviable task of getting back to Marilyn. For hours she did not answer the phone. Arthur being due back that night, the agent resolved to talk the matter over with him. Meanwhile, Schreiber called all around town. He tracked down Cukor. He tracked down Wald. They confirmed that Lynn had been ordered to wear a red wig. There was no way any sane person could mistake her for a blonde. Clearly, Marilyn had been seeing things. That realization put the fear of God into everybody. No one guessed, however, that Marilyn had found a way to express her worst fear. Though Marilyn was a blonde, she was terrified of being confused with “the woman with the red hair.” She did not want to turn into her mother.
The incident drastically changed the studio’s view of Marilyn. In the old days, Zanuck had dismissed her as an idiot who didn’t know the first thing about filmmaking. But now, she wasn’t merely being difficult, or stubborn, or capricious. Her mind appeared to have been addled by drugs. Like her mother, she had delusions of persecution. From this point on, Twentieth treated Marilyn as though she were mad.
For weeks, Buddy Adler had been criticizing her appearance. He had complained about her weight. He had complained about her makeup. He had complained about her hair. Suddenly, Twentieth sent word to Marilyn that Mr. Adler, Mr. Wald, Mr. Cukor, and Mr. Schreiber all believed she looked fine. Nobody intended to utter another peep about her looks. The studio was concerned with one thing only—getting the picture made.
Eventually, Chasin reached Arthur by phone. No sooner had he walked in the d
oor of the bungalow than he was swept up in Marilyn’s problems again. Chasin, relating the situation to Arthur, pointed out that there was no similarity between Marilyn and the other actress. Marilyn’s own agent now was insisting that she was trying to make an issue out of a trivial matter. He warned that Cukor was ready to throw in the towel. He suggested in strong terms that Marilyn would be wise to get on with it and finish Let’s Make Love.
Twentieth wanted Cukor to go more quickly. And he would have been happy to do so, except that he was worried about the effect of pushing Marilyn. Cukor was an old hand at working with drunks and crazies. He had directed John Barrymore, Spencer Tracy, Vivien Leigh, and Judy Garland. He very much wanted to keep Twentieth happy. After the traumatic experience of having been dismissed from Gone with the Wind, he had gone out of his way to please studio executives. At the same time, he certainly didn’t want to trigger a paranoid episode in his leading lady.
Cukor feared that might happen when a production executive visited the set on March 2. Marilyn had not yet arrived that morning, when Sid Rogell had a chat with Cukor. Rogell complained that Cukor was over-covering. He protested that the director was making far too many takes, and criticized him for repeatedly giving in to Marilyn. Instead of worrying about Rogell’s objections, Cukor seemed vastly more concerned that Marilyn would discover the men in conversation. She was likely to assume that Cukor and Rogell were plotting against her.
As it happened, the discussion had been pointless anyway. The Screen Actors Guild went on strike at the end of the week. On March 4, the cameras on Let’s Make Love recorded their last scene. Three days later, production was officially suspended for the rest of the strike. After all the delays, this latest complication left everyone concerned completely up a creek. Only recently, Wald had been hoping that he would have Let’s Make Love in the can by April 13. If the strike dragged on—and there were indications that it might—there was no telling when they would finish.
Marilyn Monroe Page 42
