Greenson pointed out that he had “pulled” Marilyn through The Misfits. After a week in the hospital, she’d been able to finish the Huston film. He insisted he could do the same now. Greenson, though he did not wish to be compared to Svengali, claimed to be able to persuade Marilyn to do “anything reasonable.” And he was prepared to do far more than get her to the studio. With characteristic chutzpah, he offered to assume responsibility for artistic decisions as well. In disputes over, say, which scenes Marilyn would do, her psychoanalyst was ready to step in. On this matter, Rudin appeared to try to slow his brother-in-law down.
Phil Feldman posed an intriguing question. Greenson seemed to be the only person capable of influencing Marilyn. What would happen to her if he were called away? What would happen to the production? Greenson, for his part, had no satisfactory answer.
That afternoon, Phil Feldman notified Marilyn’s lawyer that Twentieth was not interested in further talks. Greenson had failed to convince the studio that Marilyn was capable of completing the picture. In short, she’d been fired. Spyros Skouras wasn’t around to bail her out. The rumors of his failing health had proven correct, and Skouras had entered St. Luke’s Hospital for prostate surgery on May 19. George Cukor called Marilyn’s dismissal a shot heard round the world. He rejoiced that Twentieth had finally thrown her out “on her keester.”
Peter Levathes’s press release stated matters somewhat more delicately: “Marilyn Monroe has been removed from the cast of Something’s Got to Give. This action was made necessary because of Miss Monroe’s repeated willful breaches of her contract. No justification was given by Miss Monroe for her failure to report for photography on many occasions. The studio has suffered losses through these absences and the Twentieth Century–Fox Film Company will take legal action against Miss Monroe.” Twentieth sued Marilyn for $750,000.
Marilyn had been absent from most of the footage Cukor managed to shoot, but Dean Martin appeared extensively. So it came as quite a blow when he threatened to quit. “I have the greatest respect for Miss Lee Remick and her talent and all the other actresses who were considered for the role,” he declared, “but I signed to do the picture with Marilyn Monroe and I will do it with no one else.” He insisted he had the right chemistry with Marilyn. He pointed out that she meant more at the box office than Lee Remick, who had replaced her. He reminded studio executives that in the picture he left Cyd Charisse for Marilyn; who would believe he’d leave for Lee Remick?
An emergency Saturday morning meeting at Twentieth with Peter Levathes, Phil Feldman, George Cukor, and others failed to persuade Dean Martin to continue. As far as Martin was concerned, if the studio refused to rehire Marilyn, he was through. He sent an assistant to collect his wardrobe. Twentieth sued Martin, and he in turn sued the studio. Mickey Rudin, apprised of the situation, quipped that maybe the studio ought to hire President Kennedy as the leading man.
On the evening of Monday, June 11, Twentieth, having already poured more than $2 million into Something’s Got to Give, suspended production. Cukor diverted himself with talk of doing a film based on all that had happened backstage: Marilyn, manipulative and outrageously demanding, would be a character. So would the pretentious Paula. So would various inept studio executives who repeatedly give in to the troublesome star. Cukor insisted it would be the definitive Hollywood tale, a tragicomedy with a most dramatic denouement. The one thing Marilyn Monroe has always feared finally occurs; she really does goes mad.
After the events of recent days, Marilyn’s camp was eager to counter the rumors that she had had a major breakdown. In order to save her career, she had to show her face in public right away. She needed exposure in national magazines. She had to prove she was viable. Posing for photographs to be published in Vogue, Life, and Cosmopolitan also just might convince Twentieth to rehire her. She didn’t want to do the picture, but she didn’t want to be sued either. Once again Marilyn used the power of publicity to influence her studio. In the past, she’d wanted Darryl Zanuck to give her better parts. Now all she asked was for Twentieth to take her back.
As it happened, the first salvo was a Life cover story featuring one of the nudes taken on the set. It was billed, tantalizingly, as an image from the skinny-dip scene readers would never see. Yet at least one reader failed to be convinced by Marilyn’s latest impersonation of the happy girl. A decade ago, when Arthur Miller had gone back to his first wife, Marilyn liked to imagine that he would wander into a movie theater in New York and see one of her films by chance. Now, he was buying a paper at a Manhattan newsstand when he spotted the June 22, 1962, issue of Life.
Turbulent emotions welled up as he saw the nude within. The image saddened him. He couldn’t help thinking Marilyn should not be doing this anymore. He couldn’t help sensing the supposedly carefree look on her face was forced. For the playwright, all drama sprang from what he once called the “wound of indignity.” This photograph suggested Marilyn’s struggle was over. It suggested to Miller that she had “given up trying to cease being the immemorial prey.”
At night, Japanese stone lanterns illuminated the garden of the Bel Air Hotel. In a secluded pink bungalow—Number 96, the hotel’s best—empty film cartons, discarded liquor bottles, and Marilyn’s shoes littered the bedroom floor. Strobe lights flashed, an Everly Brothers record playing in the background.
It was past midnight. Marilyn, in bed, had been posing for hours, her Dom Perignon spiked with one-hundred-proof vodka. She removed a frilly black chiffon bed jacket. Beneath the white sheet, she was naked. As she retrieved a champagne glass from the floor, the sheet dropped off. She seemed to find that very funny. Bert Stern, on assignment for Vogue, photographed her rolling about drunkenly. For Stern, it was a dream come true. From the age of thirteen, he had fantasized about encountering a woman like this who would do anything he desired. Tonight, Marilyn seemed to be that woman.
Finally, she lay still. Under the sheet again, she was utterly passive and vulnerable. Stern’s thoughts raced. He and she were locked in, while a Vogue editor, a hairdresser, and others waited in an adjoining room. He contemplated taking off his own clothes and climbing into bed with her. He perched on the mattress. Marilyn’s eyes were shut. The sound of breathing reassured him she was alive.
He kissed her.
“No,” said Marilyn from the depths of her trance.
Stern slid his hand under the sheet. He touched her. She did not resist. Indeed, he thought she actually moved closer. Stern told himself Marilyn wanted to make love. He told himself she was ready. But at the last minute he removed his hand, deciding to go no further.
Her eyes opened partly. “Where have you been so long?” she asked dreamily, before falling asleep.
On June 27, half a dozen journalists waited at Fox headquarters on West 56th Street in New York. Rumor had it that the man they called “Hollywood’s last king” was being dethroned. Spyros Skouras, still recovering from prostate surgery, had returned to work on Monday. Colleagues noted that the fight seemed to have gone out of him. This morning, he faced the eleven-man board. Peter Levathes and Charlie Einfeld, vice-president in charge of advertising and publicity, were also present. Skouras answered for the studio’s financial crisis, for operating losses of nearly $35 million in the past twenty-four months, and for the excesses of stars like Elizabeth Taylor and Marilyn Monroe. He answered for Cleopatra, the most expensive picture ever made. He answered for the cancellation of Something’s Got to Give at a cost of some $2 million. He answered for his own penchant for lavish foreign travel and other perks. In sum, he answered for his reputation as “the last of the big-time spendthrifts.”
By midday, the press contingent had doubled. Sandwiches and sodas were delivered from the Stage Delicatessen. By late afternoon, it seemed as though every reporter in town was there. The tumultuous meeting lasted past 7 p.m. During a break, Charlie Einfeld emerged and nervously announced that Skouras had stepped down after twenty years as president. One reporter demanded to know the exact vote. Wh
ich board members had been for Skouras, which against?
“There was no vote,” publicist Jack Brodsky interjected. “How could there be a vote? The man just resigned.”
Skouras, to save face, claimed to have retired for health reasons. In fact, he had been forced out, several board members having vowed to quit if he stayed. His resignation became effective on September 30, or earlier if a new president could be found immediately. Skouras, who remained on the board, was put on the search committee. Peter Levathes was a leading candidate. So were former United Artists vice-president Max Youngstein, CBS television president James Aubrey, and director Otto Preminger. Skouras was thought to favor Youngstein. The Wall Street faction liked Aubrey and Levathes.
The next day, Darryl Zanuck threw the process into chaos. “The board of directors is primarily composed of very successful and important industrialists,” said Zanuck from Paris, where he was completing The Longest Day for Twentieth. “Unfortunately the majority of them, while eminently successful in their own fields, have no working knowledge of or experience in the motion picture industry. Their financial interest is negligible. I have a larger financial interest in Fox than the combined membership of the board of directors. I have been inaudible for too long. Now, as the largest individual stockholder, I intend to make my position clear on all major matters.”
Hours after Zanuck spoke out, a contingent of Fox executives descended on Marilyn’s home. The June 22 issue of Life—particularly the nude photograph that had so disturbed Arthur Miller—had generated immense public curiosity. By this time, it was in both Marilyn’s interest and the studio’s to finish Something’s Got to Give. But first, Twentieth needed to see if she was in any shape, physically and mentally, to work. Three weeks previously, Phil Feldman had certainly had his doubts. Today, Marilyn, coiffed and made up as though for a film role, was intent on putting all such fears to rest.
Twentieth also needed to see if Marilyn would agree to its “conditions.” At a moment when film studios were being ridiculed in the press for ceding power to stars, no one wanted to be accused of giving in to Marilyn Monroe. Twentieth’s list was a long one. Among the most significant items: Marilyn was asked to give up all say on the choice of director, cameraman, and co-stars. She was forbidden to consult on the script. She was forbidden to request additional takes or to attend the dailies. She was forbidden to bring her dramatic coach or other helpers onto the set without the studio head’s permission.
Twentieth hoped to erase every major concession Marilyn had fought for in her December 31, 1955 contract. The studio claimed back everything she had won—and more. In one fell swoop, all the work of Charlie Feldman, Milton Greene, and, above all, Marilyn herself was undone. Instead of allowing Marilyn to feel that she had a degree of control, Twentieth asked her to accept no control at all. And as if that were not enough, before she came back she would be required to make a strong public apology. Eight months after being urged to treat Marilyn with dignity, Twentieth sought to strip her of the shreds of dignity she still had.
Marilyn’s talks with the studio occurred in an atmosphere of deep uncertainty. The men vying to lead Fox seemed bent on destroying one another. Executives in charge one week might be out of a job the next. The present administration did its best to show it was in control. “Fox pictures will be made under a new set of rules,” Peter Levathes announced. “The old method has failed. We are determined to break the hold that has produced failure.” Nonetheless, each day brought fresh rumors about Zanuck. The former production chief dismissed his rival Levathes as “devoid of any production experience.” He arrived in New York to place his bid for the presidency. He let it be known he was gearing up for a proxy fight.
In the middle of all this, Marilyn had a call from Milton Greene. Their partnership had ended badly, but Marilyn was thrilled to hear from him. She and Greene talked for some ninety minutes. They shared a sense of disappointment. Marilyn, a wonderful light comedienne, longed to do serious roles. Greene, a gifted photographer, dreamed of being a film producer. Neither seemed to value what he or she could actually do so well. Perhaps, as Biff Loman says of his father Willy at the end of Death of a Salesman, they had “the wrong dreams.” Marilyn reviewed her circumstances. She said it was as though the past ten years had never happened. She said she was right back to where she didn’t want to be.
On July 12, Marilyn returned to Twentieth. Fifteen out of its sixteen sound stages were dark. Twentieth, eerily deserted, resembled a ghost town. A single picture, A Woman in July, was in production.
The classic studio era had come to an end. Time had passed Twentieth by. While in recent years other major companies had concentrated on the distribution of independently produced films, Twentieth had struggled to go on producing most of its own pictures. Competitors called Skouras a dinosaur from the pre-television period. In a sign of the times, the day before Marilyn came in, Levathes had announced plans to modernize by renting space to independent film and television producers.
But the current administration did very much want to resume Something’s Got to Give. George Cukor was off the film, having agreed in the interim to direct Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady for Warner Bros. It was a break for Cukor, whose career had been waning. He certainly had no complaint about missing a chance to be reunited with Marilyn.
The studio brought in Jean Negulesco to direct a mildly revised version of Nunnally Johnson’s script. On the face of it, she seemed to have won. But that was hardly the case in view of the numerous conditions she was required to accept. Once Twentieth had her signature, it could change its mind about Negulesco. It could substitute a different screenplay. It could do almost anything and Marilyn would be powerless to object. As she told Milton Greene, Marilyn Monroe Productions might never have existed.
Twentieth persisted in demanding an apology. Marilyn knew that if she didn’t do the picture, she would be sued. So she agreed to go in sackcloth and ashes. One might have thought the studio, eager not to lose a $2 million investment, would leave matters at that. But this wasn’t strictly about money. It was about looking tough. It was about machismo and menace. It was about bringing a recalcitrant star to her knees.
Jack Brodsky, in the New York office, was asked “very confidentially” to draft Marilyn’s apology. Even if the words weren’t her own, at least they’d be the right words. The publicist crafted a mild document that permitted Marilyn to save face. The studio, displeased, removed Brodsky from the assignment. Clearly, the intent was to humiliate her. A leak was given to Time magazine: “No public apology, no Marilyn.”
Meanwhile, something unexpected happened. Skouras threw his chips in with Zanuck. And those chips were valuable indeed, Skouras holding some 98,000 shares of Fox stock. Suddenly, the presidency seemed very much within reach for Zanuck, who had approximately 110,000 shares of his own. It was a curious alliance, there being no love lost between the men once known as New York and the Coast. More than anything, the Old Greek wanted to frustrate the board members who had toppled him.
And so he did. After Zanuck became president on the 25th, two prominent enemies of Skouras resigned. Skouras was appointed board chairman. “I believe the president of a motion picture company today should be its production head as well as its administrative head,” Zanuck said. His election put everything at Fox on hold—including Marilyn Monroe’s talks with the previous administration. Zanuck evicted Skouras. Out went the slab-like marble desk, the beige club chairs, and the gallery of family photographs. Skouras’s office became the new boardroom. A broken man, he moved to humbler quarters near the elevators.
Many people believed it was Zanuck who had once made Twentieth great. Some studio veterans predicted (erroneously) that he would usher in “a new Golden Age.” For Marilyn, he had no such happy associations. He had never liked her. He’d always treated her disrespectfully. He’d once threatened to destroy her. Zanuck, complaining about the power of stars and their agents, had left in 1956 as Marilyn was about to start Bus Stop
, new contract in hand. Now that she seemed to have lost everything, Zanuck was back. The timing may have been coincidental, but it was ominous all the same.
The day Zanuck became president, Marilyn had two sessions with Dr. Greenson, one in his office, the other at her home. Dr. Engelberg sedated her by injection. Greenson, hoping to wean Marilyn off drugs, had appointed the Beverly Hills internist to supervise her medication. In the light of her history of suicide attempts, the doctors had an arrangement. If in addition to an injection Engelberg prescribed Nembutal, he would inform Greenson. Since the analyst had returned from Europe, he’d seen Marilyn almost daily. She was constantly on the phone to him. It was not unusual for her to call in the middle of the night, often at 2, 3, and 4 a.m.
Marilyn also phoned Bobby Kennedy a good deal in this period. Unlike the President, he almost always took her calls. For Marilyn, it was a way of maintaining a Kennedy connection despite the President’s decision to cut her off. Besides, the Attorney General had a reputation for being “a good shoulder to cry on.” Marilyn wasn’t the only Hollywood actress to reach out to him. Judy Garland often phoned, Edwin Guthman recalled, “just to have someone to talk to.” When Bobby was unavailable, Marilyn chatted with his secretary, Angie Novello. On several occasions she talked to his wife, Ethel. At the time of her firing, Marilyn had declined an invitation to a party for the Lawfords at Hickory Hill, Bobby and Ethel’s estate near McLean, Virginia. Since then, Bobby had seen Marilyn at a dinner party at the Lawfords’ on June 26. At her request, he had stopped by to inspect her new home the following day. He knew firsthand that she was on edge.
Marilyn was often enraged at others, and at herself. She knew what she wanted. But she also knew she had done much to sabotage her own dreams. In a telling gesture, when the nudes she had drunkenly posed for at the Bel Air Hotel were sent for her approval, she slashed the color transparencies with a hairpin.
Marilyn Monroe Page 51
