Marilyn & Me (9 page)

“We give
Time
one of the lesser pictures, make sure our names are in the photo credit, and the world will come knocking on our door,” Billy said. And that was what we did that Saturday night, just in time to make the issue that would be published worldwide thirty-six hours later.

The next day, Sunday, Tom Blau arrived from London, and when he came to my studio, he was still bleary-eyed. Billy and I showed him the eleven-by-fourteen-inch black-and-white prints that I already had made. They got his attention immediately.

I followed up with my concerns. We had to have a worldwide release date, I said. We couldn’t take the chance of the pictures appearing in
Paris Match
and, say, some Italian magazine copying them out of
Paris Match
and publishing them five days later. We had to impose a condition of sale: the first magazine in each country purchasing publication rights had to publish on a certain date, not before. I told Blau I didn’t have a date, because I knew I needed time
to see the picture editor of
Life
in New York. In my mind nobody would be allowed to publish before
Life
.

“That’s impossible,” Blau protested. “Nobody will agree. We’ll lose sales that way.”

“We will set our clock around
Life
,” I said. “When
Life
publishes the pictures, that will be the release date. Everyone else will have to publish after
Life
does, not before. That’s it,” I said. “This will make our pictures more exclusive, and we can raise the price, make publications bid against each other.”

Billy chimed in, adding, “Any sales lost will be recouped by the exclusivity.” We were ganging up on Blau.

“There’s no choice,” I half lied. “This is one of Marilyn’s two conditions. The other is that no magazine can include anything about Elizabeth Taylor in the same issue.”

Blau was used to representing seasoned, internationally known photographers who trusted him to make their business deals. I think he was surprised to find a twenty-five-year-old brash enough to insist that he fly to L.A., bold enough to insist on imposing conditions of sale, and daring in his belief that he was the bigger expert on how to handle these photos. I was actually just learning on the job, but it was a good plan.

Blau really had no choice. He even agreed to Globe’s selling the set of pictures in a few countries. The next step was to let Marilyn know that Billy and I had decided to
combine our pictures. I called Pat Newcomb and explained what we were up to and how it would work to Marilyn’s benefit. She understood, she said. She had one request: Marilyn had asked to see the color shots again.

I went about ordering enough sets of prints and duplicate transparencies for each of the countries we’d be selling to, and I prepared for my meeting the next day in Fox’s publicity department.

By the time Billy and I arrived at Perry Lieber’s office at Fox,
Time
magazine’s advance copies, with Joe’s story and a small image of Marilyn and the director poolside, were out. We told Perry that we’d decided to go into partnership and to sell our pictures as worldwide exclusives; we explained that we expected to get many magazine covers, and we filled him in on the details. He was quick to see the upside for the studio and was silent as we explained that the publicity would be devalued if Fox released Jimmy Mitchell’s pictures, which we hadn’t even seen. It wasn’t Lieber’s decision to make, so he took us to see his boss, Harry Brand.

Lieber did most of the talking. “These guys are going to have Marilyn on the front cover of magazines all over the world—
Life
,
Paris Match
, and so forth.”

Lieber also noted that with the breach-of-contract notice Marilyn had been given, nobody knew what was going to happen, but publicity was the name of the game, and the studio had not said to stop publicizing the movie.

“Well,” Brand said, “since she hasn’t approved Mitchell’s pictures yet, they don’t exist.” That was all he said in the entire meeting. Billy smiled, I was beside myself.

Lieber then called Pat Newcomb, who agreed to set up some time the next day for the
Life
reporter Tommy Thompson to interview Marilyn on the set, since
Life
needed some text to accompany the photos that hadn’t even been seen. I felt that we were on a steamroller and that nothing could get in our way. I even told Judi that we should start looking for a home and get ourselves out of the apartment. With my percentage from the sales, I knew I would have no problem making the down payment on a house in the Valley.

But no steamrolling is ever smooth, and there were unavoidable bumps on our path. I could tell that Pat Newcomb resented how I had insinuated myself into Marilyn’s business and how I had made a deal with Billy. Now, on top of that, she had to deal with a
Life
reporter through my negotiations with the magazine, not hers.

The next day, Marilyn spoke with Thompson in between scenes for the movie. Pat was around, watching the clock, and both Billy and I were shooting Marilyn when we could. Later in the day, I made a series of head shots of her, with Marilyn looking wistfully past me; she wore a golden fur cap that almost matched her hair and a fur-collared suit she’d
worn on the set for many days of shooting. Those pictures captured the angel in her at a time when she was fighting the demon of having to make this picture under the threat of a studio that held her in breach of contract. The image was soft. She seemed almost to be gasping for a little air. As if she were looking for a little more life.

When Thompson finished his interview, he came over and said, “When can I get all the pictures? I’ve got to fly to New York.”

“Tommy,” I said, “you’re not taking the pictures.”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t closed a deal with
Life
yet. I’m going to New York to show them directly to Pollard.” He replied, “That’s not what I understand. I’m supposed to fly back with the pictures.” Clearly, he wanted to make sure that
Life
got first crack at the best pictures.

“Marilyn has insisted on a worldwide release date,” I said, putting it back on her again. But that didn’t impress Thompson. He was furious and walked away without saying another word. I would never find out what he thought. I saw him at other events over the years, but he never talked to me again.

Marilyn called in sick the next day, but she was well enough to ask me to come over to her house so that she could look
at the color slides once again. I brought over the strips that she hadn’t zipped in half with those pinking shears. She found one or two more she couldn’t stand because they highlighted the muscles in her legs, but she left the rest. I was relieved.

“How many pages are we getting in
Life
?” she asked.

“Don’t know. I’m flying to New York. I’ll let Pat know,” I replied.

“Good,” she said. “And what about a cover?”

“I’m sure we’ll have the cover,” I replied. “You sell magazines.”

“You’re like a businessman, aren’t you?” she said.

“You have to be, my father taught me that. He was a salesman.”

I have no idea why I brought my father into this conversation. I remember telling her that he was the manager of a Davega’s when I was a child. It was a sporting goods and camera store on Forty-Second Street in New York.

I also told her what happened after my eye accident, how my dad got a job in California to help start the Price Clubs.

Friday, June 1, was Marilyn’s thirty-sixth birthday. Most of the day had been spent shooting a scene with Wally Cox and Dean Martin in which Dean clowned around, admiring her ass; and late in the day, the cast and some of the
crew came together to celebrate with her. A huge birthday cake was brought in with sparklers for candles, and Marilyn posed behind it looking joyful and appreciative, and she posed some more when she cut into the cake. She was given a giant card, signed by everyone connected with the movie, but the atmosphere wasn’t festive. She got no presents. There was more a feeling of gloom than of happiness. And what I noticed was how few people from the studio and among her personal friends were there. I saw Marilyn turn to Whitey Snyder and ask, “Where’s everybody?” It seemed sad. Late afternoon really wasn’t the best time to share a birthday cake.

The celebration moved to Martin’s dressing room, and the smaller space made for a warmer atmosphere. Bottles of her favorite champagne were uncorked, and Marilyn, Dean, and Wally Cox began to loosen up. George Cukor, who had seemed frustrated with Marilyn during the day, came bearing a gift, the only one she received that day: a small Mexican ceramic bull, which she held to her cheek and rubbed her nose against, as if it were most precious. It didn’t take long for the champagne to have its effect. Marilyn had changed from her working clothes into her white capri slacks, and when she sat on Wally’s lap, she fake-humped him. He loved it.

As the last drops of champagne were consumed, Marilyn said she was going to a charity baseball game at Dodger
Stadium. Her producer, Henry Weinstein, arrived and tried to talk her out of it, worrying that there was a chill in the air and that she might catch cold. Marilyn laughed at him and said she had made a commitment to attend. She would make an appearance, she said.