Marilyn Monroe (17 page)

When Preminger was angry or irritated, prominent blue veins bulged in his shiny, shaven head. Not for the first time, Natasha was banished. “You can be with Miss Monroe in her dressing room if she wants you there,” said Preminger, “but you are not permitted on the set.”

This time, however, there was a new twist. On Saturday, August 8, Marilyn decided to test her power, as DiMaggio had often done with the Yankees. Instead of dealing with Preminger on her own, pouting or calling in sick as she was known to do, Marilyn contacted her agent. She wanted the situation resolved before she saw Preminger again on Monday. Feldman talked to Zanuck, who, for the first time, backed Marilyn over a director in the matter of Natasha. It was a huge victory. Even Joe, who loathed Natasha, had reason to be exultant.

Tensions ran high on the set, where Preminger, humiliated, hoped to provoke his own firing. It was no secret that he preferred to work as an independent, and he had agreed to direct
River of No Return
only because
he owed Twentieth one more picture on his contract. Preminger may have been ordered to reinstate Natasha, but that didn’t mean he had to be nice to Marilyn. Deriding her talent as an actress and recalling Marilyn’s days as one of Sam Spiegel’s “house girls,” he advised her to return to her “former profession.”

Rainy weather added days to the schedule. The production was further stalled when Marilyn, wearing high green leather wading boots to protect her costume during rehearsals, slipped on a rock in the rushing river, tearing ligaments and tendons in her left leg. Twentieth flew in an orthopedic surgeon, who kept Marilyn off the set for several days.

On September 1, Marilyn flew to Los Angeles with Natasha, her leg in a cast. While she finished
River of No Return
at the studio, work proceeded on
The Girl in Pink Tights
under the supervision of the producer Sol Siegel. Not long after Marilyn’s return, Famous Artists notified Siegel that Marilyn was not eager to do the film.

Meanwhile, Natasha had begun to pressure Marilyn not to risk suspension. When Hugh French of Famous Artists met with her, she spoke of little but Natasha’s fears about what would happen to her own salary if Marilyn refused an assignment. Soon, Natasha went too far. She demanded $5,000 for a third mortgage on her house, but accepted the thousand Marilyn raised by selling a mink stole Johnny Hyde had given her. Afterward, in conversation with French, Marilyn characterized Natasha as an “extremely tricky woman.” They had often taken up the cudgels against one another in private, but this was the first time Marilyn had anything bad to say about Natasha to anyone else. For those like DiMaggio and Feldman who tolerated Natasha because she seemed so important to Marilyn, it was an encouraging sign.

After finishing with Preminger, Marilyn accompanied DiMaggio to San Francisco on October 10. Her experience with Joe in San Francisco was dramatically different from what it had been in New York. A continent away from Table One, this was the city where he had roots. Though his background as the son of poor immigrants fueled the rage that later characterized him, Joe may never have known greater tranquility than when he was at home with his large, affectionate family.

That, no doubt, is why he wanted Marilyn to spend some time in the big, comfortable stone house in the Marina District that he’d bought
for his parents during the Great Depression. It had wonderful views: In one direction, you could see the Golden Gate Bridge; in the other, Fisherman’s Wharf, where Joe owned a family-run seafood restaurant. The house stood for everything Joe had fought for. Its stones had been a bulwark against hard times. In an era of national economic crisis, fans, disgusted with DiMaggio’s salary demands, had booed him on the baseball field. They thought he was merely greedy. They failed to see that he only asked to be paid what he was worth. They failed to see that he was only trying to protect the people he loved.

His parents were dead, but the stone house retained its powerful emotional significance. Though Joe himself lived in lonely, nondescript hotel rooms, it was important that the old place on Beach Street remained in family hands. He might arrive there without notice, and his widowed sister Marie always had everything ready. Joe protected his family, but it is also true that Marie protected Joe. She and Marilyn spent many hours in the kitchen, cooking Italian food and discussing Joe.

Marilyn had to go to Los Angeles for the premiere of
How to Marry a Millionaire
on November 4, 1953. From the first, there had always been the possibility that without Hawks, Marilyn would be unable to repeat the miracle of
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.
The Hawks film had been well-made in every way. The script, the production numbers, the editing—all had been perfection. On every possible level,
How to Marry a Millionaire
was inferior filmmaking. Negulesco was no match for Hawks. Yet, dull as it was, audiences loved it for Marilyn’s performance.
How to Marry a Millionaire
demonstrated two things: that Marilyn could perform the “Marilyn Monroe” character brilliantly without the guidance of an expert director; and that people would flock to any film, no matter how bad, that had the character in it. Marilyn had done something more than create a character. She had launched a brand name.

While in Los Angeles, she completed some retakes for
River of No Return.
In deference to Marilyn, Zanuck assigned Negulesco to film the new footage, and he finished in time for her to spend Thanksgiving in San Francisco with the DiMaggios.

Though Joe professed disdain for her career, he could hardly remain oblivious to the box-office success of
How to Marry a Millionaire.
In 1953 alone,
Niagara, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
, and
How to Marry a Millionaire
grossed in excess of $25 million; Marilyn earned more for her
studio than any film star that year. The time had come for Joe to step in and ensure that Marilyn was paid what she was worth. His influence had already begun to shape Marilyn’s thinking about certain key issues. Money had always meant little to her; what fueled her was a desire for respect. Joe made her see that money and respect might be linked. For Joe, money was a sign of respect. The more management was willing to pay, the more they respected an athlete. To Joe’s mind, the same principle applied to a film studio and its stars. It was only a matter of time before Marilyn—vulnerable as she was to his approval—began to see things Joe’s way.

When Joe returned to Los Angeles with Marilyn on November 29, he called her lawyer, Loyd Wright, to set up a meeting. It was evident from their talks that Joe had decided to take an active if behind-the-scenes role in Marilyn’s contract negotiations. It was also evident that the people who said that DiMaggio was uncomfortable with any subject other than baseball were far from correct. Joe was a shrewd business strategist, and under the right circumstances he enjoyed making his views known.

DiMaggio indicated that he differed with Feldman on one crucial point. Though Feldman thought Marilyn should refuse
The Girl in Pink Tights
, he had reconciled himself to the fact that the prospect of suspension made her nervous and told her that it didn’t really matter if she agreed to do the film after all. If Siegel sent her a decent script, or if he managed to borrow Gene Kelly, it was fine with Feldman if she decided to proceed. He saw no connection between that assignment and the upcoming contract negotiations. DiMaggio, however, had spotted a connection. Realizing that this would prevent the studio from accumulating a backlog of Marilyn Monroe pictures, he told Wright that they should not allow her to do
The Girl in Pink Tights
or any other film until her new deal was in place. If Twentieth had several pictures ready for release, Zanuck would be under no pressure to give her the deal she deserved.
River of No Return
had already been shot, and Joe didn’t want Zanuck to have another film to put beside it on the shelf.

Toots Shor once asked DiMaggio what made him great. Joe replied that it was anticipation, the ability to figure out a play before it happens. That, as everybody in Marilyn’s corner quickly realized, was what Joe had just done. He’d seen what the agents and lawyers had failed
to see. He’d prevented them from making a tactical error. Wright communicated DiMaggio’s views to Feldman, who was in Switzerland. As of December 1, the battle plan changed drastically. Marilyn assured her lawyer that she fully agreed with the new plan to refuse any and all assignments until after February, when a deal had been made.

On the morning of Saturday, December 5, when Joe was away, Marilyn received a call from Twentieth’s casting director, Billy Gordon, asking her to report on Monday to begin rehearsals for
The Girl in Pink Tights.
The studio, unable to get Gene Kelly, had cast Frank Sinatra. Four days previously, Marilyn had seemed completely clear about what was at issue. This morning, with Gordon on the phone, she was sent into a panic at the prospect of actually refusing an assignment.

Marilyn managed to get off the phone without agreeing to anything. She called Hugh French, who could hear that she was very nervous. To buy time, French and Jack Gordean informed the casting director that Marilyn would not attend rehearsals until she’d been sent a script. Then, both agents rushed over to Doheny. Marilyn seemed to have forgotten Joe’s plan completely. She wanted Famous Artists to see what could be done about getting her assigned to other pictures right away. In particular, she demanded to be tested for the role of Nefer the prostitute in
The Egyptian.
Marilyn did not want to be reminded that if she accepted a new picture she would lose significant leverage in the contract talks. She did not want to hear that Zanuck refused to consider her for
The Egyptian
because Bella Darvi, his mistress, coveted the role. She did not want to know that Feldman was in Switzerland because Jean Howard, his ex-wife, had had a serious operation. Marilyn, panicking about Monday and the decision it required, projected her anxieties onto Feldman. She resented his failure to be there precisely when she needed him most.

In his suite at the Lausanne Palace, Feldman stayed up past 2 a.m. typing drafts of a long, rambling letter to Marilyn. He was frantic and exhausted. Though divorced since 1946, he and his ex-wife remained close. He said that the past few weeks at her bedside had been the worst ordeal of his life. He couldn’t possibly return until Jean had been discharged from the hospital, yet suddenly the entire Marilyn Monroe deal was threatening to explode in his absence. A telephone call from his staff reminded him that Marilyn was volatile. He had to be cautious about
every word he wrote. He did not want her to misinterpret. He did not want to provoke her to seek advice from another agent. And he did not want to say anything that, if repeated, would damage his relationship with Zanuck. Marilyn was touchy, but so was Zanuck, especially on the subject of Bella Darvi.

Feldman reassured Marilyn that he had watched the rough cut of
River of No Return
with Zanuck and that both of them thought she was great. But nothing he could do right now, he promised, not even fly back to Hollywood to sit in front of Zanuck’s door twenty-four hours a day for a month or more, would change Zanuck’s mind about
The Egyptian.
As soon as his ex-wife was out of the hospital, Feldman planned to meet Skouras in Paris to discuss Marilyn’s contract. He implored her to hold on until then.

It was said that when Darryl Zanuck entered his green and gold office on the Fox lot, his buck teeth preceded him by a second or two. Marlon Brando thought he looked like Bugs Bunny. Jean Negulesco called him “a swollen egoist with a smooth sneer.” Ben Hecht recalled that at story conferences, Zanuck, plotting at the top of his lungs, resembled “a man hollering for help.” Speaking, often shouting, in a distinctive Nebraska twang, he appeared to be intoxicated by the sound of his own voice. He swung a polo mallet at an imaginary ball as, marching to and fro, he dictated to three secretaries at a time. Souvenirs of African safaris adorned the office floor and walls.

Zanuck believed that a good story was more important to a film’s success than stars. No script was made without his approval. Before a film went into production, Zanuck, who had once been a screenwriter, made copious marginal notes on the script. He didn’t have to read the next draft; he knew that all his suggestions would be followed religiously. Zanuck refrained from interfering with the work of directors and actors on the set. He did, however, submit notes on the rushes. When a director finished a first cut, Zanuck rolled up his sleeves. Night after night, he would start after dinner, editing the footage himself until long past midnight. Zanuck, for better or worse, subscribed to the old Warner Bros. aesthetic. He liked films that were brisk and laconic; mercilessly he
snipped out entire sequences. Zanuck was capable of working wonders in the editing room, of seeing the diamond in the dross. But he was also known to butcher a film, excising so much of the story that it no longer made sense. On
Niagara
, for instance, Zanuck had removed as many as six major sequences, leaving gaping holes in the narrative. Zanuck had the reputation of an egoist, yet when a film triumphed, he took no credit. “My boys did it!” he liked to say. When a film bombed, he blamed only himself.