Marilyn Monroe (44 page)

The changes on both sides made the outlook for Monroe’s collaboration with Olivier considerably different from what it had been in January. But if Marilyn seemed oblivious to all this, Olivier was determined to find a way to cope.

Before the Millers headed back to Parkside after the press conference, Olivier politely asked Miller what plays he wanted to see. Miller selected John Osborne’s
Look Back in Anger
at the Royal Court. The play had generated enormous excitement when it opened in May. “I doubt if I could love anyone who did not wish to see
Look Back in Anger,”
declared Kenneth Tynan in his review. “It’s the best young play of its decade.” Dismayed by the number of English plays concerned with upper-and upper-middle-class life, Tynan saw
Look Back in Anger
as something new and vital, which gave voice to a “sophisticated, articulate lower class.” Olivier had disliked the play, and urged Miller to choose something else. When Miller insisted, Olivier promised to have tickets for him at the next performance. Marilyn wanted to rest, so Miller went alone.

Miller was surprised to find Olivier at the theater. Despite his initial dislike of the play, Olivier would not permit himself to take the risk that Miller might be on to something that he himself had failed to perceive. This fiercely competitive streak, which drove him to keep growing as an artist, was part of what made Olivier great; he was intent on remaining open to new things. Olivier’s determination never to seem old-fashioned or set in his theatrical ways makes understandable his immense frustration at the time of
A Streetcar Named Desire
, when he failed to connect with Tennessee Williams’s work as Elia Kazan and Marlon Brando had done.

During the intermission, Olivier asked Miller’s opinion. Miller was
most enthusiastic. And Miller remained enthusiastic after the play when Olivier questioned him again. Later, Miller and Olivier met the author backstage. “God, I wish you’d write a play for me one day,” Olivier told Osborne.

Olivier had scheduled three days of wardrobe and makeup tests that week, so Marilyn and Arthur had plenty of time alone together. They seemed blissfully happy. Among the servants at Parkside House, there was much giggling and speculation as the honeymooners spent many hours upstairs in their bedroom “playing trains,” as it was thought. This reason was immediately suggested by Marilyn’s public image, but there was another reason also. A childhood spent in various foster homes had taught Marilyn to react to the threat of unfamiliar surroundings by hiding. The bedroom had always been the place where she felt safest.

In anticipation of the tests, Marilyn met with Jack Cardiff, the Academy Award-winning cinematographer known for his work on
Black Narcissus, The Red Shoes
, and
The African Queen.
Marilyn had asked that he be hired. She told Cardiff that she wanted to use the pearly-white makeup she’d worn in
Bus Stop
, but Cardiff warned that the pale makeup might cause her teeth to appear gray. As she hadn’t yet seen a final print, they went to Twentieth’s private screening room in London to look at
Bus Stop
together. Marilyn saw that Cardiff was right; the makeup she had worn as Cherie was all wrong for
The Sleeping Prince.
But she also saw something else. Her favorite scene, in which Cherie talks at length about her past, had been cut. Marilyn had been convinced that her performance in that scene would change the way people saw her. She had excitedly anticipated the day when Arthur would see it and know that his faith in her had been well placed.

The discovery that
Bus Stop
would be released without this scene was the first break in Marilyn’s mood of perfect happiness. With terrifying suddenness, Marilyn fell into despair. Her whole world turned upside down in a moment. All of her anger was suddenly focused on Joshua Logan. She was convinced that he had betrayed her. She was certain that he had never really believed in her as he had pretended to do. She would never accept that, in fact, Logan had fought to keep the scene but had been overruled by Buddy Adler and Spyros Skouras, who thought it unnecessary to the narrative. As far as Marilyn was concerned, Logan—the first director she herself had selected—had deceived her. In terms of
her future relations with Olivier, this crisis could hardly have come at a worse moment. Marilyn brooded obsessively about whether Olivier, too, would turn out to be her adversary.

On July 18, when she arrived at Pinewood Studios some thirty minutes late for the first makeup tests, Olivier was horrified. Her skin was badly blemished. Her hair was a tangled, matted mess. She was completely disheveled. She barely listened when Olivier tried to speak to her. During the tests, she paid attention only to Cardiff, who used every lighting trick in his considerable repertoire. Marilyn’s behavior and appearance bewildered Olivier. He had no knowledge of her upset over Logan’s perceived betrayal. He was unaware of all that Lee Strasberg had done in advance to plant the seeds of distrust. He was insensitive to the effect that his own remoteness had on her. By and large, Marilyn’s only way of communicating with a man was to flirt, or to permit him to baby her. Olivier did neither. By the end of the day, he had begun to wonder whether he had made a terrible mistake in agreeing to work with her. Marilyn, sensitive to the slightest hint of rejection, picked up on his doubts. And that—as Olivier failed to comprehend—made her freeze even more.

The following morning, Olivier watched the tests in a screening room at Pinewood. Whatever Marilyn may have looked like when she arrived for the makeup tests, in front of the camera she had metamorphosed into something entirely different. She lit up. She came alive. In a true feat of acting, she became the gorgeous, enchanting, kinetic girl known as “Marilyn Monroe.” All of Olivier’s doubts evaporated. Suddenly, he was excited about working with Marilyn again.

On the night of July 24, Terence Rattigan gave a supper-dance in Marilyn’s honor at Little Court, his country house in Surrey. The guests included Lady Diana Cooper, Tyrone Power, Sybil Thorndike, Margot Fonteyn, John Gielgud, Peggy Ashcroft, and other luminaries. Though her host would have been unaware of this, it was the American ambassador, Winthrop Aldrich, who would have been of greatest interest to Marilyn. In Washington, D.C., the next day, Congress was to vote on whether to cite Arthur Miller for contempt.

The garden at Little Court was decorated with colorful Chinese paper lanterns. There were white-draped tables and a buffet supper of lobster curry. Later, there would be dancing inside. At the front door,
Rattigan and Olivier greeted the guests, who started to arrive at nine. Vivien Leigh was to have come after the evening’s performance
of South Sea Bubble
, but she changed her mind at the last minute when her dress didn’t fit. Radie Harris was supposed to be the only journalist in attendance, Olivier having strictly forbidden her to write about the party afterward. Yet when Harris arrived at Little Court, Olivier quietly took her aside.

“Darling,” he whispered, “you can write any fucking thing you want. Louella Parsons is here!”

Parsons, wearing a black mantilla, surveyed the crowd from an elevated armchair. Milton Greene, under pressure, had secured an invitation for the powerful Hearst columnist.

It was nearly eleven before the Millers made their entrance. Marilyn wore a low-cut white chiffon gown which had been rejected as one of her costumes in the film. Draped over her shoulders was the now ratty white mink coat she’d worn to announce the “new Marilyn.” The center of the large drawing room had been cleared for dancing. Someone put on a recording of “Embraceable You.” Marilyn and Arthur floated onto the empty dance floor. As everyone looked on, the Millers danced cheek to cheek and held each other tightly. They were so affectionate that one guest later declared that someone ought to have said, “Look, there’s a bedroom upstairs!” On the one hand, Marilyn acted as if no one else were present. On the other, it was as if she were sending a message to the American ambassador. Hours before the vote in Congress, Marilyn’s actions demonstrated that she supported her husband fully. Never one who trusted easily, Marilyn had put her faith in Arthur. Who better to trust than a man willing to go to jail rather than betray others? The American public adored Marilyn; there was a chance that they wouldn’t tolerate Miller’s being punished if she showed how much she loved and needed him.

Arthur was by no means the only one at risk in the vote before Congress. Marilyn was well aware that Spyros Skouras’s refusal to intervene could mean that he was prepared to abandon her, or had already done so. So tonight, once again, she risked everything she had worked for and won. For Arthur’s sake, Marilyn put her own career in jeopardy. But the language that Marilyn used was not one that the people watching her understood. Her sexuality had always been Marilyn’s primary means of
communication; it had brought her power over men, and success in Hollywood. That night, it brought her only amused derision. Instead of bravery, people saw no more than a girl’s somewhat indiscreet behavior with her new husband.

It was past 4 a.m. when the Millers returned to Parkside House. They remained in the bedroom much of the following day. They had food and the papers sent up. At one point Miller emerged in a white terrycloth bathrobe, only to disappear back inside. If he seemed distracted, there was a good reason. Washington, D.C. was five hours behind London, so the Millers had to wait until late in the day to learn the results of the Congressional vote.

Precisely as Joe Rauh had anticipated, Representative Jackson was the loudest and most articulate voice against Miller. Jackson argued that “moral scruples, no matter how laudable, do not constitute grounds for refusal to answer questions propounded by a duly authorized committee.” The California congressman pointed out that HUAC “was investigating charges of passport fraud in connection with forthcoming legislation” and the information they sought from Miller was important.

“Why can’t you bring in such legislation without requiring this man to squeal to the committee?” asked Representative Multer of New York.

“Arthur Miller was not subpoenaed for the purpose of squealing to anyone,” HUAC’s Chairman Walter cut in, “but because of information that he was a Communist associated with Communist activities. The committee is interested in knowing who were participants in the Communist conspiracy.”

Representative Yates of Illinois noted that Miller “denied ever being a Communist during the hearing.”

“Mr. Miller is not being cited for denying he was a Communist,” Jackson retorted, “but for refusing to supply information.”

When it was all over, Lloyd Garrison conveyed the results to the Millers. By a vote of 379 to 9, Arthur Miller had been cited for contempt of Congress. The House of Representatives would transmit the citation to the Assistant United States Attorney for investigation and possible prosecution. Joe Rauh, puzzled by Spyros Skouras’s refusal to protect Marilyn, expressed confidence that they’d win in court. All of the worry, including Marilyn’s, centered on Arthur’s fate. Still, though he was her
primary concern, she could not forget what the vote might mean for her own career.

Marilyn was hardly in an ideal frame of mind to begin five days of rehearsals on Monday, July 30. Olivier, still under the spell of the tests, arrived at Pinewood Studios with exceedingly high hopes. He had scheduled rehearsals in order to put Marilyn at ease with the cast, and had been working with Sybil Thorndike, Richard Wattis, and Jeremy Spenser in an upstairs rehearsal room for about three quarters of an hour when Marilyn arrived with Paula in tow. Marilyn’s lateness was the first strike against her. Her unkempt appearance and withdrawn manner were the second. Paula’s presence was the third. Olivier, having been warned by Joshua Logan never to explode, did his best to stay calm. He read Marilyn’s appearance as an expression of disdain for the very idea of rehearsal.

When Olivier had agreed to direct
The Sleeping Prince
, he didn’t know that Marilyn would insist on bringing a dramatic coach. Only in the last weeks of pre-production did he discover that Paula was part of the package. For a man of Olivier’s ego, the presence of a meddlesome coach would in itself have been bad enough. Worse was that Paula, as the wife of Lee Strasberg, was a reminder of Olivier’s painful personal conflict with the Actors Studio style when he had directed the British stage production of
A Streetcar Named Desire
in 1949. In the end, when the play was filmed, even Vivien Leigh had preferred Kazan’s direction to her husband’s.

The oddly shaped Mrs. Strasberg, whose hands and legs had remained slender as her torso inflated, threw herself between Marilyn and the director. When Olivier talked, Marilyn would stare uncompre-hendingly as though he were speaking in a foreign tongue. Paula, forever buzzing in Marilyn’s ear, translated. Olivier had no way of knowing whether he was being accurately interpreted. In the days prior to Paula’s arrival, he had had an opportunity to try to connect with Marilyn, but he’d kept his distance. Now, it was too late. With Paula around, there was no getting through to his leading lady. Marilyn was eager to have her coach at her side, but in fact Paula’s presence sabotaged any remaining hope that Marilyn would be able to work effectively with Olivier.

Something else was wrong that first day, though Olivier certainly would not have noticed. This was a Marilyn Monroe production. Based
on her long-ago talks with Charlie Feldman, Marilyn had initiated the project. She had negotiated with Rattigan. She had won the film rights to
The Sleeping Prince.
She had brought in Olivier as director, co-star, and co-producer. Presumably the situation was to have been different from any picture in which Marilyn had previously appeared. But from the moment she entered the rehearsal room with Paula Strasberg, it was as if she were working on someone else’s film.

There were several reasons for this. The fact that
The Sleeping Prince
was being made at an English studio with an English cast and crew put Marilyn at a considerable disadvantage. She felt and acted like a guest. To make matters worse, Olivier had done this story before on the stage. He was already at home with the material. He had a set approach to his part and to the play, and seemed to want Marilyn to perform the role as Vivien had done it. Finally, there was his stature as an artist. Marilyn’s choice of such a formidable figure to direct and co-star made it much more difficult to think of the project as hers. She longed for Olivier’s approval. She hoped to be accepted as his colleague. She dreamed he would take her seriously. At the same time, she was intimidated by Olivier, and that paralyzed her.