Marilyn Monroe (58 page)

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 the 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.