My Week with Marilyn (17 page)

In 1943, when I was ten years old, my boarding school decided that my class should see
Gone with the Wind
. Film shows were a monthly treat then, and we had already seen several stirring black-and-white wartime epics, but
Gone with the Wind
was different. It was in colour, it was very long, and it contained some gruesome scenes of wounded soldiers, the sort of thing which was obviously never included in British films of the time. Our teacher took great trouble to explain to us that the film was just an illusion, made up of clever special effects. Nevertheless, watching it in that bare school hall had a dramatic effect on all of us.

At about the same time my father, Kenneth Clark, had been made controller of home publicity at the Ministry of Information. This meant that he was responsible for extricating British actors and actresses from the armed forces so that they could work in patriotic films. He made frequent visits to the studios around London to see how they were getting on, and I persuaded him to let me come too. His principal ally was Alexander Korda, who was the most powerful British producer at the time, and whom my father had persuaded to join in the ‘war effort'. Through him my father and mother met all the stars of the film world. Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh became their close friends, and William Walton, who was composing the music for Olivier's
Henry V
, was made my godfather to replace the original one who had been killed by a bomb. Another Hungarian producer, Gabriel Pascal, had managed to persuade George Bernard
Shaw to let him have the film rights to all his plays. He came to our house in Hampstead with a beautiful young American actress called Irene Worth, and promised to buy me a pair of white peacocks if I would act for him, offering me the part of Ptolemy in his production of Shaw's
Caesar and Cleopatra
(with Vivien Leigh). My parents said no, but I was not the least bit disappointed: I knew that I could never be an actor, and I also knew that those white peacocks were as much a product of Pascal's imagination as
Caesar and Cleopatra
was of Shaw's.

I had become completely fascinated by the concept of a fictional idea being made into a real film, which is in itself an illusion. It is a fascination which I have never lost. At the age of twelve I explained this to my father, and told him of my determination to be a film director. My only worry was that all the directors I had met were fat and ugly. To my surprise he took me seriously. Although he was involved in all the performing arts – opera, ballet and theatre as well as film – his main love was painting. He pointed out that painting contains the same elements of illusion and reality as film, and that Michael Powell and David Lean were both successful directors, and they were thin.

From then on, a visit to a film set was like a dream fulfilled. I saw Noël Coward in a tank of oily black water making
In Which We Serve
; I saw Vivien Leigh being carried on a very wobbly litter in front of a plaster Sphinx on the set of
Caesar and Cleopatra
; I saw her again in
Anna Karenina
– she had offered me the role of her son, again refused; and many more. I was not in love with the magic of film the way many children are with theatre or ballet: I was in love with the way in which that magic was made.

When I got to Eton in 1946 it became clear that I had chosen a pretty eccentric path. ‘Art' did not then have the respectable connotations that it does today. My family, though wealthy enough, was as far from the typical ‘hunting, shooting and fishing' set as it was possible to be. None of my more conventional contemporaries had ever heard of an art historian, and I was forced to describe my father
as a professor (he had been Slade Professor of Fine Art at Oxford). My friends could not understand me at all – many still can't – and as if to underline the difference between us, I chose to be a pilot in the RAF during my National Service rather than to go into the Guards, and then to get a job as a keeper at London Zoo rather than work in a merchant bank.

In the summer of 1952, while on vacation from Oxford, I went on a motoring tour of Europe and found myself stranded in a little palace in the mountains of north Portugal. It belonged to an Englishman called Peter Pitt-Millward, and apart from his occasional guests, I had no one else with whom to converse for over two months. To make things worse, I fell passionately in love with someone who could speak nothing but Portuguese. I could not even confide in Peter about this as he was also in love – with the same person. So I started to keep a daily journal in which I could explore my emotions, and my loneliness. This feeling of isolation persisted throughout the remainder of my time at university.

By the time I got the job on
The Prince and the Showgirl
in 1956, my diary had become a firm friend. However tired I was, I could not sleep before I had written down some of the things that had happened during the day, and confided some of the opinions that I had not dared to express to anyone, scribbling away in an old ledger which I kept wrapped up in my pyjamas. I did not always get things right, and as I never expected anyone else to read what I had written, I had no need to be what we now call ‘politically correct'. Even so, in this published version of my diary for June to November 1956, I have cut very little out. I was a well-brought-up boy, and when you see ‘f — ' in this book, it is because I wrote ‘f — ' in my diary.

When the filming of
The Prince and the Showgirl
was over, it was many, many years before I dared to read my diary of that time again, just as it was many, many years before I could bring myself to see the film in a cinema. Even now I have trouble seeing past the pain and anxiety in Marilyn Monroe's eyes.

This book is really all about Marilyn. For five months, whether she
turned up or not, she dominated our every waking thought. I was the least important person in the whole studio, but I was in a wonderful position from which to observe. The Third Assistant Director is really a kind of superior messenger boy. I got to meet everyone and go everywhere, unencumbered by responsibilities which might tie me down, or narrow my viewpoint. No one can feel threatened by a 3rd Ast Dir (except perhaps the ‘extras', who he has to keep under control), and most of the people involved in making the film felt they could be more open with me than with a possible rival. When the filming was completed I was almost the only person who was still on speaking terms with everyone else. That alone probably makes this diary unique.

CAST LIST

PRODUCTION CREW

Now that University is behind me, I'm going to get a job – a real job on a real film. At 9 a.m. tomorrow I will be at Laurence Olivier's film company to offer my services on his next production. The papers say it will star Marilyn Monroe, so it should be exciting.

Two weeks ago, Larry and Vivien came down to stay at Saltwood
³
for the weekend. Mama told Vivien that I wanted to be a film director. I was mortified, but Vivien just gave a great purr and said ‘Larry will give Colin a job, won't you Larry darling!' I could see Larry groan under his breath. ‘Go and see Hugh Perceval at 146 Piccadilly,' he said. ‘He might have something.'

So that is where I have an appointment in the morning. And every night I am going to write this diary. It could be fun to look back on, when I am old and famous!

This is going to be really hard. I know absolutely nothing about making films. I'm totally ignorant. Did I really think they were actually shooting a film in Piccadilly?

At 10 a.m. I turned up at the office of Laurence Olivier Productions, punctual and sober.

The offices themselves are very few. A large luxurious reception area with sofas, a secretary's office at the far end, and Mr Perceval's office leading off that. It is clearly the ground floor of what was once a private house. The secretary, friendly but detached – would I wait. Mr Perceval was on the phone. Soon I was ushered in, anxious now. There didn't seem to be enough going on. Mr P is a tall, thin, gloomy man with black-rim spectacles. His sparse black hair is brushed back and he has a black moustache. He puffs a pipe continually.

‘Yes. What do you want?' (No introductions whatever.)

‘I want a job on the Marilyn Monroe film.'

‘Oh, ho, you do? What as?'

‘Anything.'

I suppose he could see that I was a complete fool and he softened a little.

‘Well. We don't start filming for eight weeks. You really should come back then. At the moment we have no more offices than you can see here, and no jobs. I only have my chauffeur and my secretary. I am afraid I misunderstood Laurence. I thought you were coming to interview me about the film.'

Blind panic set in. I must say something.

‘Can I wait here until there is a job?'

‘For eight weeks??'

‘In the waiting room – in case something comes up?'

‘Grmph.' Very gloomy, and bored now. ‘It's a free country, I suppose. But I'm telling you, it's going to be eight weeks. And then I can't promise anything.'

Gets up and opens door.

‘Good day.'

I went out and sat down on one of the sofas in the waiting room. The secretary gave me a very cold look. She's quite pretty, but is certainly not flirtatious.

I just didn't know what to do. I had expected huge offices, even
studios, lots of work going on – willing hands needed in every department, and a bit like the London Zoo when I turned up there and asked for a job as a keeper in '53 (and got one!
⁴
).

So I just sat and waited.

At lunchtime I was saved by a friendly face. Gilman, Larry and Vivien's chauffeur came in, brash and cockney as ever.

‘'Ullo Colin. What you doin' 'ere?'

I explained.

‘Hmm. There's no work here. I've got to get his nibs' lunch. Come and have a drink in the pub.'

I went gratefully (but only ½ of bitter). Gilman told me what was going on. He was on loan to Perceval. Every morning he did errands, for Perceval or for Larry, and then came back here to get Perceval's lunch. This never varied: two cheese rolls and a Guinness.

‘You won't get work from him, Colin. Miserable bugger.'

‘Well, I've got nothing else in the world to do but wait, so I might as well wait.'

‘OK. Good luck. We can always have a pint together at lunchtime.'

We went back with Mr P's sandwiches and drink and Gilman sped off in the Bentley. I waited until 6 p.m., when they all packed up and left.

‘Night all,' said Mr P gloomily, without a glance at me. I had a large brandy and water in the pub. I'll be back in the office tomorrow.

I was there at 8.30. The secretary arrived at 8.55. Mr P punctually at nine. He just gave me a grim stare as he came in. Then he gets on the phone and stays there most of the day. He never smiles and he never raises his voice. The secretary gets the calls for him and then taps away at the typewriter. She is polite but not friendly. She treats
me like a client. I wonder if she knows that ‘M and D'
⁵
are friends of Larry and Vivien?