by Adam Braver
Henry Weinstein offers a last defense. He asks, “What about what she’s done for the studio? Isn’t she owed some leeway or extra circumstance? There is a history here. A real history.”
Levathes sighs into the phone. “The money from the world of the past,” he says, “has little value in the world of the future.”
Weinstein walks to the window. He pushes the curtain open with the back of his hand. Backlit, he looks like a shadow puppet. And in that moment it becomes even clearer that in Hollywood there is no past. There are trace amounts of nostalgia, just enough to keep the foundation strong. But it’s a business focused on the future.
Scratch that.
A business that closes its eyes and hopes for a future.
The next day, Los Angeles Times gossip columnist Hedda Hopper leaks the news of Marilyn’s dismissal in her column, “Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood.” She quotes a source who’s identified only as “one of the most knowledgeable men in the industry.” He’s told Hopper, “I believe it is the end of her career . . . She has no control of herself.” It’s believed the knowledgeable man was George Cukor.
At twenty-seven, nearly ten years younger than Marilyn, Lee Remick is at her prime. Under contract with Twentieth, she is assigned to take over Marilyn’s part in Something’s Got to Give. And although the studio publicists have been trying to push her as America’s answer to Brigitte Bardot, “a chick with money and breeding who’s loaded with sex appeal” (something she’s battled against, hiring her own publicist to push her as a serious actress who, like Marilyn, attended the Actors Studio), what makes her most suitable for this particular movie at this particular time are the qualities she described in an interview with the New York Herald Tribune. “My problem,” she said, “is I’ve always been too happy. I have a lovely baby, a wonderful husband, my friends all like me, and I don’t have any neuroses. I’m not an oddball. Every part I play is different because I don’t bring the trademark neurosis to it . . . Why is it most actresses must be bizarre, vulgar, or temperamental to make good copy?” If Remick can really clean up in the wake of Monroe’s hurricane path, Levathes is willing to call off the publicity department on the Brigitte Bardot pitch. He’ll let her say she’s a serious actress all she wants.
On June 8, Remick is fit and dressed in Marilyn’s wardrobe, then photographed alongside George Cukor, both with reflexive smiles; a reluctant debutante and her patron. But behind the scenes she doesn’t trust the motives. She suspects it’s all an attempt by Twentieth Century-Fox to humiliate Marilyn Monroe. Remick asked her agent to find out if she really has to go through this, all for a measly $80,000. Additionally, time is tight—she’s already obligated to a July shooting schedule for The Running Man. But there’s no discussion. She’s informed that she owes Twentieth another movie, and contrary to what her predecessor in the role might have thought, Peter Levathes is still in charge. They expect her to be gracious. Get out there and put on a good face for the sake of the picture. And to follow through with whatever the unit publicist asks for.
While she and Cukor are being paraded, Twentieth announces through its legal counsel, Musick, Peeler & Garrett, that the studio has filed a $500,000 suit against Marilyn Monroe and her company, Marilyn Monroe Productions. When contacted by a New York reporter, attorney Jesse R. O’Malley of Musick, Peeler & Garrett asserts that Marilyn Monroe is in willful violation of contract, and that her malfeasance has cost the studio close to $2,000,000. He predicts that when all is said and done, the suit will increase its claim of $500,000 to upward of $1,000,000. But no one talks publicly about the troubled history between Monroe and Twentieth Century-Fox, that she left them once before, in ’55. Nor do they talk about the animosity, and the contracts, and the paybacks. This is about positioning. A publicity battle, designed to show Marilyn and all those who’ve lined up behind her who is in charge. A high-stakes bet to get the movie and the movie business back in order. It’s these kinds of dealings that might bring a dose of neurosis swirling into Lee Remick’s head as she marches behind the unit publicist, actually feeling like an oddball wearing someone else’s costume, the material bunched and pinned behind her back so it will fit, yet smiling, using all her training to convey how honored she is to have this opportunity of a lifetime.
But then there’s Dean Martin, who, upon hearing of the changes, says, Look, I have nothing against Lee Remick, but let me tell you, I signed on to work with Marilyn Monroe, and while there obviously are some issues at hand, and I know this is a business, still, it’s not about the film or the script, it’s about working with Marilyn, and again let me be straight here, this has nothing to do with Lee Remick, she’s a fine actress, a real beauty, and I know that one day, if I never get the chance to work with her, I’ll regret passing up this chance because she really is a talent, and I mean that when I say it, a real real talent, but in terms of the situation at hand, we’re talking about Marilyn Monroe, and let me tell you, baby, if you don’t understand what all the fuss about her is, then you only need to spend thirty seconds in her presence to find yourself hooked, and that’s what doing this movie is about, that’s why I signed on, for the chemistry, or at least the shot at chemistry, and again, don’t get me wrong about Lee Remick, I know she’s a force, I know she’s an American Brigitte Bardot, I have the greatest respect for Miss Lee Remick and her talent, and all the other actresses who were considered for the role, but I signed on the dotted line to do the picture with Marilyn Monroe and I will do it with no one else. I’ll be perfectly on the money with you, lay it all out on the table, all my cards exposed: No Marilyn, no picture.
The next month keeps Marilyn busy. Doing photo shoots for magazines. Life. Vogue. Cosmopolitan. And for each of those pieces, she poses with a seduction that’s new to her—not necessarily a sexuality that offers itself, instead one seeking to prove its vibrancy to the lens. It’s as though she’s trying to escape into the camera, letting it eat up the last bits of Marilyn.
On Dean Martin’s insistence (and specifically because of the clause in his contract that says he’ll work only with Marilyn Monroe), contract negotiations begin in order to return Marilyn to Something’s Got to Give. For its part, Twentieth agrees to up her salary to a more commensurate level. In turn, Marilyn agrees to make two more pictures for them (without Paula Strasberg on set). For Marilyn there’s one more issue. The real deal breaker. She will not work with George Cukor. Not with the way he treated her on set.
Jean Negulesco expresses interest in signing on. He directed Marilyn in How to Marry a Millionaire. She trusts him, believing he has true respect for actors. And she appreciates his filmmaking sensibilities, his sense for the artistry of the camera, which extends well beyond seeing the bottom line. There will be a brief hiatus to regroup and accommodate schedules, and then, assuming the terms of the new agreement can be met, they’ll resume filming in October. If everything goes as planned, the lawsuit will be dropped.
Still, she can’t shake Cukor’s words from her head. She fired him. Brought him down. Yet he chipped away at her. Put those thoughts about her age into her head. Made it a part of her. Told her there was only one Marilyn anybody really gave a shit about, and she was flirting with losing even that.
But would it be such a bad thing to lose that Marilyn Monroe?
His harangues stuck. She barely trusts anyone. There are few people she can count on. Keeping balanced requires more diligence. She’s gone back to doing yoga. But this time it’s not about the chair or warrior postures meant to strengthen her legs; it’s meant to ground her, help her find a center. And in the evenings, she’s put aside To Kill a Mockingbird and Franny and Zooey, instead taking up Autobiography of a Yogi and the Bhagavad Gita.
Maybe Cukor has done her a favor? Opened the door for Marilyn Monroe to exit? She’s been a good character, and had a tremendous ride. But this is not where she wants to live anymore.
At some point, when she knows she’s steadied and centered, she’ll thank Cukor.
When it’s a
ll over.
July 27–July 28, 1962
Cal Neva Lodge, Crystal Bay, NV
In the abstract for his article “Naked Suicide,” published in the Journal of the American Academy of Psychiatry and the Law, Dr. Robert Simon writes, “Nakedness during a suicide attempt is presumptive evidence of high risk for suicide completion. Deliberate self-harm, without intent to die, is not usually inflicted while naked.” In the article, Simon notes that in the case of women who have committed suicide naked, the traditional belief has always been that it must be homicide staged to appear as a suicide, as “‘feminine modesty’ carries over into suicidal death.” But this appears not to be true. In fact, it seems that most naked suicides involve hanging or overdosing, leaving the body ultimately exposed at its worst. The psychological explanations for a naked suicide are up for grabs. Dr. Simon’s article suggests that some reasons may be atonement, vengeance, or a statement of vulnerability. But for others—especially in the case of overdoses—there may be no deliberate rationale. It’s just something that happens when you lose all sense of orientation.
11:25 PM
For a moment she forgets where she is. Where she’s going. The space is musty, and it’s airless, and it also smells of men. Her stomach stings. Standing in total darkness, she imagines that she could probably move through this space forever without finding her way out.
It’s a little like those backyard games in which you’re blindfolded and then spun. At first you might be queasy with fear. But soon there’s an inherent trust in physics and fate, the instinctive knowledge that you’ll land facing the right direction.
Reaching out, she inadvertently strips a coat off its hanger. It’s Sinatra’s jacket. She’s in his closet.
Once she managed to cut out of the casino, she rushed back through the tunnel to the cottage. Going underground felt like something out of a child’s fairy tale. Out of one life and into another. Holding the metal rail, she focused on each carpeted stair, measuring every step. Exposed bulbs lit the way, warm against the sweaty dampness of the walls. Midway through, she took notice of leaving the Nevada side, where the rules were not just different, they were malleable. They could be shaped. Always reinterpreted. She remembered to walk straight. Don’t take any detours. Moving with cautious anticipation toward the exit up to Sinatra’s cabin, her fingers glided along the water pipes. Men’s voices followed behind, loud and urgent. Vibrating the pipes. Coming around the tunnel’s elbow. Echoes of Giancana. Be vigilant, she reminded herself. Don’t let them get inside you. Saying it over and over until they actually did feel inside her. Large and thorny. Forceful. Her hand jerked from the pipes, fingers folded into a fist. She turned around. Looked. Could see nothing. Then hurried onward, trying to maintain a normal pace. Never wanting to give off the scent of fear. Finally at the end of the tunnel, without ever seeing the men, she ran up the stairs and into Frank’s closet, without tripping over a single step.
The moonlight off the lake radiates in through the slightly open door. And she just stands in the closet, her head next to the swinging hanger, out of range of the men in the tunnel, protected and alone.
It’s like that backyard game.
She senses them coming. (Is it Giancana and his gang? Is it Frank and his?) Their feet bang on the cement, trampling with no pretense of delicacy. Coming to Tahoe had been about wanting to go away. Not being part of the showbiz life. But they won’t let her. They’ll chase her down, it seems. And, now, with the sport coat tangled around her ankles, trying to dance herself free of it, her right shoe accidentally kicks off; it flies backward, clunking against the wall.
Already she’s lost time, touching every inch of the closet twice looking for the shoe. In a movie it might make for a comedic moment, a dark closet filled with bumbling gangsters and one confused, trapped blonde. But they aren’t bumbling, and this isn’t the pictures. Finally, she yanks off the left shoe and tosses it over her shoulder. And then makes straight for the front door. She just wants to get to her cabin. Close the door, and keep the world at bay.
The deck alongside the cabin is uneven and wobbly. Fear makes balancing nearly impossible. Their voices sound close by. She scampers up the steps; the splintered wood catches her stockings. Cabin number three is just a short distance along the walkway, but all sense of direction is skewed. Unsure of what to do, she veers right, into the swimming pool area. There the water glows, lit like an artificial opal.
Backed up into a corner. Aching feet. The nylons completely sheared on the soles. Pebbles dig into her heels. She shrinks against the corner pole of the fence surrounding the pool, hugging herself. Maybe she can disappear into the nightscape.
It does feel a little safer on the California side. There’s no real explanation or tangible reason. Maybe it’s the consciously promoted sense of order that contrasts with Nevada’s lawless identity—its gambling, lack of speed limits, and six-week divorces. The last gasp of frontier populism. It’s artificial, that California-Nevada border. An arbitrary distinction, designated through deals and compromises and left to a cartographer’s hand to show. But somehow the border does feel real. A physical object. Like a fortress, protecting a way of life. Or keeping one out. Depending on how you look at it.
Across the street, as clouds start to gather, a moon shadow caps the west side of the hill. The bodyguard was wrong. You can see it from here, if you’re positioned just right. Maybe it’s about how the earth tilts. Halfway down there’s a movement. Joe is standing in a small open space between two pines. One of the last beams of moonlight highlights him. And though he is tiny, a pinprick in the distance, there’s no question. She’d know the posture anywhere. The way his hands sit on his hips when he’s disappointed. How his feet shift in place when he feels helpless. She lifts her hand and gives a subtle wave, just a slight wiggle, four fingers.
The shadow keeps moving down the hill. A slow slide toward him.
Nevada once felt right. It certainly did when Arthur went there in 1956 for his divorce, in order to marry her. He just needed a resident witness affidavit, stating he’d been seen living in the state for the requisite month and a half. And there were so many Nevadans willing to vouch for Arthur. It seemed as though the entire Silver State were cheering him on, like a collective best man for his wedding. It made her glad to return to Nevada to film The Misfits. As though she owed the state something. How quickly she learned to dread it. The alkali flats of Pyramid Lake. Endless drives to Dayton and the waiting in the brutal heat. The mornings and evenings spent at the Mapes Hotel in Reno, where each day she found it more and more impossible to be in the same space as her husband of barely four years, a physical reaction that even she knew lacked logic or merit. Six weeks was all it took. Now, four and a half years later, she’d gladly stay on the California side forever.
There’s that magic trick sometimes called the Sword Cabinet, or the Sword Through Box, where the assistant, typically a scantily clad woman, lies inside a box on a table. The magician takes sword after sword, jabbing them into the box at every conceivable angle. All along the sides. Sometimes from the bottom. Sometimes from the top. Every angle. To heighten the illusion, the magician will pull a selection of men out of the audience, inviting them up on stage, also to stab the woman in the box. Sword after sword after sword. At the end, when the brands are removed and the box is opened, the woman is revealed to be unharmed. But even the best magicians know there’s a calculated risk to doing this nightly. One can’t just keep giving men swords and expect that not even one will eventually hit.
She can’t see the men, but they have to be there. They must be on Sinatra’s porch, leaning against the railing, puffing cigarettes and watching smoke rings mist out toward the lake. She feels cornered. While another’s survival instincts might take over, she only cowers, pushing herself harder against the steel fence post, as though fusing it with her spine.
Just above the pool area, she can see the Circle Bar. It’s crowded, and loud. The spillover following Frank’s invita
tion from the stage for a drink. Pat’s probably pushing her way through it, trying to get to Frank to make her case. Some people gather in front of the window. A woman is making a point, her palm turned up, unaware her martini glass is emptying. It doesn’t seem fair to hear lilting, careless chatter as though there are no dangers in the world.
The swimming pool is the epitome of the Cal Neva’s location. Not quite kidney-shaped, its stand-out feature is the tiled black line that splits the pool, with each side marked appropriately, California and Nevada. However, it’s not divided down the middle, as some people think. The California portion makes up only about a third of the pool. The shallow end.
And she pictures herself as any one of those women she grew up seeing in Norwalk State Hospital. Always a half step off the beat, yet moving with a sense of assurance. But when met by the rest of the world, they turned afraid, went inward. Like a peaceable tribe confronted by its aggressor.