Like Marilyn, Sidney Skolsky had spent the past few months playing Feldman and Greene against each other. Encouraged by her, Sidney had conferred with both men about the film he hoped to produce. Strictly to please Marilyn, Feldman had agreed to talk up Harlow to Zanuck, and promised to represent Sidney if a deal was made. Though Greene seemed more enthusiastic, Sidney was happier with Feldman. There was no question that a powerful agent and producer was more likely to be able to put a deal together. Still, Harlow was Greene’s only project, while Feldman of course had much else on his plate. But what did Sidney’s preferences matter anyway? He knew that whether they went with Feldman or Greene was for Marilyn to choose.
Marilyn wanted to buy Harlow’s life story immediately. The screen rights were held by Sam Briskin and two other partners. Skolsky was uneasy, recalling Feldman’s insistence that for tax reasons Skolsky, not Marilyn, must own the rights. At the moment, however, Marilyn was intent on running her own show. She was in no mood to be reminded of anything Feldman might have said about money matters. Sidney, hoping to protect her, made up his mind to contact Feldman in New York.
When Feldman learned that Marilyn was about to buy the rights to Harlow’s story, he was appalled. It wasn’t that he suspected Marilyn’s plans to set up her own production company; he simply assumed that she was nervous about taking a rest and impatient to know where her career was headed. To that impatience he also attributed her having asked Ferguson for copies of her contracts. He warned Sidney that under no circumstances must Marilyn be permitted to buy another story. She still owned Horns of the Devil, since the transfer to Twentieth had been held up when she failed to sign the new contract. The acquisition of a second story would wreck the tax advantage that Feldman had so carefully structured. If Skolsky doubted any of this, Feldman urged him at least to have Marilyn call a lawyer to go over it with her independently.
Eager to please Marilyn, Feldman decided to make Harlow happen. That’s what she seemed to want, and that’s what she was going to get. He pitched Harlow to Zanuck, who was passing through New York on his way back from London, and he agreed to meet Skolsky on December 8, his first day back at the studio. Feldman invited Marilyn to lunch at his home on December 11, when he would be able to report on that meeting.
Skolsky canceled the appointment, saying he was sick. When Feldman heard, he called from New York to say he’d be back two days later and would personally accompany Sidney to Zanuck’s office. Again, Skolsky mysteriously canceled at the last minute, claiming he couldn’t get out of bed. With her plans finally about to come out in the open—plans that involved Harlow—Marilyn did not want Sidney to make a deal with Zanuck.
On Saturday, Marilyn kept her lunch date with Feldman. Though Skolsky had yet to meet with Zanuck, the agent had much else to discuss. He also had many new treasures to exhibit. That year he had acquired a rare K’ang Hsi’ Chinese screen. In Pietrasanta, Italy, he had picked up a white marble statue of Venus, the ancient goddess of love and beauty, and a statue of Bacchus, the god of wine. In Florence, he had bought a large, oval, antique mahogany table. In New York, he had discovered two small, exquisite wood carvings of African women. When Feldman displayed his new toys, he always made a mental note of who loved what. If you expressed particular enthusiasm about a painting or an objet d’art, you might find that Charlie had left it to you in his will. Existence, he liked to think, “is to be in the minds and hearts of friends.”
Marilyn lingered over lunch for three hours. She was perfectly charming throughout. For once, Charlie didn’t have to listen to complaints or accusations. She laughed and smiled. They talked of the past. They planned for the future. She seemed sincerely appreciative of his efforts.
For his part, he was very complimentary about her performance in There’s No Business Like Show Business. He reiterated his high hopes for The Seven Year Itch. He expressed confidence that he’d be able to sell Harlow. He inquired about Sidney Skolsky and looked forward to rescheduling that meeting with Zanuck. He wondered if Marilyn had had a chance to read The Sleeping Prince. Had she liked it at all? If so, he wanted to acquire the rights from Terence Rattigan at once.
Feldman was satisfied that the meeting had gone well when Marilyn happily agreed to have lunch with him again on Tuesday the 13th. (She later canceled, of course.) He hoped that by then he would have something to report on Sidney’s meeting with Zanuck. She knew that by then Feldman would have received the letter firing him. She had it dated December 11. Perhaps he would realize that even as they had been enjoying a leisurely meal together, Marilyn had been putting a knife in his back.
Fireworks exploded throughout Los Angeles that week. Marilyn dismissed her agent and her lawyer. She notified Twentieth that until further instruction the studio was to do business directly with her or with Frank Delaney, her new attorney. She also indicated that she might no longer be bound to the studio. This was the outcome of the terrible moment seven months previously when, reading her new contract, Marilyn fully grasped what the men at the studio thought of her.
Once before, at a time like this, Marilyn had been advised to get out of town. That’s what she did now. Traveling as “Zelda Zonk,” she flew to New York with Greene. His wife picked them up at the airport. By then, word of the unexplained firings had reached the press. Exactly what Marilyn planned to do next was anyone’s guess.
Reporters gathered outside Greene’s midtown Manhattan photography studio. Others watched the entrance to the apartment house on Sutton Place South where he had a pied-à-terre. Still others waited at the foot of the driveway to his country house in Connecticut. Disappointingly, when the car returned from the airport, only Mr. and Mrs. Greene were visible. Marilyn was hiding in the dark, cold trunk.
Greene’s guest room was done up in purple. It had its own bathroom, and there Marilyn liked to soak in a bubble bath, her hair in a topknot, the room filled with steam. She had little concrete idea of what faced her. Suddenly, she was financially dependent on Greene. She couldn’t cash her weekly paycheck from Twentieth, because she mustn’t appear to accept the terms of her old contract. Delaney was going to argue that Marilyn had made The Seven Year Itch on a one-picture-only basis at the $100,000 fee Feldman had previously negotiated.
Marilyn relied on Greene for everything. She ate with the family. He advanced her money for whatever she needed. He wasn’t worried; she could pay him back later. He felt certain that as soon as people knew what they were doing, investors would beat a path to his door. Twentieth would be desperate to make a deal and Marilyn could return in a matter of weeks. He and she would be filming Harlow on the Fox lot—and on their own terms—in no time. Now that Marilyn had asserted her independence, the first step was a press conference to announce Marilyn Monroe Productions.
Before Greene could do that, however, Frank Ferguson sent Marilyn a telegram ordering her to report for work at Fox in five days. Neither she nor Greene had anticipated that. She knew the studio had the right to demand retakes for The Seven Year Itch, and she certainly did not want to jeopardize a film she loved. At the same time, Greene, like Feldman before him, worried about her mercurial nature. He was determined to keep her from going back before she had publicly committed herself to Marilyn Monroe Productions.
Delaney wired back that Marilyn was ill and could not possibly return. In response, Lew Schreiber, reminding Marilyn that Twentieth always tried to cooperate, postponed the retakes until January 3. Delaney countered that while Marilyn’s health did appear to be improving, she needed until the 10th to recover. Schreiber growled that he expected to see her at 10 a.m. The people at Twentieth, of course, still had no idea of what Marilyn’s plans were.
They had to wait until Friday, January 7, 1955, to find out. That evening, reporters and photographers crowded into Frank Delaney’s house on East 64th Street for what Greene had touted as the unveiling of “the new Monroe.” Marilyn had not been observed in public for three weeks, and there was considerable curiosity about exactly what Greene mean
t. Unfortunately, Greene himself wasn’t sure. The purpose of the gathering was to announce Marilyn’s break with Twentieth and the formation of her own production company. In that case, “the new Monroe” signified an independent woman determined to take control of her own business and artistic affairs. The whole point was to attract investors to Marilyn’s exciting new venture. But somewhere along the way, Greene lost track of all that. When all was said and done, he remained a glamour photographer at heart. Instead of preparing an effective presentation, he and Marilyn devoted themselves to trying to come up with her “new look.” By the time Marilyn was ready to face the press, she seemed to think that “the new Monroe” referred simply to the costume and hair color Greene had helped her devise for the occasion. From first to last, the calamitous evening revealed just how confused Marilyn still was about what she wanted and where she was headed, and how utterly ill-equipped Greene was to clarify things for her.
Marlene Dietrich, all in black, put in an appearance. So did Elsa Maxwell, Sidney Kingsley, and Richard Rogers. Cocktails were served for about an hour as guests awaited a “new and different” Marilyn. Shortly after six, the front door opened and Marilyn blew in like a snowdrift. She was dressed from head to toe in white. A fluttery white mink coat covered a white satin sheath with flimsy, loose spaghetti straps. She wore satin high heels and white stockings. Her long, sparkling diamond earrings were on loan from Van Cleef & Arpels.
Marilyn seemed disappointed when people asked what was new about her. “But I have changed my hair!” she protested. Her wind-tossed hair did seem a shade or two lighter. Asked to describe the new color, Marilyn replied in a child’s voice, “Subdued platinum.” Greene’s intention was that people would instantly think of Jean Harlow, that the costume would identify Marilyn with the tragic figure whom Louella Parsons called “Hollywood’s first platinum blonde.” Instead, the crowd received Marilyn with good-natured amusement. They responded as though she were one of her comical, ditzy blonde film characters.
A reporter, perhaps thinking of How to Marry a Millionaire, asked if Marilyn actually owned the white mink.
“It’s mine for the night,” a wide-eyed Marilyn shot back.
If Marilyn hoped to be taken seriously, her entrance set the wrong tone. She sat for a press conference, Delaney at her side.
“I have formed my own corporation so I can play the kinds of roles I want,” Marilyn announced. Delaney interjected that his client was referring to Marilyn Monroe Productions, Inc. From now on, the new firm would “see to it she plays only what she wants to play.” She was leaving Twentieth. She planned to get into television. She wanted to produce as well as act.
“I don’t like some of my pictures,” Marilyn explained. Pressed to say which ones, she named River of No Return and There’s No Business Like Show Business. She declared herself “tired of sex roles” and vowed to do no more. “People have scope, you know,” said Marilyn. “They really do.” Somebody called out that Fox appeared to think Marilyn was under contract. What did she have to say to that? Delaney and his associate Irving Stein insisted that the studio was mistaken and that Marilyn was “a free agent.”
Following some questions about her personal life—”We are very good friends, Joe and I, we always shall be”—Marilyn thanked everybody and got up. As reporters left to file their stories, Marilyn had a twinkle in her eye. She believed she’d done it. She’d broken her contract. She’d announced her new production company. Everything was happening exactly as Greene had promised. Greene, for his part, didn’t yet have a clue that the evening had gone wildly wrong.
Meanwhile, people were rushing up to talk to Marilyn. She and the Greenes were deluged with dinner invitations. Marlene Dietrich invited her to stop by for a drink later that night. Amy Greene wanted to see Sinatra at the Copacabana, but feared it was too late to get in.
Soon, Marilyn was leading the Greenes past the bar at the Copa. Instead of stopping her, a bouncer excitedly rushed ahead to announce her presence. If he’d had any rose petals, he might have tossed them in her path. Sinatra, in the middle of a number, was playing to a full house. There was a stir in the smoky nightclub as Marilyn made her entrance, high heels click-clicking. Sinatra, annoyed, stopped the orchestra. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. When he saw Marilyn in an ankle-length white mink coat, he knew. A ringside table with three chairs materialized. For the rest of the evening, as far as the audience was concerned, Marilyn, bare-shouldered in glistening white satin, was part of the show.
Afterward, Sinatra took the trio to dinner at “21.” By the time Marilyn and the Greenes arrived at Marlene Dietrich’s Park Avenue apartment, Marilyn was tipsy. As Dietrich welcomed her guests, she noticed a trace of scarlet lipstick on the collar of Marilyn’s white fur. She later reported to a friend that she found the sight maddeningly erotic.
Marilyn went to bed that morning convinced she owned New York. Milton Greene shared her confidence. When Saturday’s papers arrived, Marilyn felt humiliated. Instead of being taken seriously by the press, she was treated as a joke. “The new her didn’t show up” and “She looked just the same as before” were typical remarks. Photographs of Marilyn’s “new look,” with captions like “Different?” and “Pretty Much the Same,” invited readers to judge for themselves. There was nothing mean-spirited in any of this, but it was hardly the respectful coverage she had anticipated. And it certainly wasn’t the image she’d hoped to put across. Greene’s idea of costuming Marilyn to look like Jean Harlow had led the reporters to focus on all the wrong things.
The Los Angeles Times ran a humorous story with the headline “New Marilyn Same as the Old—and That’s Plenty.” At Twentieth, Zanuck was no less upset than Marilyn, though for very different reasons. This was the first he had heard of Marilyn’s plan to form her own corporation. Though neither she nor Greene could have known it, they had selected the worst possible time to try to break her contract. Zanuck was quietly engaged in a tense, bitter, emotionally-charged conflict with Elia Kazan over virtually the same issue. As chance would have it, both Marilyn and Kazan had opened fire on Twentieth in the very same week in December, 1954. Hardly had Twentieth received word that Marilyn’s studio contract was “abandoned and terminated,” when Zanuck read Kazan’s letter of December 16 asking to be let out of his own six-picture deal.
Zanuck admitted to being bowled over. He regarded Kazan not just as a business associate but a close friend. In Zanuck’s view, Kazan’s actions were capricious, and the letter was little better than a betrayal. On December 22, in a long letter by turns passionate and cold, Zanuck urged Kazan to reconsider. He insisted they were both men of character; otherwise, said Zanuck, they wouldn’t be friends. He recalled all he had done to persuade his board to offer Kazan the largest salary Twentieth had ever paid a director.
Zanuck specifically compared Kazan to Marilyn. He could no more call off Kazan’s contract than he could hers. That Marilyn might have a better offer did not alter the fact that she already had a long-term commitment. Zanuck, citing his own responsibilities to stockholders, made it clear that he had no intention of allowing either Marilyn Monroe or Elia Kazan to walk away.
By January 1955, Kazan at least seemed to accept that he still had a contract with Twentieth. He said so in a letter, quickly adding that he wasn’t happy about it. Zanuck saw that from this point on the negotiations would be delicate, and pleaded with Skouras to steer clear. Accustomed to speaking his mind, Zanuck tried to be diplomatic. He mustn’t insult or offend Kazan. He proceeded gingerly.
It did not come naturally to Zanuck to check himself. Once before, when Marilyn had challenged his authority, Zanuck had threatened to “assassinate” her in the press. He had declared himself ready to “destroy an asset” if that was what it took to punish her. Marilyn’s press conference came in the middle of Zanuck’s ticklish negotiations with Kazan. His pent-up rage instantly found an outlet. He went berserk.
Marilyn had no idea what action Zanuck would take, when
she and the Greenes flew to Los Angeles the day before she was due back at Twentieth. But she knew he would be furious with her. She spent Sunday night at her apartment and arrived on the studio lot at 10 a.m. without having looked at Monday’s papers. Greene rode shotgun. Yet at first, it appeared that she did not need a protector. To Marilyn’s relief, her fears seemed to have been groundless. Everyone was cordial. There was no sign of Zanuck. After a pleasant interview with the columnist Dick Williams, she reported to Billy Wilder to do retakes for a single scene.
Most people that day avoided mention of the events of the past few weeks. After Wilder finished shooting, however, Roy Craft of the publicity department approached Marilyn on the sound stage. Asked about her remarks at the press conference, Marilyn denied having said that she had severed her connections with Twentieth.
She was told to return the next day to complete some advertising artwork in the portrait gallery. That was fine with Greene, as it had to do with The Seven Year Itch. Another request dismayed him, however. Marilyn was asked to report for a costume fitting for How to Be Very, Very Popular. Nunnally Johnson, hoping to repeat the success of How to Marry a Millionaire, had written the script as a vehicle for Marilyn; he also planned to produce. Marilyn liked Johnson and was inclined to listen to what he had to say. But to report as ordered would undermine Delaney’s argument that her commitment to Twentieth ended with The Seven Year Itch.
Marilyn left the studio lot in a terrific mood, exceedingly pleased with the way the day had gone. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so difficult after all. On her way home, she saw the Los Angeles papers. Over the weekend, Twentieth had contacted them all. In forty-eight hours, the light-hearted laughter had turned to ugly derision.
“Marilyn Monroe is a stupid girl and is being fed some stupid advice,” declared the “Trade Views” column on page one of the Hollywood Reporter. The author, Billy Wilkerson, was the publisher of the influential trade paper. In a most unusual move, Twentieth had disclosed details of the new $100,000 per picture deal that Marilyn had refused to sign. “Marilyn Monroe is the most publicized individual in the world,” Wilkerson continued. “Unquestionably, she is a big box-office draw, a top money attraction. Much of this has been due to her handling by Twentieth, and the pictures she has been given, the talent she has been surrounded with to bring her up to the spot she now occupies. For her to ignore this, taking her case to the nation’s press, is a stupid move, based on stupid advice, and we rather think she will gain nothing from it because when the public is told that her new deal would have brought her better than a quarter of a million a year there will be no sympathetic reaction and some of her attractiveness will have been lost.”
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