Marilyn Monroe

by Barbara Leaming

  He taught actors to draw on personal experience. He instructed them to turn inward. He challenged them to probe their own psyches. He pushed them to feel more intensely. He encouraged them to “take a minute,” retrieving a powerful emotional experience related to the scene they were about to perform. “You pick a situation three to five minutes before the actual height of the experience,” said Strasberg. “And you try to remember not what you experienced, not what you felt, but what you saw, what you heard, what you touched, what you tasted, what you smelled, what you experienced kinetically. You try to see the person. You try to hear the voice. You try to touch the fabric. You try to feel the heat.”

  Often the experiences summoned up from memory were painful, troubling, explosive. Students were known to rush to the door in tears. Elia Kazan worried that Strasberg’s approach came perilously close to self-hypnosis, and frowned on what he saw as a good deal of “glassy-eyed psychological posturing.” Other critics argued that Strasberg taught actors to present their own response to a dramatic incident rather than the character’s.

  He quoted Goethe: “The actor’s career develops in public, but his art develops in private.” He talked of “possibilities of progress” and of “talent in flux.” He railed against commercialism. He warned students not to go Hollywood. He spoke of never having outgrown his youthful idealism. He recalled certain incandescent performances of the 1920s, evoking Jacob ben Ami, John Barrymore, Jeanne Eagels, and Eleonora Duse.

  On her first visit to the Studio, Marilyn was in awe—both of the workshop, with its air of unrestrained emotionalism, and of Strasberg himself. After the session, Kazan came over to talk to her. He’d rarely seen her in the three years since his HUAC testimony. Still, they had remained friendly. As recently as three months ago, he’d sent her his love through Sidney Skolsky. At the moment, Kazan was set to begin rehearsals for Tennessee Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in five days. After that, he planned finally to direct Williams’s Baby Doll (then titled “Mississippi Woman”) at Warner Bros. He was still negotiating with Darryl Zanuck about the picture he owed Twentieth.

  Kazan took Marilyn over to meet Strasberg.

  By the time Marilyn left the Studio, she was bubbling with excitement. This was a world she had heard a great deal about from Kazan. But it had always been a mystery, existing somewhere “out there.” At last, she had seen the place for herself and it was everything she’d imagined—and more. Above all, Marilyn was enthusiastic about Strasberg. He had mentioned that he also taught acting classes to groups of approximately thirty students, in which he concentrated on basic training in technique. The fee was thirty dollars a month, and Marilyn would be most welcome to join. The possibility intrigued her, but the prospect of working with him in front of others seemed utterly terrifying.

  Afterward, Marilyn could not stop thinking about all she had seen and heard at the Studio. She decided that before she returned to California, she needed desperately to talk to Strasberg. She had Milton Greene call to ask if Strasberg might be willing to see her privately. A meeting was arranged at Strasberg’s home on West 86th Street.

  One entered the Belnord, a fortress-like apartment house, through a large courtyard. Marilyn knocked on Strasberg’s door for the first time with trepidation. Strasberg’s teenaged son noted that she “tiptoed” in. Kazan had warned her that he could be frightening. Fresh from the experience of directing East of Eden, Kazan was perhaps thinking of James Dean’s trembling response to Strasberg when Dean was at the Studio. But Marilyn, deeply suspicious, wondered whether Kazan simply wanted to keep her away.

  The first thing one noticed in the deep, narrow apartment was Strasberg’s vast library. Books were everywhere, cluttering the floors, lining the walls, pouring out of closets and cabinets. There were piles in the bathroom and in the kitchen. It was said that to walk from the front door to the living room could be dangerous. Strasberg took pride in having assembled one of the world’s best private theater collections.

  For all the disorder, Strasberg, like Karl Marx, claimed to know the location of every book he owned. He never stopped buying. He adored the rare and the arcane. His quest for hard-to-find titles never ceased. He was constantly in touch with dealers, and new volumes were delivered almost daily. He spent money he didn’t have. Once, when a large package appeared, Paula said ruefully that that was her insurance policy and her fur coat. She lamented that Lee’s obsessive collecting would cause her and their two children to starve. He responded to her moods by dashing out to acquire more rare texts.

  He would cut open a book’s pages with a fish knife. He enlisted students to translate from Chinese, Japanese, Russian, and other languages. He wasn’t merely a fetishistic collector; he read and savored his books. He cherished the knowledge they contained. A typical moment found Strasberg bent over some esoteric volume like a cabalist, music from his gigantic collection of classical recordings thundering in the background.

  Mozart played on the phonograph that first day as Marilyn told Strasberg about herself. Without makeup, Marilyn looked considerably younger than twenty-eight—like a “pubescent virgin,” said Truman Capote. She sat on a sofa that had appeared on stage in Tennessee Williams’s The Rose Tattoo. Unseen in the hallway beyond, the dumpy, ample-bosomed Paula, redolent of Jungle Gardenia perfume, eavesdropped on the conversation.

  Marilyn realized that Strasberg was exactly the person she’d been looking for. He was kind and wise. He listened with immense interest to all she had to say. Better yet, he seemed to have the answer to her problems. He knew precisely what she’d done wrong. Since that terrible day nearly a year ago when Charlie Feldman had handed her a new contract which seemed to deny her any credit for all that she’d achieved, Marilyn had lived in a state of perplexity. Unsure why Hollywood stardom had not brought respect, Marilyn had turned to Milton Greene. By now, however, she was well aware that Greene did not have the answer. Marilyn had come to her first session at the Actors Studio convinced that life would probably never be different.

  As Marilyn related her story, Strasberg showed her that he sympathized and understood. He outlined a plan for her. He explained that being a Hollywood star would never bring her the dignity she craved. She would only be able to achieve that in one way: if she studied to be a serious actress. She must perform the great roles. To Marilyn’s astonishment and delight, Strasberg seemed sincerely to believe in her ability to become such an actress. And he expressed a willingness to help her get there. According to Strasberg, there had been nothing wrong or unrealistic about Marilyn’s goal; the only problem had been the particular means she had chosen to attain it.

  Strasberg insisted that Marilyn reminded him of Laurette Taylor and Jeanne Eagels. He marveled at her “sensitivity.” He declared that he wanted to “study her problems.” He claimed to have glimpsed her “underlying personality.” It was just beneath the surface, waiting to be released. He compared Marilyn to a buried treasure. He knew he was the man to unearth it.

  “Strasberg exaggerated beyond the pale what her potentials were,” said the director Frank Corsaro, who befriended Marilyn at the Studio. At the same time, Strasberg offered Marilyn “a sense of self.” He assumed the role of “spiritual father.” “He articulated her ambitions, her spirit, her needs,” said Corsaro, “in a way that was very touching in itself but profoundly out of joint with her situation.” Marilyn took comfort in the fact that suddenly she wasn’t alone anymore; she had found someone who could tell her what she must do. Strasberg’s dogmatism was very attractive, and she quickly permitted him to exert an enormous influence over her, precisely because she had come to feel such panic with Milton Greene. She had never really recovered from being laughed at following the press conference in New York. Strasberg, so firm in his convictions, seemed to offer an antidote to Greene’s incompetence.

  For all his authoritarianism, Strasberg was prepared, even eager, to accommodate Marilyn’s special needs. As a rule, he did not offer individual instruction. Strasberg alway
s said that an actor must learn to use his talent in front of others. But when Marilyn suggested that she would be too frightened to perform in front of a group, he invited her to come to the apartment several days a week to study with him privately. Soon, Marilyn would be confident enough to attend Strasberg’s regular classes, in addition to observing at the Studio.

  There was one other thing he wanted her to do. Strasberg often advised actors to enter psychoanalysis in order to put them in touch with emotionally-charged material they could use in their work. “To the actor,” said Strasberg, “something that is a problem for somebody else becomes a creative force for him. It serves as the material that he transmits, that he transmutes, that he somehow shares.” Strasberg told Marilyn that if she planned to study with him, she should find a psychoanalyst with whom to work simultaneously.

  Given Marilyn’s experience with men, she had been pleased that Strasberg had asked to see her at his home with his family present. After they had talked together a while, Lee took Marilyn to the kitchen, where his wife had begun to prepare dinner. Paula, every bit as warm and friendly as Lee, invited Marilyn to eat with them. The invitation sealed Marilyn’s fantasy. Not only had she encountered a father figure tonight, but she’d been welcomed into his family. At a moment when Marilyn had been particularly disoriented and confused, the Strasberg household offered a sense of comfort, stability, and well-being.

  After dinner, Marilyn left the Belnord determined to remain in New York. As a result of her meeting with Strasberg, she abandoned all thought of returning to Los Angeles in defeat. The reason for this change of direction wasn’t just that she’d found Lee brilliant, or that she’d been enthralled by his work at the Studio. Had that been all that had occurred, Marilyn still would have faced the dilemma of what to do about her life and career. Tonight, something truly amazing had happened: Lee had provided a solution to Marilyn’s problems. He had explained where she’d gone wrong and reassured her there was a way to make things right. He had shown Marilyn that she didn’t have to give up hope.

  Unsettled as everything in her life still was, Marilyn no longer appeared to care. Thanks to Strasberg, she had hope again. Her goal remained the same: She still wanted to change how people viewed her. Only the means to that end changed. She realized that she had to start over. She would have to work as feverishly to transform herself into a serious actress as she’d once done to become a star.

  Suddenly, Marilyn was full of plans. Several things needed to be done right away. She had to find a psychiatrist. She had to set up a schedule for her private lessons with Lee. She had to find a more permanent place to live. She planned to remain in New York not as a negotiating ploy with Fox, nor because of her partnership with Milton Greene. She would stay because Lee Strasberg had provided her with a brand-new dream and promised to help her achieve it.

  Within days of seeing Strasberg, Marilyn’s life altered entirely. Suddenly, her daily schedule was nearly as busy as Cheryl Crawford’s. Marilyn wasn’t floating anymore; she had a direction again. She wanted to devote every waking moment to her goal. First, Marilyn asked Milton Greene to put her in touch with an analyst. She began to see Dr. Margaret Hohenberg, a Hungarian analyst who had previously treated Greene. Two mornings and three afternoons a week, Marilyn went to Dr. Hohenberg’s office on East 93rd Street. These sessions were scheduled around Marilyn’s work with Strasberg. On Tuesday and Friday mornings, she took a cab to the Malin Studios to sit in on Lee’s workshop. Three nights a week, she studied independently with Strasberg at his apartment, often staying for dinner with the family. Before long, she joined one of Lee’s private classes. They met four hours weekly; two hours were devoted to sense memory exercises, two to scene work.

  Hardly had Marilyn begun at the Actors Studio when she was asked to participate in a fundraising benefit on March 9, 1955. The Studio was desperately in need of permanent quarters and the benefit, a preview of Kazan’s East of Eden at the Astor Theater, was to raise money for the purchase of a deconsecrated Greek Revival-style church as its new home. Marilyn considered the invitation a huge honor, interpreting it as a sign that she’d been accepted into the fold. In fact, the Studio was eager to have Marilyn on view because of the publicity her presence guaranteed.

  The night was a magical experience for Marilyn. Arriving in a limousine which Cheryl Crawford had sent to collect her at the Gladstone, she wore a strapless white silk brocade sheath dress with tightly fitted hips. Around her shoulders she had a matching brocade shawl edged with fox fur. She spent much of the evening on the arm of Marlon Brando, the two of them serving as “celebrity ushers.” Marilyn was thrilled to be paired with Brando, who represented everything she aspired to as an actor. After the film, Marilyn went on to a reception across the street at the Astor Hotel. At the party, she was surrounded by Studio members and devotees eager to meet Strasberg’s newest convert. Almost everyone seemed as friendly and welcoming as the Strasbergs had been. Overnight, Marilyn appeared to have discovered a whole new set of friends and, in Lee and Paula, even a new family.

  Soon, Marilyn’s wonderful new life in New York extended well beyond the confines of the Actors Studio. Through friends like Carson McCullers, Tennessee Williams, and Truman Capote, Marilyn was taken up in Manhattan as she simply had never been in Los Angeles. There she had been a star among stars; here she was a novelty, something entirely unique and different. In New York, everyone was curious about Marilyn. Everyone wanted to meet her. She turned up at the Colony and the Plaza Oak Room with Capote, who was then preparing to write Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She joined Carson McCullers and Tennessee Williams’s mother, Miss Edwina, as the latter received one hundred guests for cocktails in the St. Regis Hotel library to celebrate the premiere of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. She was on view at Constance Collier’s lunch parties, where the regular guests included Greta Garbo and Katharine Hepburn.

  Capote had first taken Marilyn to Collier’s dark studio apartment on West 57th Street. Nearly blind, with scant feeling in her hands and feet, the ailing seventy-seven-year-old English actress supplemented her income by working as a dramatic coach. When Marilyn learned that Hepburn was one of Collier’s students, she became very excited. In Hollywood, Hepburn was treated with the kind of respect that had always eluded Marilyn. As if Marilyn were not already busy enough at the Studio, soon she, too, was taking voice and diction lessons with Collier. Strasberg had shown Marilyn the way, and she was relentless in her determination to reinvent herself as an actress. Everything else seemed unimportant by comparison.

  A few weeks previously, Marilyn had hinted that she might be ready to take DiMaggio back. But as each day passed, she seemed to have less and less time for poor Joe. When Marilyn wasn’t taking lessons or seeing her analyst, she preferred to sip coffee in the luncheonettes where the kids from the Studio hung out. And for the moment anyway, she had a new man in her life. Marlon Brando had called her at the Gladstone after the Studio benefit. He was due in Los Angeles at the end of March to attend the Oscars and begin a new film, but before he left town, he embarked on a brief love affair with Marilyn.

  Joe told Sam Shaw that he was shocked by the change in Marilyn. It wasn’t just Brando, but Marilyn’s whole new focus. DiMaggio, unsure of quite what he was dealing with, fought to hold onto her. He struggled to make himself useful. He kept his nose in her business. He monitored Milton Greene and his lawyers. He was bewildered by the fact that suddenly Marilyn was in no hurry to return to Hollywood. “If I close my eyes and picture L.A.,” she said, “all I see is one big varicose vein.”

  Marilyn knew that she had to reach some settlement with Twentieth about her contract, but her real interest lay elsewhere now. Milton Greene was still very much a presence in Marilyn’s day-to-day existence; he was bankrolling her stay in New York, after all. But she was no longer here to be with him. She remained in New York for one reason only: to become a serious actress under Lee Strasberg’s tutelage. In ways that DiMaggio failed to comprehend, once Strasberg came into Mar
ilyn’s life she felt differently about almost everything that just days before had mattered tremendously to her.

  On March 14, five days after the Actors Studio benefit, Twentieth had sent three checks to Greene’s lawyers, covering the weeks prior to Marilyn’s suspension. The lawyers, still disputing that Marilyn had a valid contract, sent them back. After that, Twentieth refused to deal with Frank Delaney anymore, and announced plans to postpone the release of The Seven Year Itch until sometime in 1956. The decision suggested that Zanuck was prepared to wait out Marilyn in the negotiations.

  In fact, there were no negotiations. Greene’s lawyers could hardly do much so long as Twentieth wouldn’t see or speak to them. Charlie Feldman, aware of Marilyn’s predicament, decided to try one more time. He sent one of his agents to approach Marilyn in New York, ostensibly to discover whether she would be interested in appearing with Richard Burton in The Sleeping Prince, should Feldman acquire the rights. Marilyn said yes but showed no inclination to go back to Famous Artists. She appointed MCA, Feldman’s rival, to represent her in talks with Twentieth.

  The appointment was significant, suggesting as it did the difference a few weeks had made in Marilyn’s attitude. Strasberg’s attentions, and the life she had quickly made for herself in New York, had given her new confidence. In January, she had been ready to go back to Twentieth on the studio’s terms, having finally despaired of ever persuading Zanuck to give her any degree of creative control. Now, less than two months later, Marilyn changed tack. If Twentieth would not give Marilyn what she’d earned, she was prepared to fight for it. At the same time, she knew that Milton Greene could never wage that war for her on his own. Marilyn’s decision to bring in the powerhouse MCA put Zanuck on notice that she intended to win.