During the intermission, Olivier asked Miller’s opinion. Miller was most enthusiastic. And Miller remained enthusiastic after the play when Olivier questioned him again. Later, Miller and Olivier met the author backstage. “God, I wish you’d write a play for me one day,” Olivier told Osborne.
Olivier had scheduled three days of wardrobe and makeup tests that week, so Marilyn and Arthur had plenty of time alone together. They seemed blissfully happy. Among the servants at Parkside House, there was much giggling and speculation as the honeymooners spent many hours upstairs in their bedroom “playing trains,” as it was thought. This reason was immediately suggested by Marilyn’s public image, but there was another reason also. A childhood spent in various foster homes had taught Marilyn to react to the threat of unfamiliar surroundings by hiding. The bedroom had always been the place where she felt safest.
In anticipation of the tests, Marilyn met with Jack Cardiff, the Academy Award-winning cinematographer known for his work on Black Narcissus, The Red Shoes, and The African Queen. Marilyn had asked that he be hired. She told Cardiff that she wanted to use the pearly-white makeup she’d worn in Bus Stop, but Cardiff warned that the pale makeup might cause her teeth to appear gray. As she hadn’t yet seen a final print, they went to Twentieth’s private screening room in London to look at Bus Stop together. Marilyn saw that Cardiff was right; the makeup she had worn as Cherie was all wrong for The Sleeping Prince. But she also saw something else. Her favorite scene, in which Cherie talks at length about her past, had been cut. Marilyn had been convinced that her performance in that scene would change the way people saw her. She had excitedly anticipated the day when Arthur would see it and know that his faith in her had been well placed.
The discovery that Bus Stop would be released without this scene was the first break in Marilyn’s mood of perfect happiness. With terrifying suddenness, Marilyn fell into despair. Her whole world turned upside down in a moment. All of her anger was suddenly focused on Joshua Logan. She was convinced that he had betrayed her. She was certain that he had never really believed in her as he had pretended to do. She would never accept that, in fact, Logan had fought to keep the scene but had been overruled by Buddy Adler and Spyros Skouras, who thought it unnecessary to the narrative. As far as Marilyn was concerned, Logan—the first director she herself had selected—had deceived her. In terms of her future relations with Olivier, this crisis could hardly have come at a worse moment. Marilyn brooded obsessively about whether Olivier, too, would turn out to be her adversary.
On July 18, when she arrived at Pinewood Studios some thirty minutes late for the first makeup tests, Olivier was horrified. Her skin was badly blemished. Her hair was a tangled, matted mess. She was completely disheveled. She barely listened when Olivier tried to speak to her. During the tests, she paid attention only to Cardiff, who used every lighting trick in his considerable repertoire. Marilyn’s behavior and appearance bewildered Olivier. He had no knowledge of her upset over Logan’s perceived betrayal. He was unaware of all that Lee Strasberg had done in advance to plant the seeds of distrust. He was insensitive to the effect that his own remoteness had on her. By and large, Marilyn’s only way of communicating with a man was to flirt, or to permit him to baby her. Olivier did neither. By the end of the day, he had begun to wonder whether he had made a terrible mistake in agreeing to work with her. Marilyn, sensitive to the slightest hint of rejection, picked up on his doubts. And that—as Olivier failed to comprehend—made her freeze even more.
The following morning, Olivier watched the tests in a screening room at Pinewood. Whatever Marilyn may have looked like when she arrived for the makeup tests, in front of the camera she had metamorphosed into something entirely different. She lit up. She came alive. In a true feat of acting, she became the gorgeous, enchanting, kinetic girl known as “Marilyn Monroe.” All of Olivier’s doubts evaporated. Suddenly, he was excited about working with Marilyn again.
On the night of July 24, Terence Rattigan gave a supper-dance in Marilyn’s honor at Little Court, his country house in Surrey. The guests included Lady Diana Cooper, Tyrone Power, Sybil Thorndike, Margot Fonteyn, John Gielgud, Peggy Ashcroft, and other luminaries. Though her host would have been unaware of this, it was the American ambassador, Winthrop Aldrich, who would have been of greatest interest to Marilyn. In Washington, D.C., the next day, Congress was to vote on whether to cite Arthur Miller for contempt.
The garden at Little Court was decorated with colorful Chinese paper lanterns. There were white-draped tables and a buffet supper of lobster curry. Later, there would be dancing inside. At the front door, Rattigan and Olivier greeted the guests, who started to arrive at nine. Vivien Leigh was to have come after the evening’s performance of South Sea Bubble, but she changed her mind at the last minute when her dress didn’t fit. Radie Harris was supposed to be the only journalist in attendance, Olivier having strictly forbidden her to write about the party afterward. Yet when Harris arrived at Little Court, Olivier quietly took her aside.
“Darling,” he whispered, “you can write any fucking thing you want. Louella Parsons is here!”
Parsons, wearing a black mantilla, surveyed the crowd from an elevated armchair. Milton Greene, under pressure, had secured an invitation for the powerful Hearst columnist.
It was nearly eleven before the Millers made their entrance. Marilyn wore a low-cut white chiffon gown which had been rejected as one of her costumes in the film. Draped over her shoulders was the now ratty white mink coat she’d worn to announce the “new Marilyn.” The center of the large drawing room had been cleared for dancing. Someone put on a recording of “Embraceable You.” Marilyn and Arthur floated onto the empty dance floor. As everyone looked on, the Millers danced cheek to cheek and held each other tightly. They were so affectionate that one guest later declared that someone ought to have said, “Look, there’s a bedroom upstairs!” On the one hand, Marilyn acted as if no one else were present. On the other, it was as if she were sending a message to the American ambassador. Hours before the vote in Congress, Marilyn’s actions demonstrated that she supported her husband fully. Never one who trusted easily, Marilyn had put her faith in Arthur. Who better to trust than a man willing to go to jail rather than betray others? The American public adored Marilyn; there was a chance that they wouldn’t tolerate Miller’s being punished if she showed how much she loved and needed him.
Arthur was by no means the only one at risk in the vote before Congress. Marilyn was well aware that Spyros Skouras’s refusal to intervene could mean that he was prepared to abandon her, or had already done so. So tonight, once again, she risked everything she had worked for and won. For Arthur’s sake, Marilyn put her own career in jeopardy. But the language that Marilyn used was not one that the people watching her understood. Her sexuality had always been Marilyn’s primary means of communication; it had brought her power over men, and success in Hollywood. That night, it brought her only amused derision. Instead of bravery, people saw no more than a girl’s somewhat indiscreet behavior with her new husband.
It was past 4 a.m. when the Millers returned to Parkside House. They remained in the bedroom much of the following day. They had food and the papers sent up. At one point Miller emerged in a white terrycloth bathrobe, only to disappear back inside. If he seemed distracted, there was a good reason. Washington, D.C. was five hours behind London, so the Millers had to wait until late in the day to learn the results of the Congressional vote.
Precisely as Joe Rauh had anticipated, Representative Jackson was the loudest and most articulate voice against Miller. Jackson argued that “moral scruples, no matter how laudable, do not constitute grounds for refusal to answer questions propounded by a duly authorized committee.” The California congressman pointed out that HUAC “was investigating charges of passport fraud in connection with forthcoming legislation” and the information they sought from Miller was important.
“Why can’t you bring in such legislation without requiring this man to
squeal to the committee?” asked Representative Multer of New York.
“Arthur Miller was not subpoenaed for the purpose of squealing to anyone,” HUAC’s Chairman Walter cut in, “but because of information that he was a Communist associated with Communist activities. The committee is interested in knowing who were participants in the Communist conspiracy.”
Representative Yates of Illinois noted that Miller “denied ever being a Communist during the hearing.”
“Mr. Miller is not being cited for denying he was a Communist,” Jackson retorted, “but for refusing to supply information.”
When it was all over, Lloyd Garrison conveyed the results to the Millers. By a vote of 379 to 9, Arthur Miller had been cited for contempt of Congress. The House of Representatives would transmit the citation to the Assistant United States Attorney for investigation and possible prosecution. Joe Rauh, puzzled by Spyros Skouras’s refusal to protect Marilyn, expressed confidence that they’d win in court. All of the worry, including Marilyn’s, centered on Arthur’s fate. Still, though he was her primary concern, she could not forget what the vote might mean for her own career.
Marilyn was hardly in an ideal frame of mind to begin five days of rehearsals on Monday, July 30. Olivier, still under the spell of the tests, arrived at Pinewood Studios with exceedingly high hopes. He had scheduled rehearsals in order to put Marilyn at ease with the cast, and had been working with Sybil Thorndike, Richard Wattis, and Jeremy Spenser in an upstairs rehearsal room for about three quarters of an hour when Marilyn arrived with Paula in tow. Marilyn’s lateness was the first strike against her. Her unkempt appearance and withdrawn manner were the second. Paula’s presence was the third. Olivier, having been warned by Joshua Logan never to explode, did his best to stay calm. He read Marilyn’s appearance as an expression of disdain for the very idea of rehearsal.
When Olivier had agreed to direct The Sleeping Prince, he didn’t know that Marilyn would insist on bringing a dramatic coach. Only in the last weeks of pre-production did he discover that Paula was part of the package. For a man of Olivier’s ego, the presence of a meddlesome coach would in itself have been bad enough. Worse was that Paula, as the wife of Lee Strasberg, was a reminder of Olivier’s painful personal conflict with the Actors Studio style when he had directed the British stage production of A Streetcar Named Desire in 1949. In the end, when the play was filmed, even Vivien Leigh had preferred Kazan’s direction to her husband’s.
The oddly shaped Mrs. Strasberg, whose hands and legs had remained slender as her torso inflated, threw herself between Marilyn and the director. When Olivier talked, Marilyn would stare uncompre-hendingly as though he were speaking in a foreign tongue. Paula, forever buzzing in Marilyn’s ear, translated. Olivier had no way of knowing whether he was being accurately interpreted. In the days prior to Paula’s arrival, he had had an opportunity to try to connect with Marilyn, but he’d kept his distance. Now, it was too late. With Paula around, there was no getting through to his leading lady. Marilyn was eager to have her coach at her side, but in fact Paula’s presence sabotaged any remaining hope that Marilyn would be able to work effectively with Olivier.
Something else was wrong that first day, though Olivier certainly would not have noticed. This was a Marilyn Monroe production. Based on her long-ago talks with Charlie Feldman, Marilyn had initiated the project. She had negotiated with Rattigan. She had won the film rights to The Sleeping Prince. She had brought in Olivier as director, co-star, and co-producer. Presumably the situation was to have been different from any picture in which Marilyn had previously appeared. But from the moment she entered the rehearsal room with Paula Strasberg, it was as if she were working on someone else’s film.
There were several reasons for this. The fact that The Sleeping Prince was being made at an English studio with an English cast and crew put Marilyn at a considerable disadvantage. She felt and acted like a guest. To make matters worse, Olivier had done this story before on the stage. He was already at home with the material. He had a set approach to his part and to the play, and seemed to want Marilyn to perform the role as Vivien had done it. Finally, there was his stature as an artist. Marilyn’s choice of such a formidable figure to direct and co-star made it much more difficult to think of the project as hers. She longed for Olivier’s approval. She hoped to be accepted as his colleague. She dreamed he would take her seriously. At the same time, she was intimidated by Olivier, and that paralyzed her.
Olivier had spent weeks planning the production in anticipation of Marilyn’s arrival. He introduced her to the other cast members. He presented the Associate Director and some members of the production staff. He ran through the story. He distributed scripts and read selected scenes aloud. From first to last, it was very much Larry Olivier’s show.
On the second day of rehearsals Olivier castigated Marilyn for arriving three quarters of an hour late. The next day, she didn’t show up until noon. Her eyes suggested that she’d been popping pills. Was her extreme lateness an act of defiance, or had the scolding made her so upset that she couldn’t sleep? Was Marilyn angry at herself for having ceded psychological control to Olivier? The word from Parkside House was that Marilyn had spent the morning rather noisily in bed with her husband.
The Millers were no longer alone at Parkside. Hedda Rosten had arrived from New York with Paula, ostensibly to serve as Marilyn’s secretary. But Marilyn and Arthur, still not entirely at ease with each other, seemed eager to have a third party present, and in a way, Hedda was there for Arthur as much as she was for Marilyn. After all, Marilyn had Paula Strasberg and Milton Greene to serve her various needs. When tensions ran high with Marilyn, Arthur talked to Hedda, an experienced psychiatric social worker. As his former wife’s close friend, Hedda provided a link to a world in which Arthur felt comfortable.
At the time Arthur and Marilyn were married, Truman Capote, who knew her well, had predicted that at length the episode might be titled “Death of a Playwright.” The Sleeping Prince was to be Arthur’s first experience of living with Marilyn—and trying to work himself—while she was making a picture. He had never really had to deal with Marilyn’s work-related anxieties and sleeplessness. He’d never had to endure the drinking and drug-taking with which she struggled to cope. On Bus Stop, he’d only been present at weekends during the last few weeks of filming. And, importantly, he hadn’t been under pressure to finish a play as he was now. As he told Kermit Bloomgarden, he wanted A View from the Bridge to be vindicated in London. Marilyn was scheduled to begin filming on August 7. Perhaps then, with his demanding new wife out of the house, Miller would have a chance to apply himself to his work.
That morning, Olivier arrived at Pinewood at ten minutes to seven. A great deal was on the line today. Joshua Logan had warned Olivier not to allow Paula on the set, and Milton Greene had guaranteed that Paula would not show her face outside Marilyn’s dressing room. By and large, they’d managed to keep Paula in the dressing room throughout Bus Stop; why not now? For the first time, Olivier would have an opportunity to deal with Marilyn without the shield provided by Arthur or Paula. If ever the director was to get through to his leading lady, it had better be today. What took place that first day would set the tone for all that was to follow.
Like Olivier, Marilyn was to have been at the studio before seven in order to be dressed and made up. She and Paula did not appear until 8:30. From the outset, it was evident that Paula did not intend to remain in Marilyn’s dressing room. Greene’s assurances had been hollow; in fact, he had been in no position to promise Olivier anything. Marilyn had stopped listening to him long ago. Yes, Joshua Logan had successfully barred Paula from the set, but Bus Stop had been a Twentieth Century–Fox picture. The Sleeping Prince was a Marilyn Monroe production, with Jack Warner’s participation limited to financing and distribution. In this instance at least, Marilyn used her authority: Paula was going to be on the set and there wasn’t a damn thing Olivier could do about it. Of course he could always quit. But he alre
ady had too much time and money invested to consider doing that. Logan had warned Olivier to avoid having a temper tantrum with Marilyn; she was quite capable of walking out and not coming back.
It was no longer just a question of Paula’s being present to interpret Olivier’s instructions. On Bus Stop, Paula had been content to operate as a coach; on The Sleeping Prince, she appeared to see a larger role for herself. She set herself up as Marilyn’s private director. Lee Strasberg had done his best to undermine Olivier in Marilyn’s eyes. Before the cameras rolled, Paula’s emphatic presence on the set declared Olivier unfit to direct a Method actress. Once before, when he directed A Streetcar Named Desire, Olivier had struggled with the palpable off-stage presence of Elia Kazan, Marlon Brando, and all that they represented. Now it was the specter of Lee Strasberg with whom Olivier wrestled daily.
Like a medium at a séance, Paula was constantly communicating mystical messages from the other side. When she told Marilyn, “Honey, just think of Coca-Cola and Frankie Sinatra,” presumably it was Lee speaking through her. If Paula’s suggestions didn’t work, she could always say she had misinterpreted Lee. In this manner, Paula preserved her husband’s reputation for infallibility.
That first day, Paula proved adept at keeping Olivier from his leading lady. Though physically awkward, Paula was a master of body language. The moment the camera stopped, she hurtled forward, determined to take possession of Marilyn before the director could. Once there, she stuck close. The conspiratorial whispering seemed never to cease, making it hard for anyone else to approach. Olivier found the situation humiliating. Before long, he felt the urge to kill Paula. Marilyn appeared determined utterly to ignore Olivier. She stared at him blankly, if at all. When the first shot had been completed after eight takes, Marilyn and Paula withdrew to a portable dressing room. They slammed the door for all to hear. Olivier followed.
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