After Marilyn’s visit to Roxbury, it seemed to Norman Rosten that he’d never seen her so depressed. Her marriage having ended, she appeared to stop fighting her mother’s judgment; she accepted that she was unworthy to go on living. And so it was that a maid walked into the living room to discover Marilyn preparing to jump out the window to her death. Following this latest suicide attempt, as far as Dr. Kris was concerned there could be no question of Marilyn’s being left alone in her apartment in this condition.
On February 7, 1961, some three weeks after her divorce, Marilyn acceded to Dr. Kris’s pleas that she sign herself into the Payne–Whitney Psychiatric Clinic. Dazed and confused by the drugs she had been taking in such alarming quantities, Marilyn probably was not entirely clear on what she was agreeing to do. She registered under the name Faye Miller. When Arthur, at the Chelsea Hotel, learned about Marilyn’s hospitalization, he was extremely upset. Her greatest fear, after all, had always been that she would go insane like her mother and find herself committed to a mental hospital. John Huston, apprised of Miller’s state of mind by Frank Taylor, called from Ireland to comfort him.
Arthur, debating whether to go to Marilyn, called Nan Taylor.
“Nan, should I go to see her?” he asked. “I care for her so terribly. Should I go to see her? What do you think?” In the end, he followed Nan’s advice to stay away.
Marilyn later insisted that she had not known Payne–Whitney was a psychiatric hospital. When she realized where she was, she hurled a chair against a glass door and retrieved a shard of glass, threatening to cut herself if she was not released. Four attendants carried her face down to the elevator. Marilyn, transferred to the violent ward, was sedated and restrained. She contacted Lee and Paula. She contacted Joe. She needed someone to get her out.
On February 10, DiMaggio came through the door. He had rushed to the hospital as soon as he heard. The doctors insisted that Marilyn was in no condition to leave, but Joe warned that if Payne–Whitney did not let her go right now, he was prepared to take the building apart brick by brick.
“Thank God for Joe,” Marilyn said.
In consultation with Marianne Kris, he arranged for Marilyn to be transferred to Columbia–Presbyterian Medical Center in upper Manhattan. It was a hospital, but at least it was not a mental hospital, and that was important to her. Joe promised to remain until she felt safe. Meanwhile, Dr. Kris planned to fly to Los Angeles in mid-March to confer with Ralph Greenson.
Marilyn was at Columbia–Presbyterian for three weeks. When the Rostens visited, a nurse was sponging Marilyn’s pale forehead. Marilyn listlessly raised her arm to greet them. She smiled, yet the sparkle had vanished from her eyes. It seemed to Norman that Marilyn’s illness had spread from her body and her mind to her very soul.
Some nights she did not sleep at all. She lay awake reading Freud’s published correspondence. His photograph, opposite the title page, made her cry. She thought he looked depressed, disappointed with life. She guessed he was near death. Even when Dr. Kris pointed out that at the time the photograph was taken Freud had been in acute physical pain, Marilyn insisted it was disappointment she saw in his gentle face.
In a letter from Columbia–Presbyterian, Marilyn informed Dr. Greenson that she knew she would never be happy. She reminded the analyst of something she had once told him about Elia Kazan. Kazan had called her the gayest girl he had ever known. According to Marilyn, he had loved her for a year. Now, in her despair, she contemplated playing the happy girl again. That’s what men wanted. She would not really be happy, of course, but at least she could pretend.
Even in the hospital, the pressures did not go away. Twentieth was not about to drop its demand that Marilyn report for Goodbye, Charlie. Spyros Skouras, Marilyn’s old ally, was now increasingly under attack by business rivals anxious to replace him. He was sensitive to charges of being extravagant and sentimental, and of repeatedly capitulating to Marilyn Monroe and other stars. Eager to look tough in front of stockholders and to show his enemies on the Fox board that he was the boss, Skouras was prepared to take Marilyn to court. Despite her condition, the studio continued to regard her as a valuable property. So, astonishingly, did Lee Strasberg, who was still trying to put together a deal for Rain. He behaved as though on a sacred mission, as though he were doing it all for her. He believed it might be years before psychoanalysis helped, and he was convinced that a serious dramatic role would enable Marilyn to channel her rage into art. He would not permit Twentieth to force her into Goodbye, Charlie.
Only Joe seemed to believe that Marilyn’s career was killing her. Things were very different from the days during their marriage when Marilyn still believed that becoming a star could make her life right. Then, Joe’s opposition to her work had often appeared to be based on little more than selfishness. But now, perhaps, Joe was right. As the end of her hospital stay approached, Joe invited Marilyn to join him in Florida where, after a decade of discord, he was working with the Yankees in spring training at St. Petersburg. Joe, always concerned about his dignity, was pleased finally to have been asked to give the benefit of his knowledge and experience to young players. Some time in the sun, with Joe there to protect her, would get Marilyn away from everything, at least for a little while.
Joe wanted to take Marilyn for walks on the beach. He wanted to take her fishing. He wanted to take her to the training camp. Most of all, he wanted to divert her from her troubles. Though Joe admitted he was still in love with Marilyn, he had no desire that they would marry again. Asked by her maid, Lena Pepitone, if marriage were a possibility, DiMaggio clutched his stomach as though in excruciating pain. He said he loved Marilyn. He would always be there for her. But he could not live with the woman without quarreling.
Marilyn welcomed the chance of an escape and some more time to enjoy the security of Joe’s friendship. She accepted his invitation and prepared to leave New York. She had been released from the hospital, but she was by no means well. The hospital had provided a measure of calm, but no doctor could give her back her lost hope.
Before Marilyn went to Florida, she saw Arthur. He had not come to her aid in Payne–Whitney. She never knew that he had been extremely upset about her hospitalization, though it would have meant everything to her if she had. But when Arthur’s mother died suddenly on March 8, only three days after Marilyn was released from the hospital, Marilyn knew what she wanted to do.
Isadore Miller had been preparing to undergo surgery when his wife passed away. He left the hospital to bury her. When the old man arrived at his wife’s funeral, he was astonished to find Marilyn there waiting to comfort him. Marilyn was well aware of her father-in-law’s fondness for her, and she was determined to do whatever she could for him now that he needed her. Throughout the service, she gripped Isadore’s hand and tried to calm him. Arthur’s nephew Ross thought it took guts for Marilyn to show up there alone.
After the service, she asked Isadore, “Dad, shall I come to the cemetery?”
“Marilyn, you’ve been sick,” Isadore replied. “Don’t come.”
In the days that followed, Marilyn called Isadore regularly at the hospital. She talked to his doctor. She sent flowers. She continued to call from Florida. There were all too few people in her life who had loved her as sincerely as he did, and she was going to show her gratitude.
Meanwhile, Marilyn’s situation at Twentieth was growing more complicated. George Cukor had withdrawn from Goodbye, Charlie, and was now tied up at MGM with Lady L. He had assumed that he would be finished in time to report to Twentieth on March 1 to work with Marilyn—which, considering the fragile state of her health, would have meant rushing her from her hospital bed directly to a sound stage—but he had not even begun to shoot by March, his film having been plagued by script problems. MGM refused to release him. Legally, Twentieth had only until April 14, 1961, to put Marilyn to work, or they risked losing her services altogether. While the legal department threatened Cukor with a lawsuit, studio executives frantically c
hecked the availability of the other directors on Marilyn’s list.
As long as Twentieth had one of her sixteen approved directors, Marilyn would have to make Goodbye, Charlie. At the very least, the studio was required to make a reasonable effort to approach them all. They contacted Billy Wilder, John Huston, Joshua Logan, Elia Kazan, William Wyler, George Stevens, John Ford, Alfred Hitchcock, and Carol Reed. Again and again, they struck out.
Marilyn returned from Florida to find a letter from Frank Ferguson, the studio attorney, announcing that Cukor had quit. Ferguson had long been of the opinion that Twentieth had made a dreadful mistake in capitulating after Marilyn walked out with Milton Greene. Ignoring her plans to do Rain that summer, which had been reported in the press, Ferguson informed Marilyn that Twentieth had put off the start of her film. In the event of a director’s resignation, the studio had the right to postpone for four weeks. Marilyn was not expected to report until further notice.
Marilyn, accompanied by Paula, arrived in Los Angeles intent on forcing a settlement that would permit her to do Rain with Strasberg. On April 20, Ferguson told Marilyn that every effort had been made to get one of her directors. As no one on her list had been available, Twentieth wanted to consult with her about a substitute. The following day, a team of MCA agents appeared in the office of Robert Goldstein, Twentieth’s new production chief. Buddy Adler had died during pre-production for Cleopatra, the $30 million white elephant that was supposed to have reversed the studio’s post-Zanuck decline. Goldstein, the former head of the London office, was known as Skouras’s man. There were those at Fox who muttered that he was not really the production chief, Skouras was.
Marilyn’s agents knew for a fact that one of the directors on her list had not heard from the studio. The studio had failed to approach Lee Strasberg, and therefore it had not lived up to the letter of her contract. After discovering that Strasberg did not have a Hollywood agent, Twentieth had made no further effort to reach him. Strasberg was thought of as an acting teacher; no one took him seriously as a director. There was every reason to assume that his place on Marilyn’s list had been a whim. Obviously, the studio executives were going to have to rethink that.
Meanwhile, MCA struck again. As of April 25, four weeks had passed since Ferguson’s letter informing Marilyn that her picture was being postponed. George Chasin called Spyros Skouras on April 26 to announce that Twentieth had missed the date by which it was obligated to start Goodbye, Charlie. If Skouras still wanted to use Marilyn, he would have to make a deal with her production company. He would have to give her a say in what project she did, and with whom she did it. And, of course, he would have to give her a lot more money. After the phone call, Skouras checked Marilyn’s contract. He saw that in fact the clock had started ticking on April 14, the date she was supposed to have reported to Cukor; the studio clearly had until May 12 to put Marilyn to work. Skouras told Bob Goldstein that should Marilyn refuse to report on the 12th, he would seek an injunction to prevent her from working elsewhere. If she remained adamant about Goodbye, Charlie, Twentieth would consider substituting Celebration, a film Jerry Wald had been developing. Otherwise, the studio intended to proceed with efforts to replace Cukor. By now, those efforts had focused on Lee Strasberg.
Strasberg was rumored to be planning to go to Europe in June, but when Twentieth finally reached him in New York, he indicated he’d be willing to make himself available for a project that interested him. On May 4, eight days before the scheduled start date, Frank Ferguson wired Marilyn’s lawyer, Aaron Frosch, to announce that Strasberg was reconsidering his travel plans. He might be able to direct Goodbye, Charlie. Twentieth was eager to confer with Marilyn.
Strasberg, for his part, was eager to know how much the studio intended to pay him. Fourteen years earlier, he had suffered the disgrace of being fired by Fox. He did not plan to be insulted again. He insisted on being paid what he was worth. He suddenly cast aside his conviction that Marilyn must not do another light comedy. He seemed to forget his belief that it was in her best interest to appear in a serious dramatic role. For the moment at least, Strasberg abandoned his staunch opposition to Goodbye, Charlie.
The studio offered $22,500, the same fee Daniel Petrie had received for A Raisin in the Sun. Petrie had one prior film directing credit; Strasberg had none. Yet Strasberg indignantly shot back that the studio’s offer must be commensurate with his standing. Bob Goldstein, down to the wire, approved a new offer of $50,000. That wasn’t enough either. On May 8, Strasberg, now communicating through an agent, turned the offer down. If he calculated that Twentieth would keep going, he was mistaken.
At the last minute, Skouras decided not to take Marilyn to court after all and unexpectedly released her from Goodbye, Charlie. In return, her lawyer agreed that she still owed Twentieth a film, the start date to be postponed until November 15. Meanwhile, Skouras gave Marilyn permission to do Rain, the only stipulation being that she finish by October 30. Supposedly, the deal let everyone save face, both Skouras and Strasberg. But it didn’t work out that way. Strasberg fared worse at NBC than at Twentieth. The film studio had been willing to hire an inexperienced director; the television network was not. In the end, Marilyn refused to do Rain without him.
During this period, Marilyn had been seeing a good deal of Dr. Greenson. In March, Marianne Kris had come to Los Angeles expressly to talk to him about Marilyn. Marilyn’s resentment over the Payne–Whitney episode made it advisable for another doctor to take over her treatment, but as her permanent residence was in the east Greenson was excluded for now. Meanwhile, he worried about her being alone in the world. He worried about her being drawn back to drugs. He worried about her attraction to destructive people. He was particularly distressed about her having canceled several hours’ worth of appointments with him in order to go to Palm Springs with Frank Sinatra. Greenson lifted his eyes to the ceiling, his mustache curling into a frown, whenever Marilyn mentioned his former patient. He worried about her being used, and hurt, by men. That, perhaps, seemed inevitable the more deeply involved she became with Sinatra and his clique.
Frank was by turns generous and cruel. Ava Gardner once said that he could be “the sweetest, most charming man in the world when he was in the mood.” Indeed, he was all that and more with Marilyn. In New York, Sinatra had been exceedingly kind to her at the hospital. He called. He visited. He gave her gifts, including a fluffy white poodle, whom she named Maf (short for “Mafia,” a reference to Sinatra’s ties to the mob). Determined not to let Joe DiMaggio find out about Frank, Marilyn claimed the puppy had been a gift from a publicist.
In California, she visited Sinatra’s modern, light-filled Palm Springs house on the edge of the Tamarisk Country Club golf course. Frank enjoyed having lots of friends around. The regulars included Peter Lawford, Sammy Davis, Jr., and Dean Martin. By this time, Marilyn, drinking from a flask, was in bad shape again. That seemed to bring out a very different aspect of Frank’s personality. He turned vicious, insulting her in front of the others.
Marilyn accompanied Frank to Las Vegas. At the Sands Hotel, she shared a front-row table with Dean Martin, Eddie Fisher, and Elizabeth Taylor. Marilyn leaned on the railing, a champagne glass in hand. She gyrated pleasurably to the music. She drummed the stage with her palm. She cheered each number. She was said to have stolen Sinatra’s show. Sinatra was furious. At a party afterward, Frank told Marilyn off and she abruptly departed.
Yet she kept coming back for more. Frank introduced her to the alcohol-drenched scene at Peter Lawford’s oceanfront home in Santa Monica. There were pool parties. There were all-night card games reminiscent of those she used to attend at Uncle Joe’s. Sinatra, besotted with the Kennedys, dubbed their host Brother-in-Lawford, as he was married to the President’s sister Pat. Jack Kennedy had yet to visit California after the election, but when he did, it was a safe bet he planned to spend a good deal of time at the Lawfords’. Sinatra, not to be outdone, was intent on his Palm Springs home being unofficially design
ated the Western White House. At the inauguration, he had produced a star-studded show-business tribute. Now, he built a heliport and other facilities at his compound in anticipation of playing host to Chicky Boy, as he liked to call the President.
For Sinatra and many others in Hollywood, Lawford’s Kennedy connection was the basis of his new allure. It gave a boost to his undistinguished acting career and made his parties the place to be. Marilyn knew him from the days when he was a regular at Charlie Feldman’s. Now, in her visits to the Lawford home, she seemed to drift back to a life she’d once worked very hard to escape. The failure of her marriage had led her to believe that this was where she belonged and, for all the grand hopes she’d had, all she really deserved.
Marilyn returned to New York on June 14 for gall bladder surgery, her condition said to be the result of barbiturate abuse. Accompanied by Joe DiMaggio and George Solotaire, she entered Polyclinic Hospital on a stretcher. The doctors found her frightened and disoriented. Marilyn appreciated Joe’s devotion, but she also seemed to want to give herself space. So when she came home from the hospital, she was cared for by her half-sister, Berniece Miracle. Gladys’s daughter by Jap Baker came up from Florida at Marilyn’s request.
When Marilyn was able to go out again, her masseur, Ralph Roberts, carried a favorite chair of Arthur’s down to a station wagon. He also loaded two beds from the guest room, and drove the sisters to Connecticut. Marilyn wanted Berniece to see the white colonial farmhouse on Tophet Road. Roxbury was another world from the life Marilyn had re-entered with Sinatra. She was immensely proud of the improvements she had made to the property. She pointed out the dormer windows, the room she’d added over the kitchen. Sadly, Marilyn had never lived in the finished house, as the carpenters had hammered in the last nail as The Misfits was being completed. She loved the old place. Yet she had signed it over to Arthur, insisting that that seemed appropriate.
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