by Colin Clark
‘Colin.’ Marilyn spoke so quietly that I had to step forward to hear her.
‘Colin, whose side are you on?’
‘Oh, yours, Miss Monroe. I promise you I’m on your side and I always will be.’
Marilyn sighed. ‘Will you be coming to work tomorrow?’
‘Well, yes. I come to work every day.’ I didn’t understand the question, but I was saved by a sharp tap on the door.
‘Marilyn,’ said Paula in honeyed tones, ‘it’s really time we went home.’
She opened the door wide, catching me standing on one leg in the middle of the room.
‘Colin has to finish his work now,’ she said. ‘Don’t you, Colin? Thanks for stopping by.’
She was like a mother hen fussing over her chick. She could hardly regard me as a wolf, but then again I wasn’t exactly a baby chicken either. Marilyn gave another sigh. My interview was over.
As soon as I was out in the cold stone corridor of the studio, I found myself gasping for air. My first instinct was to rush along to Olivier’s dressing room and report the whole thing. I felt incredibly pleased with myself. I’d asked Marilyn exactly what Olivier wanted to know, and I’d got an answer. Even better, I felt that I had established a rapport with Marilyn which might come in useful later on.
But wait one minute! Things weren’t quite that simple now. Whose side was I on? Olivier was my boss. He was also, in some respects, an old friend. Uncle Larry. ‘Boy’, he called me most of the time. And Vivien was my heroine of all time. She was by far the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
But Marilyn was different again. She was prettier than Vivien, younger, of course, and more vulnerable.
And she had appealed to me directly.
‘Colin, whose side are you on?’
‘Yours,’ I had said. I could never go back on that. I marched down the corridor and knocked on Olivier’s door.
‘Come in.’
‘Miss Monroe says she will not be coming to the studio tomorrow. Mr Miller is going to Paris and she wishes to spend the morning with him.’
‘Did she tell you this herself?’ Milton was incredulous.
‘Yes.’
‘Is that all she said?’
‘Yes.’
Both men looked at me with curiosity. For the first time ever, they were actually taking notice of what I said. I have Marilyn to thank for that, I thought, as I turned and went out. I know whose side I’m on now.
THURSDAY, 13 SEPTEMBER
All film crews take a pride in being cynical. The more well-known the stars they work with, the more the crew effects an air of studied indifference whenever the famous person appears. The team working on The Prince and the Showgirl is even more professional than most. They have been hand-picked by Olivier and his production manager Teddy Joseph so that they will not ogle Miss Monroe, or try to catch her eye. At the same time, they have strong views about the actors and actresses they work with, and there is a rigid pecking order which all crews observe.
Minor actors, and even major ones in supporting roles, are totally ignored.
British stars in British films, like Anthony Steel or Maureen Swanson, who are both working on other films at Pinewood at the moment, are treated as complete equals – just as if they were also technicians, merely doing a different job.
Great British stage actors, like Dame Sybil Thorndike, who is playing the Queen Dowager, the mother of Olivier’s character the Regent of Carpathia, are given exaggerated courtesy, as if they were honoured visitors to the set and not participants. The Oliviers, Laurence and Vivien, are a special case, treated like royalty and spoken of in hushed tones. Olivier is always referred to as ‘Sir’, although not to his face. Lady Olivier is called ‘Vivien’, even to her face – but, oh, with what respect and awe.
Big Hollywood stars are treated with complete nonchalance, but each one is given an approval rating in the endless gossip which takes place while the crew is waiting for them to appear. Marilyn is different altogether. She is now so famous, and it is so tempting to look at her, that everyone avoids her gaze as if she had the evil eye. I am not sure if she is too happy about this. She obviously does not have much self-confidence, and I think she prefers a group of men to applaud and smile when she walks into a room, rather than to look away.
Whatever they may pretend they are doing, however, every man and woman in Studio A is keeping one eye on Marilyn every moment she is there. They can’t resist, and endless Marilyn stories, Marilyn rumours and Marilyn jokes make the rounds. On the mornings when she does not show up, the crew get slack and sit around with glum faces, like children who have not been invited to a party.
This morning, for lack of anything else to amuse them, they’ve decided it’s time to tease Colin.
‘Colin is Marilyn’s new boyfriend, I hear.’
‘Just barges into her dressing room for a chat any time he likes, they say.’
‘And how does Larry feel about that, I wonder.’
‘He ’s jealous.’
‘Of him, or of her?’
Gales of laughter.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘“Sir” simply told me to ask Miss Monroe whether she was coming to the studio today, so I knocked on her dressing-room door and asked her, and she said “No.” That was all there was to it.’
‘Oh? Norman [one of the hair stylists] said you were in there for ten minutes. Plenty of time for a cuddle.’
‘Oh, yes. A cuddle with Paula, I suppose you mean. She was in there too. I presume Norman will confirm that.’
Jack Cardiff, the lighting cameraman, who has worked on such films as The Red Shoes and The African Queen, walked over to see what the fuss was about. Jack is the only person on the set who treats Marilyn like a chum. As a result he is the one crew member to whom she can relate, and certainly the only Englishman she trusts. In return he uses all his artistry to bring out her beauty. He clearly adores her, and because he is an artist, with no ulterior motive, she responds to him very well. The whole crew understand this and appreciate it. Jack, they can see, is the man who will save the film by putting Marilyn’s radiance on the screen.
‘Isn’t Marilyn allowed to make friends?’ said Jack. ‘I wish the rest of you would be a bit more welcoming. She ’s a stranger here, you know, and no one is stranger than you lot. Let ’s get back to work.’
The truth is that the crew look at me with a good deal of suspicion. This is my first film, and I am very wet behind the ears. It was obviously Olivier himself who got me the job, and he treats me as if I was his nephew (although he often yells at me if I make a mistake). Vivien, who I have known since I was a boy, always singles me out when she visits. ‘Colin, darling, are you looking after Larrykins for me?’ she purrs, knowing full well that she embarrasses me as much as she pleases me. Dame Sybil also knows my parents. She treats me as if I was her grandson, and bought me a lovely thick wool scarf to keep me warm while I wait outside the studio at dawn to welcome the stars. (Come to think of it, Dame Sybil treats the whole crew as if they were her grandchildren, and would buy each one of them a woolly scarf if she could.)
Marilyn does not know my parents (thank God!), and there is no reason for her to talk to me at all. We have had a few cosy moments together (cosy for me, that is) when I have given her cues from behind the set, but otherwise she has always seemed to look straight through me as if I were a pane of glass. And so she should. The poor woman has enough on her plate without me making demands on her. I have to keep reminding myself that she is the most famous film star in the world, trying to keep up with the most famous actor in the world – and he is not the easiest man to please.
With Marilyn off the set we spent a boring day preparing to do the exterior shots, and it was not until 5.30 in the evening that I got to Olivier’s dressing room to check with him before he left for home. Milton was already there, and they had obviously, from the state of the whisky bottle and the ashtray, had another of those long and intense conferences that seemed to lead nowhere a
t all.
‘We’ve decided to give Marilyn another day off tomorrow,’ said Olivier firmly. ‘Milton says she’s upset about Arthur’s departure, and now she can have a long weekend to pull herself together. One rather wonders,’ he continued grimly, ‘if she ever asks herself why so many people need a break from her presence.’
‘That’s not fair, Larry. Perhaps she needs a break from us,’ said Milton. He is never malicious about anyone, except possibly Paula, and he ’d certainly never dare even to think unkind thoughts about Marilyn.
‘Quite so, dear boy,’ said Olivier. ‘Well, let us say that she can rest, and take a little time to learn her lines.’
I was wondering what on earth Marilyn would do in that big house, all alone with Paula for a long weekend, when the phone rang. Milton happened to be standing next to it, and he picked it up. He practically lives on the telephone, so whenever it rings he always assumes it will be for him. And it usually is, often from the USA.
‘Milton Greene. Oh, Roger. Everything OK? Whaddya want?’
Suddenly his face seemed to crumple a little. ‘Yes. He’s here.’ He looked at me.
‘It ’s for you.’
‘For me?’
Olivier nearly exploded. ‘Who is Roger? What the hell’s going on?’
I took the phone. ‘What ’s the matter, Roger?’
‘Colin.’ Roger sounded very formal. ‘Miss Monroe wants you to come via Parkside House on your way home this evening.’
‘Me? Why me? Is Marilyn OK?’ I asked.
Giggle. ‘I’m OK,’ said Marilyn’s voice cheerfully. ‘In fact I’m standing right here!’
If Milton had had false teeth he would have swallowed them. Like a trained dog, he had caught the unmistakable inflexion of his mistress’s voice, and his mouth froze in terror.
‘Who the fuck is on the bloody telephone?’ roared Olivier, naturally furious at being excluded.
‘It ’s Marilyn,’ whispered Milton.
‘MARILYN?’
‘Monroe.’
‘Yes, I know who Marilyn is, for God ’s sake.’
I heard Marilyn giggle again at the other end of the line.
‘But what is my star doing phoning my third assistant director in my dressing room?’
‘That ’s my boy,’ said Marilyn. ‘See you later, Colin. OK?’
‘Very well, Miss Monroe. If you say so.’
Mercifully she hung up before I got fired.
‘Miss Monroe was just ringing to tell me that she will not be coming to the studio tomorrow.’
‘We knew that,’ spluttered Olivier. ‘And why is she telling you, and not me?’
‘Well, you sent me into her dressing room to ask that question yesterday, so I assume she thinks you want me to be the messenger about that sort of thing.’
‘Hmph! Well, what else did she say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Colin, I heard her say something else.’
‘She heard your voice in the background, asking who was on the phone.’
As always, Olivier forgot that he had just roared and swore.
‘What did she say?’ It was Milton’s turn now, and he was pleading. Goodness knows why he is so scared of Marilyn. She had sounded very jolly to me.
‘She asked me to pass on the message to Sir Laurence. That was all.’
‘Oh, my God, Colin, you’ve got to be so careful with Marilyn,’ said Milton. ‘She gets upset very easily, if one is the least bit over-familiar.’ He turned to Olivier. ‘I don’t know if Colin should talk to her any more, Larry. He’s so young he could easily put his foot in it. She ’s not too keen on Brits right now anyway.’
Olivier’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Colin’s very British, and he doesn’t realise how important it is that Marilyn thinks we all love her.’
Milton was tripping over himself in his anxiety. He was like some feeble-minded courtier of Elizabeth I when the Spanish Armada was near. ‘Off with his head,’ if I was the Queen, I thought.
But Olivier got the point. ‘Well done, Colin,’ he said. ‘Keep up the good work, and keep me informed. Now get us some more whisky, won’t you, there ’s a good lad.’ And I fled.
It was seven o’clock before I got to Parkside House. I had been seriously tempted to stop at a pub on the way, but in the end I decided that I had better not arrive smelling of whisky with an idiotic grin on my face. A good messenger needs a clear head. I parked my car round the corner of the drive and went in by the servants’ entrance. Roger was sitting in the kitchen, looking rather serious.
‘Miss Monroe says for you to wait in the drawing room,’ he said gruffly, and took me through. ‘Sit down, I would.’
Nothing happened for a very long time. I got up and prowled round the room, looking at it carefully for the first time. The French windows gave out onto a garden in full bloom, complementing the flowers on the wallpaper and the curtains.
Had Marilyn ever sat in it, I wondered. There was no evidence that she had. Roger said that she and Arthur spent most of their time upstairs, which I suppose meant in the bedroom. I had seen that when I inspected the house before renting it. It was part of a large suite which included a little sitting room so that they could eat up there whenever they wanted complete privacy – which was probably always, I thought. After all, they were on their honeymoon. Even though they were both quite old, this must still count for something. But I couldn’t imagine what they talked about together. They seemed such different types. The attraction of opposites, I supposed. And now Arthur had gone off to Paris on his own. That didn’t seem a very good sign.
The door to the hall opened, and Paula Strasberg put her head in.
‘Oh, hi, Colin,’ she said without much enthusiasm, and went away without asking what I was doing there, which seemed a little strange. A little later Hedda Rosten walked in from the garden. She is meant to be Marilyn’s companion, but I have never seen them together. She is a middle-aged American lady with a nice face, but she drinks quite a lot, and she smokes, which Marilyn does not. Now she looked at me closely and opened her mouth as if to speak, but she evidently decided not to say anything, so I just smiled and she went out.
By now I was beginning to feel like a fish in a bowl. What on earth was I doing in Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller’s house at eight o’clock on a Thursday evening? Marilyn had told me that she wasn’t coming to the studio next day. She had tomorrow and all weekend to get a message to Olivier. Had she lost faith in Milton Greene to communicate with her director? Was I being put to some test? Why had those two ladies come in to have a look at me? Were they going to report back to Marilyn, I wondered, or were they just curious?
By this time I had been waiting for over an hour. It was just getting dark, and I was beginning to feel annoyed. I’ll have that glass of whisky after all, I thought, and I went across to the tray with the bottles and the ice.
‘Have a drink, Colin.’
Marilyn had come into the room without me hearing her.
‘Oh, no. I’m sorry, Miss Monroe. I was just checking to see if you have everything you need.’
‘I think so. I’ve only been in this room once, on the day we arrived from New York. It ’s very pretty in here, isn’t it? Go ahead and have a drink if you want. Do you drink a lot, Colin? You don’t look old enough to drink.’
‘I’m really quite old, Miss Monroe,’ I protested.
She was standing by the window in the half-light, wearing light silk trousers and a brown silk shirt which emphasised the fabulous Monroe bust. I had to admit that she looked absolutely stunning, but just for a minute the unworthy thought entered my head that perhaps she had delayed her entrance on purpose until the light had grown dim.
‘Are you frightened of me, Colin?’
Terrified, I thought.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Good, because I like you. You don’t seem to want anything from me’ – ‘Umm,’ I thought – ‘and I want you to help me. Will you help me?’
‘But you can see what’s going on, can’t you Colin? You can see both sides.’
Marilyn walked over to the sofa and sat down, stretching out her legs on the cushions beside her.
‘Sit down and tell me everything that’s going on.’ She pointed to an armchair by her feet, and reluctantly I perched on the edge.
‘Come on, Colin,’ Marilyn laughed. ‘I thought you said you weren’t scared. Relax and let it out. Tell you what – let’s have some dinner. I’m starved. Aren’t you? I’ll ask them to bring a tray of food.’ Suddenly she seemed to get flustered. ‘Or are you meant to be having dinner with someone else? Oh, gee, I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something?’ Marilyn opened her eyes very wide and parted her lips, almost causing me to faint. ‘There ’s not a Mrs Colin is there, waiting for you at home?’
‘No, there’s no Mrs Colin. And I am very hungry, but I’d like to make a phone call. I’m staying with the associate producer, Tony Bushell, and his wife, and they’ll be expecting me for dinner.’
‘Go right ahead and call,’ said Marilyn. ‘I’ll go to the kitchen and see what they have.’
There was a telephone on the desk by the window. I dialled Tony’s number.
‘Bushell,’ he barked. It had been many years since he was in the army, but he had acted as an officer in so many films about the war that he had permanently adopted a military manner.
‘It ’s me,’ I said. ‘I can’t come for dinner tonight.’
‘Anne will be furious. The food is practically on the table. Where are you?’
‘I’m at Parkside.’ It was dangerous to tell him too much. Like David and almost everyone else at the studio, Tony was my boss. Marilyn Monroe had become ‘the enemy’ to him as soon as it was clear that she, unlike him, would not slavishly obey Olivier’s every command. Nevertheless, being at Parkside was the one excuse that he could not ignore.