In November 1954, Marilyn went into the hospital to have an operation intended to solve her painful problems with endometriosis. She wasn’t sure it would be successful, but she knew she had to try because the condition had just gotten worse in the last year. After she was released, she made an important decision: She was moving to New York. Manhattan promised new vistas for Marilyn Monroe, a fresh start. She would move into the Gladstone Hotel, meet new friends, go to the theater, and enjoy the freedom of a new and exciting environment.
On January 7, 1955, Marilyn held court at a major press conference to announce her future plans, begin a new phase in her career. As eighty members of the media feverishly took notes and photographs—and she did look stunning in a white satin dress and matching ermine coat, her hair now platinum—she formally announced the establishment of a new company. She and her friend photographer Milton Greene, were starting a new production company, Marilyn Monroe Productions. She would be president, he vice president. She explained that she wanted to find plum roles for herself in worthwhile projects and, if possible, even produce them. “We will go into all fields of entertainment,” she said, “but I am tired of the same old sex roles. I want to do better things. People have scope, you know.”
At this same press conference, Marilyn’s lawyer let it slip that she was no longer under contract to Fox. He would later say he had found a loophole in her contract. The executives at Fox begged to differ, though, and promptly held their own press conference to say that Marilyn was still legally bound to the studio, whether she and her attorney liked it or not. Moreover, they had a new role for her. As if to put her in her place, the studio came up with a vehicle called How to Be Very, Very Popular in which she would play—a stripper. Marilyn, of course, had other ideas. At this same time, in early 1955, she began to tell the press that she was dreaming of essaying the female lead in Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. This was a surprise, to say the least. Indeed, there was some cynicism about it, too. Later, at a different press conference, a reporter asked her if she really thought she was up to the task. She said, “I don’t want to play the brothers, I want to play Grushenka. She’s a girl.” With a raised eyebrow, the writer then challenged Marilyn. “Spell that name, Grushenka,” he said. A flicker of annoyance crossed her face and she said, “Look it up.”
Natasha Lytess was still in Los Angeles wondering when Marilyn would be sending for her. Or, as she wrote to Helena Albert, “I am being kept from Miss Monroe by 3000 miles and a circle of vultures. I don’t know how to reach her and I must say the situation is dire.” What Natasha didn’t know was that Marilyn had screwed up the courage to break free of her. She began taking private acting lessons with Constance Collier, * and, shortly thereafter, with Lee Strasberg, who ran the Actors Studio, specializing in so-called “method acting.” Indeed, it was Strasberg who began to convince Marilyn that, if she put her mind to it, she could be the kind of actress who would be accepted in a Dostoevsky role. But was such a thing really possible?
In the 1950s, there was a certain segment of movie stars who were considered classic, highly talented actors—and that would include women such as Elizabeth Taylor, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, and Katharine Hepburn. When people thought of them, they thought of classy, well-bred women. However, that’s not what came to mind when people thought of Marilyn Monroe—and she knew it. What drew people to Marilyn wasn’t her classic acting ability or her regal bearing—it was her sex appeal. Crawford and Hepburn were as much known for their complex thoughts as they were for their acting. No one thought Marilyn was complex, just sizzling hot. No one was looking for depth from Marilyn, they were just looking for cleavage. In some ways, Darryl Zanuck was right about her. What she did, she was the best at doing it—and anything more was a risk. She was willing to take the risk—indeed, she wanted to take it—but would others allow it? A couple of her roles along the way suggested that there was more to her than what met the eye, but some people felt that she should just be satisfied with her success and leave well enough alone. That wasn’t Marilyn. She was restless. She was imaginative and not willing to settle for the status quo.
Her sense of dissatisfaction bled into the rest of her life. Because she felt she was viewed as just a bubble-headed blonde, she not only thought she couldn’t have the career she wanted, she also believed she couldn’t have the kind of relationships she wanted—indeed, the kind of life she wanted. “She realized that she would have to ease into a new image,” noted Charles Casillo, “an image that would allow her to age and continue to grow in her work and still remain ‘Marilyn.’ ”
Now, at twenty-eight, she was determined to do something to rectify her image, both professionally and personally. Thus her connection with Lee Strasberg in 1955.
Lee Strasberg’s version of “The Method”—inspired by the teachings of Stanislavsky—required an actor to use “sense memory,” drawing from his own past experiences. The concept was that in doing so the actor would create a character with more depth and interest. Strasberg’s devout belief in sense memory would become quite controversial. It would be the reason why some other founding members of the Group Theatre, like Stella Adler and Sanford Meisner, rejected Strasberg’s concept and would teach their own versions of Stanislavsky’s method. Though these new instructors’ concepts were also based on Stanislavsky’s system, Strasberg and his devotees would not budge from their position that self-examination and reflection upon one’s past was integral to the creation of a fine actor. Many noteworthy actors would come through the studio at different times during their careers, including James Dean, Marlon Brando, Robert Duvall, Montgomery Clift, Sally Field, Dustin Hoffman, Paul Newman, and Sidney Poitier.
“My father wanted to arouse everything undealt with, everything repressed about Marilyn’s past, and to tap all her explosive energy,” Lee Strasberg’s daughter, Susan, once explained. “To bring all that up, he said she’d have to work on it in a formal, professional setting.” Strasberg’s acting theories appealed to Marilyn. After all, it was familiar terrain for her in that Natasha Lytess had always wanted her to draw from her own life and then imbue her performances with aspects of her sadness and confusion—and even come to terms with her past in order to be a better actress. The difference, of course, is that Natasha, being the controlling woman she was, actually dictated to Marilyn what experiences she should draw from and, moreover, even attempted at times to manipulate those experiences—such as when she encouraged her to meet her father in order to then extract from that relationship what might benefit her acting. But Lee Strasberg presented his own set of problems, too. Though Marilyn made every attempt to follow his instruction, he didn’t believe she was successfully accessing her past emotional pain.
“Lee was particularly hard on Marilyn,” says a classmate of Monroe’s. “I think he saw her as a way to rebuild his reputation.”
Indeed, when Strasberg became artistic director of the Actors Studio, he claimed to have trained a number of actors who didn’t actually study under him. When Sanford Meisner, the acting teacher and founder of the highly respected Neighborhood Playhouse, heard that Strasberg was claiming responsibility for the success of actors Meisner himself had taught, sparks flew. Meisner, seeking to set the record straight, spoke often of Strasberg’s attempts to take credit where credit was not due, and the two would have an animosity for each other that would last the rest of their lives. “I think [Lee’s] feeling was that if he could make Marilyn Monroe a great actress, people would see him as a miracle worker. She wasn’t considered a ‘real actor’ in the New York theater community, and he tried like hell to turn her into one.”
“He was mean to her,” recalls another classmate. “He’d say things like ‘that’s how someone who’s never felt before would do the scene, now try to do it like someone who can experience emotion.’ ”
Still, Marilyn dedicated herself to Strasberg’s classes—at the studio, and also privately at his home—even though she sometimes felt that the other students
looked at her more as a curiosity than as a real actress.
As part of Marilyn’s new life in New York, she began to undergo analysis with a therapist named Margaret Hohenberg. She’d been recommended to her by Milton Greene, but it was at Lee’s insistence that she underwent such psychotherapy. Moreover, Hohenberg was a psychiatrist whom Lee Strasberg said he approved of, which suggests that maybe he was having a little too much influence on Marilyn. Some even began to wonder if perhaps he was to be “the new Natasha.” Only time would tell. One thing was certain: Lee Strasberg may have been a capable acting teacher, but privately his life was as much a mess as those of some of his troubled and conflicted students—including Marilyn. “Our household revolved around my father, his moods, his needs, his expectations and his neuroses,” recalled his daughter, Susan. “He was teaching people how to act, but that was nothing compared to the drama in our house… our entire family were intimate strangers.”
While Marilyn had been in analysis in the past, she was more determined than ever to now understand herself and her mother as well as other influences in her life. She had seen so much emotional and mental deterioration in her family, she’d always believed that if she faced problems head-on on a psychiatrist’s couch, she would have an advantage that had been out of reach for her ancestors. In other words, if she ever felt she was losing her mind, at least she would have some recourse and would be able to do something about it, unlike Della and Gladys. That may have been a logical and worthwhile pursuit in and of itself, but coupled with the kind of introspection going on every day in Strasberg’s acting classes, it was definitely too much, too quickly.
Many people in Marilyn’s new life whom she had known prior to this time—such as Arthur Miller, the playwright whom she had met a few years earlier and with whom she had stayed in close contact over the years—were concerned about subtle changes in Marilyn’s personality that were becoming evident during this time. Indeed, the combination of Strasberg’s influence to dig deep within herself for her acting along with Hohenberg’s insistence that she do the same thing for her life was turning Marilyn into a different kind of person—a darker and often more morose person. She had long believed that her focus on her earlier pain and misery was a destination in and of itself, that there was a payoff in it. Now, at long last, those feelings were being confirmed for her. Yes, she should concentrate on her past. Yes, she should bring it all to light on a daily basis and identify herself with it. And why not exaggerate it, too? It was as if she had found the key to becoming a better person and a better actress—her pain. Therefore, she began to concentrate daily on her darkest self, her saddest self. Though she may have thought this was a treasure trove of dramatic interest—and maybe it was—the problem was that she wasn’t able to just turn off all of those emotions when she wished and go about her day. Indeed, in the months and years to come, she would become more depressed than ever as the misery of her past weighed heavily on her mind. After a day of dealing with her personal pain in such an intensified setting, how could anyone expect her to just drift off and go to sleep? No. She had to have sleeping pills. Then, the next day, she would need more medication to function. If it went particularly badly in class or in therapy, she would need something else for her anxiety—a sedative would do nicely. She was so dependent on pills by this time, it’s a wonder she could function at all. “I remember that she would ask me, ‘Do you want a pill?’ ” recalled her friend John Gilmore, “and she would reach into her purse and come out with a handful. She’d just put them all out on the table and say, ‘You can take this one to sleep and this one for anxiety and this one for…’ It was very disconcerting.” It should be noted, though, that in the 1950s, many actors and actresses depended on drugs to get through the day. Everyone from Elizabeth Taylor to Marlon Brando to Montgomery Clift to Tallulah Bankhead was addicted to one drug or another. Their lives and careers were not enhanced either by such excessive self-medicating.
It now seems ironic that in Marilyn Monroe’s quest for clarity, her mind became even more clouded. Some of the notes she took during therapy at this time reveal her to be conflicted and, as always, terribly insecure—but also not necessarily cogent. “How or why I can act,” she wrote one day, “and I’m not sure I can—is the thing for me to understand. The torture, let alone the day to day happenings—the pain one cannot explain to another.” She also wrote, “What is there I’m afraid of? Hiding in case of punishment? Libido? Ask Dr. H.” And another: “My problem of desperation in my work and life—I must begin to face it continually, making my work routine more continuous and of more importance than my desperation.”
Marilyn’s half sister, Berniece, would notice troubling changes in Marilyn’s personality and blame them more on her therapy than on her acting classes—but that’s because Berniece didn’t understand Lee Strasberg’s methodology. “She couldn’t handle all of that therapy,” Berniece would say. “It made things worse, not better.”
In fact, throughout 1955, as Marilyn’s studies with her acting teacher intensified, she began to rely even more on her psychiatrist. Marilyn’s increasing reliance on Dr. Hohenberg suggests that, on some level, she may have felt she was ill-equipped to handle her own life. She may have started therapy at Strasberg’s insistence, but she could have done it by seeing the doctor once a week. However, by the end of 1955 she was going at least three times a week, and also telephoning her constantly for advice and direction.
Almost as a backdrop to Marilyn Monroe’s search for herself in both her life and career was the legal warring that was going on between her and Fox. It continued throughout 1955. However, by the end of the year, Marilyn would, at long last, be the victor. “Fox offered her a new contract—four more movies over the next seven years,” said Wesley Miller from Wright, Wright, Green & Wright. “If memory serves, she would get $100,000 per upcoming film and $500 a week for expenses. She would also have subject, director and cinematographer approval—a huge win for her. Finally, she would be able to veto a nonsensical movie if it came her way. She would also be able to work in television and onstage if she wanted to do so.”
As for “Marilyn Monroe Productions,” its first of two new projects would be the film version of William Inge’s Broadway play Bus Stop, for Fox, of course. Also on tap, a film version of Terence Rattigan’s The Sleeping Prince. Both of these were not only worthwhile projects, they were worthy of the time and energy Marilyn had put in to reclassify herself in the minds of those with whom she and her lawyers had negotiated at Fox. What she learned was that she didn’t have to settle for just being a brainless but pretty face, even if that would have been the easier way to go. “There is persuasive evidence that Marilyn Monroe is a shrewd businessman,” a writer for Time magazine noted after the deal was announced—high praise for someone who’d been thought of as a dumb blonde.
Maybe her Aunt Grace was right, after all… about a lot of things. Indeed, no matter how complicated Norma Jeane’s life would become, Grace Goddard was someone who had been able to grab her “niece” by the collar and force her to simplify things and think in a less complex manner. Whereas Lee Strasberg would chastise Marilyn and tell her that she wasn’t thinking enough or wasn’t feeling enough, Grace would tell Marilyn that she was fine just as she was at any given time. In a sense, Strasberg kept trying to add complexity to a woman whose mind was too busy to begin with, while Grace had sought to quiet that mind by offering straightforward and effective advice. Her wisdom may have seemed pedestrian to someone like Lee Strasberg, but, it could be argued, it was far more valuable and maybe even prescient. “You already have everything in you that you need,” Grace had told Marilyn the summer before she died. “As you see yourself, so will others. It’s not so complicated, Norma Jeane. Just believe in yourself,” she concluded, “and I guarantee that others will follow.”
Arthur Miller
In the spring of 1955, Marilyn began a new chapter in her story with a man who would become one of the great loves of her life, the playwr
ight Arthur Miller, whose drama A View from the Bridge was currently playing in New York. (Marilyn saw it three times and loved it.)
Miller was tall and thin, almost Lincolnesque in bearing. His face somehow seemed full of wisdom. His large spectacles and serious expression made him appear humorless, but this was misleading. He was gregarious, thoughtful, and not as bookish as most people expected. Rather, he was a sports enthusiast and enjoyed the outdoors. He could not be considered handsome, at least not by the standards of the day, but he had an imposing presence. What was interesting about Marilyn’s choices in men was that they were almost always of the “everyman” variety, which was perhaps one of the reasons why she was so beloved by men in this country in the 1950s. The perception was that any “normal” guy in America could have a chance with the most beautiful woman in the world because, after all, look at the men with whom she had been involved: Jim Dougherty, Johnny Hyde, Joe DiMaggio… even Frank Sinatra wasn’t considered a strikingly handsome man. She went for depth, always, not appearances.
The Secret Life of Marilyn Monroe Page 28