THIS IS THE FULL STORY..... THE 50 PERCENT AND MORE THAT WAS LEFT OUT OF THE RECENT 2012 MOVIE STARING MICHELLE WILLIAMS AS MARILYN MONROE.
WHEN MARILYN DIED IN 1962 I WAS 20 YEARS OLD AND MARILYN MONROE WAS THE LAST THING ON MY YOUNG MIND. I WAS TOO CONCERNED WITH MY LIFE AND THE COWBOY WORLD, PLANNING TO BE THE NEXT ROY ROGERS OF HOLLYWOOD.
MUST SAY THAT UNTIL ABOUT 10 YEARS AGO I DID NOT THINK ABOUT MARILYN MUCH AT ALL. IT IS ONLY SINCE I REACHED MY 60s THAT I BECAME A FAN OF MARILYN, AND INTERESTED IN HER LIFE THAT WAS ANYTHING BUT ORDINARY, EVEN FROM CHILDHOOD.
SHE WAS MISUNDERSTOOD AND MISUSED BY THE HOLLYWOOD TYCOONS. SHE WAS A VERY FINE TALENT BESIDES BEING BLESSED WITH BEAUTIFUL LOOKS. MARILYN WAS A KIND, SOFT, LOVING PERSON.....YES VERY INSECURE AND THAT CAME WITH HER CHILDHOOD LIFE. SHE WAS ALWAYS READING AND TRYING TO MAKE HERSELF A BETTER ACTOR....SHE TOOK THE TIME TO TAKE SINGING AND DANCING LESSONS, AS WELL AS ATTENDING "ACTING SCHOOL" IN L.A. ON THE BACK ROW AND TRYING TO HAVE NOBODY KNOWING WHO SHE WAS [NEVER DID READ IF SHE SUCCEEDED IN KEEPING HERSELF UNKNOWN DURING THOSE CLASSES].
I FIND THE WEEK THAT COLIN CLARK HAD WITH MARILYN TO BE INTERESTING AND SURPRISING IN MANY WAYS, NOT THE LEAST FOR A YOUNG MAN OF 23 KEEPING IT ALL VERY PROPER AND MATURE FOR SUCH AN AGE, REALLY TRYING TO HELP MARILYN, AS WELL AS BEING THE BEST TONIC FOR HER, UNDER A HARD SITUATION. IT IS INTERESTING FOR ME AS THE FIRST DAY OF THAT WEEK WAS, SEPTEMBER 11TH 1956......MY BIRTHDAY!!
SO HERE WE GO....AND IT IS QUITE THE REAL LIFE STORY:
COLIN...."........Tuesday, 11 September 1956
I have known the Oliviers since I was a child, and I've met all sorts of famous people with my parents. But Marilyn is different. She is wrapped in a sort of blanket of fame which both protects and attracts. Her aura is incredibly strong — strong enough to be diluted by thousands of cinema screens all over the world, and still survive. In the flesh, this star quality is almost more than one can take. "When I am with her my eyes don't want to leave her. I just can't seem to see enough of her, and perhaps this is because I cannot really see her at all. It is a feeling one could easily confuse with love. No wonder she has so many fans, and has to be so careful who she meets. I suppose this is why she spends most of her time shut up in her house, and why she finds it so hard to turn up at the studio at all, let alone on time. When she does arrive, she flashes from her car to her dressing room like a blur. She seems frightened, and perhaps she's right to be. I know I must not add to those persecuting her, yet I can't resist being in her orbit. And since I am paid by Olivier to make her life easier and smoother, I have to be in the background of her life, I tell myself, if nothing more.
As soon as I went inside the studio building I was in the usual trouble.
"Colin! 'Where the hell have you been?'" David says this every time he sees me, even if I've only been gone for ten seconds. "Olivier wants to see you straight away. It's 10 o'clock. Marilyn's only just arrived. We'll be lucky to get one shot done before lunch," etc., etc.
Why don't they ever realise that, like it or not, this is Marilyn's pattern, and we might as well get used to it? Olivier argues that if we didn't make a fuss she'd never turn up at all, but I'm not so sure. Marilyn wants to act. She even wants to act with Olivier. She needs to make a success of this film to prove to the world that she is a serious actress. I think she'd turn up if the pressure was off. She might even be early, but I suppose that is a risk no film company would dare to take. Olivier talks about her as if she was no more than a pin-up, with no brains at all. He seems to have nothing but contempt for her. He is convinced she can't act — just because she can't clip on a character like a suit of clothes in the way he can — and he despises her use of Paula as a dramatic coach. He can't see that Paula is only there for reassurance, not to tell Marilyn how to play the part. He only has to look at the film we've already shot to see that Marilyn is doing a very subtle job all on her own. The trouble is that he gets so frustrated by all the 'urns' and 'ahs', the missed cues and incorrect lines that he fails to recognise the flashes of brilliance when they come. Every evening the screenings of the previous day's filming remind him of the pain that he had to go through in front of and behind the camera, and he seems to take a perverse enjoyment in them. "Why doesn't he get the editor to cut out all the horrors, and only show the bits that went well, however short? Imagine how exciting that would be. We all file into the viewing theatre; the lights go down; there is a thirty-second clip of Marilyn looking stunning and remembering all her lines; the lights go up again to a ripple of applause; Marilyn goes home encouraged instead of depressed; the editor is happy; Olivier is happy.
In your dreams, Colin! For some unknown psychological reason, blamed of course on technical necessity, we have to see every stumble and hesitation in giant close-up, repeated again and again, failure after failure, until we are all groaning and moaning, and Marilyn, if she has turned up, flees back to her house in shame. I just wish I could have a quiet chat with her and reassure her. But there are too many people already doing that — and patently failing.
I had only been over to Marilyn's house once since she moved in five weeks ago, and there was no point in thinking that I would get a chance to talk to her, or even to see her, if I went there again. All I wanted now was the excitement of riding in the front of the car, with this heavenly creature in the back. I wanted to feel as if I was her bodyguard, instead of Roger. I wanted to feel as if her safety depended on me. Luckily, Evans takes no notice of me whatsoever, and nor does Paula Strasberg. She has been 'coaching' Marilyn all day in the studio, but then there are sixty or so technicians there with her, not to speak of twenty other actors, and Olivier himself. In the car, Paula is only concentrating on getting Marilyn to herself for a few last minutes. She grips her arm fiercely and never stops talking, never draws breath, for the whole trip. She repeats herself again and again, pouring reassurance into Marilyn's ear: "Marilyn, you were wonderful. You are a great, great actress. You are superb, you are divine . . ." and so on.
In the end, her praise of Marilyn's performance and acting ability gets so exaggerated that even Marilyn starts to get uneasy. It's as if Paula knows she only has this short moment in which to implant herself on Marilyn's mind for the night, and thus make herself indispensable for the following day.
Olivier, as the director of the film, naturally resents Paula's presence intensely. Paula knows nothing of the technical difficulties of making a movie, and often calls Marilyn over to give her instructions while Olivier is in the process of explaining to Marilyn what he needs, as the director. On these occasions Olivier's patience is really incredible. Nevertheless, I like Paula, and I feel sorry for her. This dumpy little woman, swathed in differing shades of brown, with her sunglasses on her head and her script in her hand, is clinging for dear life to a human tornado.
The only person who seems completely unaffected by all the hubbub is Arthur Miller, and perhaps that is why I dislike him so intensely. I must admit that he has never actually been rude to me. On the four occasions that our paths have crossed — at the airport when he and Marilyn first landed in England, on their arrival at the house I had rented for them, once at the studio and once out with the Oliviers — he has ignored me completely. And so he should. There is no one on the whole film crew more junior than I am. I am only present to make Marilyn's life, and therefore his life, run more smoothly.
And yet I don't quite think of myself as a servant. I'm an organiser, a fixer. Laurence Olivier takes me into his confidence. So does Milton Greene. But Arthur Miller takes it all for granted - his house, his servants, his driver, his wife's bodyguard, and even, so it seems to me, his wife. That is what makes me so angry. How can you take Marilyn Monroe for granted? She looks at him as if she worships him; but then, she is an actress. Vivien Leigh often gazes at Olivier like that, and it doesn't seem to do him much good. Miller just looks so damn smug. I am sure he is a great writer, but that doesn't mean that he should be so superior. Perhaps it's a combination of his hornrimmed glasses, his high brow and his pipe. Added to all this there is a gleam in his eye which seems to say, "I am sleeping with Marilyn Monroe, and you are not. You midget." ........
When we had finished our whiskies, Roger went downstairs and reappeared with a plate of Maria's sandwiches and some bottles of beer. By 10.30 we were thoroughly relaxed, but it was getting dark outside and I still had to solve the problem of where I was going to spend the night. Roger was happy to drive me home, but I was not quite sure if he was up to it. His eyes had got very watery indeed, and his nose was alarmingly red.
"There's a spare room at the end of the corridor," I said hopefully.
"I don't expect the bed is made up," said Roger. "Maria would have a fit if she found out you'd slept in it. And what would Marilyn think when you climbed into the car with me tomorrow morning?"
"I'm afraid she wouldn't even notice me. But you're right, I'd better call a taxi." I opened the door of Roger's room and peered out. The whole house was as silent as a tomb.
"Paula and Hedda go to bed at ten," said Roger, "and Jose and Maria will be in the servants' quarters by now, so you're perfectly safe. Do you know your way down?"
"Of course I do," I said pompously. "I've been to this house many times before. Don't forget that the owners are great friends of my parents." (In fact I had been there only twice before, and upstairs only once.) "I can use the phone in the kitchen. I saw the telephone number of the local taxi company on the wall. You go to bed, I'll be fine." I slipped out of the door and shut it firmly behind me.
It is at these rather tense moments that Mother Nature so often pays a call. The question 'Should I turn left or right?' was soon supplanted by the absolute knowledge that I had about thirty seconds in which to find a lavatory. Actually, toilets in strange houses are not that hard to locate. At the tops of stairs, in little cul de sacs, they often give away their presence by a gentle but insistent hiss. It did not take me long, in my desperate condition, to locate an open door with a light switch conveniently placed on the wall just inside. But when I emerged, greatiy relieved, a few moments later, a new problem presented itself. The lavatory light had been extremely — absurdly, I thought — bright. The rest of the house was now in absolute pitch darkness, and I was lost. I could just make out a thin line of light under one of the doors. That might indicate that it was Roger's room, but then again it might not. If I walked in on Paula or Hedda they would certainly think the worst. They might even welcome me, and then I'd really be in trouble. My heart beating wildly, I felt my way slowly along the corridor, sliding my feet along the carpet in case I reached a step. Eventually I got to a corner, and I stopped and peered round. Still I could see nothing. "I must wait for my eyes to get accustomed to the dark," I decided. I'll stand here for a full minute with my eyes tightly shut."
It should have been a peaceful enough solution, but after a few seconds I became aware of a very strange thing. I was not alone. I could hear breathing, and it did not seem to be mine. It sounded more like a succession of little sighs. What was going on? Had I walked into somebody's bedroom? I held my breath, but the sighing went on.
Suddenly, a door at the far end of the corridor was flung open and a shaft of brilliant light flooded the scene. There, only a few feet in front of me, was Marilyn, sitting on the carpet with her back against the wall. If I had gone on for another few feet I would have fallen right over her. Now she simply sat there, wrapped in a pink bedcover, her head turned towards me, staring straight into my eyes. She did not give the slightest sign that she could see me. Were the shadows around me too deep? Had she been sleepwalking? Or was she drugged? There were many rumours floating around the studio of the number of sleeping pills she took.
She looked strangely fragile for the first time, and my heart went out to her with a rush. This ravishingly beautiful and vulnerable woman was literally at my feet. What could I do? I held my breath. I did not move a muscle.
"Marilyn." Arthur Miller's voice seemed to come from another world. It made me jump backwards as though I had been shot. I must have made a noise, but at least I was now safely round the corner and out of sight.
"Marilyn. Come back to bed." His tone was insistent but strangely flat, as if it were the middle of the day.
There was a pause. Marilyn didn't answer. Her breathing never varied. Long, slow intakes and then little sighs.
Arthur's voice came nearer. "Come on. Get up. Time to go to sleep." There was a rustle as Marilyn's bedcover fell to the floor. I couldn't hear their footsteps on the thick carpet, but soon a door shut and the bolt of light went out.
Only then did I realise that I was shivering. I felt I was in shock. My shirt was wet through with perspiration, as if I had been under a shower.
It seemed to take me an eternity to find the stairs, and by the time I got to the kitchen I was ready to faint. My emotions were in turmoil. I had never experienced anything like this before in my life. I couldn't get Marilyn's gaze out of my head. Marilyn Monroe, staring straight at me with that amazing sort of mute appeal. I could only dream of somehow saving her — but with what, and from what, I had no idea. I stumbled into the dining room and found a bottle of brandy on the sideboard. It was full, and I took a long swig, perhaps longer than was wise. That immediately brought on a fit of coughing which threatened to wake the whole house. The only answer seemed to be another swig. Then, for the third time that night, an unwelcome light snapped on.
"We'd better get you home straight away, laddie," said Roger grimly, his dressing-gowned figure making for the phone. "You're not going to be in much shape for work tomorrow. Never mind," he added. "I don't expect Marilyn will be going in anyway. I think I heard her still awake a minute ago. Let's just hope Mr Miller doesn't ask me who was coughing in the middle of the night." He spoke into the phone: "Hello, taxi? Can you come and collect someone from Parkside House, Englefield Green? Five minutes? Very well. We'll be outside. Don't whatever you do ring the bell." He turned back to me. "Come on, laddie. You're only twenty-three. You'll be OK. You'll be in bed in a flash. Don't fall asleep in the car, mind."
And so on and so on, until he had wedged me unsteadily in the back of the car, taken a pound out of my wallet for the driver, and told him where to go.
When I finally got to bed I was exhausted, but I could not sleep. That image of Marilyn simply would not leave my mind. She seemed to be addressing me directly, like a figure in a dream, as if her spirit was calling out to mine.
....................
To be continued
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