MY WEEK WITH MARILYN #2

MY  WEEK  WITH  MARILYN  #2

Wednesday, 12 September 1956

.......'What happened to you, boy?' asked Olivier as I panted into his dressing room.

'My car broke down. I'll have to sort it out at lunchtime.' I didn't dare mention what had really happened. 'I don't think Marilyn will be in early,' I said. 'Roger told me she had a pretty disturbed night.' 'We '11 have a pretty disturbed day if she doesn't show up. We shot all the simple stuff yesterday because she was so woolly. When is she going to recover her composure and start to work?'

'She's on her honeymoon, I suppose. Maybe that's affecting her.' 'Oh, nonsense, she's not a schoolgirl. And Arthur's getting fed up too. He told me he needs a holiday already.' Olivier grimaced. 'The trouble is that she's so damn moody, and she stays up most of the night. I pity Arthur. I wouldn't sleep with Marilyn for a million dollars, I can assure you of that.'

Nor her with you, I thought, but I said nothing.

Just before lunch, to everyone's surprise, and my great relief, Marilyn did show up after all. The usual bunch of people materialized out of thin air to pester the poor lady, but I only had eyes for Evans, the chauffeur. I did not have time to worry about whether Marilyn had seen me the night before or not, but I did most urgently need to get the MG back to Ned. Even so, I was anxious to avoid Marilyn's direct gaze. She wears very dark glasses when she first arrives at the studio, and one can never be quite sure how much she can see. By the time she was ready to start work, I imagined, she would be thinking of nothing but her lines.

'Where have you been?' asked David Orton suspiciously as I slipped back onto the stage an hour later, Evans having driven me back from Runnymede House.

'Tummy upset,' I said.

He glowered, but I was home.

Filming that afternoon followed the now-familiar pattern. We all wait around the set under the 'work' lights for Marilyn to appear. Every quarter of an hour, Olivier tells David to go to Marilyn's dressing room to ask when she will be ready. David is a professional of the old school. He believes in a chain of command,

'Colin!' he shouts.

'Yes, David?'

'Go to Miss Monroe's dressing room and ask when she will be ready.'

This of course is her portable dressing room, right there on the studio floor. From the outside, the thing looks like a caravan on a building site. Inside it is all soft lights and beige fabrics, like Parkside House.

I tap on the thin metal door. The make-up man or the wardrobe lady answers my knock. 'Not yet,' they whisper. It is as if we are all waiting for someone to give birth — and in a way, I suppose we are.

Finally, and without any warning, the doors fly open and Marilyn appears, looking absolutely gorgeous in the incredible white costume designed for her to wear in her role as the chorus girl Elsie Marina by 'Bumble' Dawson. Her head is held high, she has a litde smile on her lips, her huge eyes are open wide, and her gaze is fixed upon the set. Marilyn is ready. Marilyn is going to do it now, or die in the attempt.

A shout from David. (David has, and needs, a very loud voice, as there are over fifty impatient people present.)

'Ready, studio!'

The film lights come on, one after another, with a series of terrific 'clunks'.

Marilyn looks startled. Paula, ever present an inch from her elbow, whispers something in her ear. Marilyn hesitates for a split second . . . and is lost.

Instead of going straight to her marks in front of the camera, she deflects to her 'recliner' positioned nearby. Paula, the make-up man, the hair stylist and the wardrobe lady all follow and re-surround her. Now she has to steel herself all over again, only this time the studio lights are burning away and we are poised to start work. If Marilyn loses her nerve completely, a scarlet flush, which she cannot control, spreads over her neck and cheeks, and then she has to go back to her dressing room and lie down. That means that the dress has to come off, and the wig has to come off, and it will be two hours before we can start the whole process again. It really is a miracle that anything ever gets done.

That afternoon it was clear that Marilyn was even more distressed than usual. By four o'clock she had left the set for the second time, and Olivier decided to call it a day. When I went into his dressing room to sort out the scripts — and the whisky and cigarettes — he was in an urgent discussion with Milton Greene as to what the cause of Marilyn's distraction could be.

'Don't you know anything, Colin?' Olivier asked me. 'You hired her bodyguard. Can't you find out from him what's going on?'

'I know she and Arthur had an argument last night'

'We all know that,' said Milton. 'She rang me at one a.m. to ask for more pills. I know I promised Arthur that I wouldn't involve him with filming problems, but I'm going to telephone him now and see if he'll tell me what's up.'

'You'd better wait outside, Colin,' said Olivier. 'But don't go away'

When they called me in again five minutes later, both men were looking pale.

'It seems that Arthur Miller has decided to go to Paris tomorrow,' said Olivier stiffly. 'Evidendy he has to see a literary agent there. Milton says this is the very worst thing for Marilyn. She has a horror of being deserted, even for a day. Both her previous husbands did it, and it terrifies her. She's driving me absolutely crazy, but I suppose she's giving Arthur a hard time too, so I can't say I blame him.'

'Marilyn is still in the studio,' I said. 'Perhaps she's too upset to go home.'

'Oh, God,' said Milton. 'Still in the studio at this time? I'd better go and see what she needs.'

He dashed out of the room, but he was back in under thirty seconds, looking very grim.

'Paula won't let me in. She says Marilyn won't see anyone, and she shut the door in my face.'

'Colin,⁵ said Olivier, his voice like a spade in gravel, 'go across to Mrs Strasberg and ask her very politely whether Miss Monroe intends to come to the studio and work tomorrow. Don't go as my assistant. Say David needs to know.'

This was pretty high-risk stuff. A direct question. Usually Marilyn and Paula are already in the car back to Parkside before the rest of us have left the set. And of course they never answer the phone once they are home. Now, for the first time, they were still in our domain, at our mercy, as it were.

I marched across the thirty feet or so separating the suites of the two great stars and knocked on the door.

No reply. Cowardice means dismissal. Knock again!

The door opened a crack and Paula's eye appeared. She gazed at me for a full five seconds, in disbelief. Even from the little I could see of her, I could tell that she was in the grip of strong emotions.

'Come in,' she croaked, standing aside. I edged past her, and she closed the door firmly behind me.

She was alone in the pretty little sitting room that acted as a foyer to the sanctum sanctorum where Marilyn actually got dressed.

'Go in.' She closed her eyes and pointed to the door. 'Go in.'

'Go in?' I didn't understand what she meant. 'Go in where?' I felt like Alice through the looking glass. I'd never even been allowed in this reception room before, at least not when Marilyn was in it. This was holy ground. This was too much.

'Go in.' Paula pointed to the door again. 'Go in!'

The inner room seemed to be in pitch darkness. I took two steps inside and stopped.

'Colin.' Marilyn's voice was no more than a whisper, but every word was completely clear.

'Yes?'

'Shut the door.'

I closed the door behind me, and held my breath.

There was a long pause. I could see nothing. I felt as if I had dropped off the edge of the world and was falling through space. All I could hear was a succession of Htde sighs. The same sighs that I had heard last night.

'Colin?'

'Yes?' I found myself whispering too, I wasn't sure why.

'What were you doing in my house last night? Did they send you to spy on me?'

'Oh, no, Marilyn . . .' What was I thinking of? This was the greatest film star in the world. 'Oh, no, Miss Monroe. I came over to talk to the servants. I hired them for you, you see, when I found the house for you, you see, and they are always complaining about something, and I thought that if I went over and listened, they would calm down. And then I stayed and had a sandwich with Roger, you see, and when I came out of his room I got lost. I'm so sorry,' I ended in a rush.

Pause. As my eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, I could just make out the figure of Marilyn in a white bathrobe, lying on a sofa against the wall. She had taken off her blonde Elsie Marina wig and she looked very frail.

'Colin?'

'Yes, Miss Monroe?'

'What is your job on the picture?'

'I'm the third assistant director. What they call a "gofer". I have to go for this and go for that, whenever I'm told. Anyone can boss me around. I really hardly have a job at all.'

'Don't you work for Sir Laurence as well? I always see you round him. He seems to talk to you more than most of the others. Do you calm him down too, like you do the servants?' Marilyn chuckled.

'Oh, heavens, no. It's just that he's a friend of my parents, so I've known him for ages — since I was a child. I suppose I'm the only one who isn't frightened of him, that's all.'

Another long pause, while I struggled for breath.

The room was so still that I thought Marilyn might have fallen asleep. What an incredible contrast to the whirlwind that normally surrounded her. I wondered how often she managed to find solitude like that.

'Colin?'

'Yes?'

'Are you a spy? A spy for Sir Laurence? Tell me the truth.'

'I'm not a spy, Marilyn,' I said, plucking up all my courage. 'But it's my job to report to Sir Laurence anything that will help him to get this movie made as quickly as possible. I'm sure you want that too. The sooner it's over, the sooner you can go home to America. I'm sure you and Mr Miller are both looking forward to that. And now Sir Laurence has sent me to ask you if you are going to come into the studios tomorrow, and that's why I'm here,' I finished lamely, in case she thought I had just barged in.

'Mr Miller is flying to Paris tomorrow to see his agent,' Marilyn said coldly. 'He may even go back to New York for a few days. I think I'll stay home and see him go.'

'Oh, of course, Miss Monroe. I quite understand. And so will Sir Laurence, I'm sure. Of course, of course, of course.' What a relief to be told outright, for a change. And perhaps with Arthur Miller out of the way, she might concentrate more on making the film. And on me! I knew I was being a complete fool, but I did have her total attention right at that moment, and the excitement in me rose.

'How old are you, Colin?¹

'Twenty-five.' It was only a small lie, but I felt bad immediately. 'Nearly.'

There was another long pause. I seemed to have been in that room for hours. I began to wonder if Olivier and Milton Greene would still be at the studio when I got out. I hoped they wouldn't think that I had forgotten about them and gone home. They would certainly be very impatient. Everything to do with Marilyn seemed to take an incredibly long time, even though she was always in a rush.

'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.

..........

To  be  continued