My week with Marilyn #3

My Week with Marilyn

Thursday September 13  1956

......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......

'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. Tm 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 riot 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.......

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, 

'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?'

'Well, I'll do anything I can, but I'm very unimportant. It's only because I'm Sir Laurence's personal assistant that I can talk to the cameraman and people like that. I'm really just a messenger, you see, more than anything else.'

'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.'.......

'Now, Colin,' said Marilyn, sitting down on the sofa again. 'What is going on?'

Oh, all right then, what the hell! I'll tell you what is going on, I said, going back to my armchair: 'We are all trying to make a film which absolutely should not be made. That is why it is such agony for everyone. Agony for you — we can all see that — and agony for Laurence Olivier too. You are a great film star who needs to prove that you can act. Olivier is a great actor who wants to be a film star. For some reason somebody has chosen a script where you play an American chorus girl, which is the sort of part you've played before and does not challenge you at all, and Olivier plays a stuffy old man, which is the opposite of what he wants to be. The whole thing is based on a play which I saw a few years ago in the theatre, with Olivier and Vivien Leigh, and it wasn't that good even then. It was a comedy of manners, and those never translate too well to the screen. I suppose somebody hoped it would be like one of those Spencer Tracy-Katharine Hepburn movies, but our script is stifled by all that old-fashioned dialogue, and all the costumes and the sets. It's such a pity, because you and Olivier both deserve roles you can get your teeth into.'

Marilyn was staring at me with surprise.

'They told me this was a great script — and I wanted to act with Olivier, so people would take me seriously. This was the only way to get him to agree to act with me.'

'Well, I think you were taken for a ride.'

'Gee, Colin, you really care, don't you? "What are we going to do?'

This was, of course, the question which all of us had been asking ourselves ever since filming began, and I didn't have the answer any more than anyone else. Luckily I was saved from having to reply by the entrance of Maria and Jose, each carrying a large silver tray. They did not seem the least bit surprised to see me sitting there, which rather reassured me. They simply set down the food on the coffee table and waited.

'I'll have a Coke,' said Marilyn.

Jose looked at me.

'Duos Colas. Frescos se fash favor.'

'Ooh, do you speak the same language as them?' Marilyn was gready impressed.

It's Portuguese. I've been to Portugal a few times.'

'Ooh.'

There was a pause.

I looked at Marilyn across the table — and for the first time I realised what was going on. Marilyn was lonely. She needed someone to chat to, someone who would make no demands, someone who didn't expect her to be great or grand or clever or sexy, but just to be whatever she felt she wanted to be. Most of the time, I suddenly realised, she was incredibly tense. It was almost impossible for her to relax. Now, because I was so much younger than her, she felt that I would not judge her, and she probably wouldn't care if I did.

Marilyn began to tuck into a large bowl of chicken mayonnaise, and it was obvious that she was extremely hungry. Those pills of hers probably suppress her appetite, I thought, as well as wake her up. Since she slept so late in the morning, this might well be her first meal of the day.

Jose returned with four bottles of Coca-Cola, two glasses and a bowl of ice.

'Obrigado,' I said.

'Ooh,' said Marilyn. She seemed to get more cheerful with each mouthful of food. 'Why couldn't you tell Mr Bushell you were here on a visit? What would he say?'

'He would explode, and kick me out of his house. He's a wonderful man, really, but he's totally blinded by his loyalty to Sir Laurence. If you are not 100 per cent loyal to Sir Laurence — as most of the film crew are, I must admit — you are the enemy as far as Mr Bushell is concerned.'

Marilyn chuckled. 'So I'm the enemy, am I? Well, don't worry, I won't give you away. After all, it's not as if we were having an affair.' More chuckles. 'But what are we going to do about the film?'

'There is nothing that can be done at this stage. It's too late to do anything but try to finish it, and make it as big a success as possible. Then go on to something better, I guess.'

I thought I could do a great job,' said Marilyn, 'but every time I walk into that studio I get the creeps. Paula is the only person I feel I can trust. Except for you, maybe?'

She swivelled her body round on the sofa until her face was beneath mine, and looked up at me. Her eyes were so wide that I felt I was gazing down into a beautiful swimming pool, but before I could do anything about it there was a tap at the door, and someone walked in.

'Yeah?' said Marilyn, without moving a muscle.

'There is a telephone call for you, ma'am,' said Roger impassively. 'I think it is from abroad.'

Marilyn got up with a jolt.

'Gee,' she said. That vague blurred look was back in her eyes, and her shoulders had curved in. 'Well, goodnight, Colin. It was so nice of you to come over. I'd love it if you could come by tomorrow evening so we could continue our chat.' She shot out of the room like a frightened rabbit.

'You'll be leaving now, I expect,' said Roger, waiting by the door.

'Yes. Time to go,' I said, as nonchalantly as I could, and strolled out to my car without my feet touching the ground, as far as I could tell.

'Goodnight, Roger.'

'Humph.^'

^..........

^{To  be  continued}