10
The Fruitless Marriage
The 1957 Pulitzer Prize for nonfiction went to a young senator from Massachusetts, John F Kennedy. Profiles in Courage had purportedly been written by JFK during his convalescence from recent back surgery. Later it was rumored that JFK aide Ted Sorensen actually wrote the bestselling book, and that John’s father, the illustrious Joseph P. Kennedy, had instantly turned it into a bestseller by virtually buying up all the copies at the bookstores.
John’s wife, Jackie, confided to Bobby Kennedy that she was about to walk out on her husband. Already tired of his obsessive womanizing, her basic needs were not being met, especially since she was pregnant with their first child.
Frank Sinatra and Senator Kennedy’s brother-in-law Peter Lawford were discussing the possibility of JFK running for President in 1960, and Joseph Kennedy had calculatingly manipulated the antagonism between his son Robert and the underworld. If and when his political plans for his boys worked out, Joe could play powerbroking mastermind, cutting deals with the Mafia by conveniently ordering his zealous son to back off from time to time. With Robert Kennedy already in place as the chief majority counsel of the Senate’s McClellan Committee, the stage was ingeniously set by the patriarch for investigations into the corrupt practices and alleged Mafia ties of the Teamsters Union, led by President Dave Beck and Detroit’s local boss Jimmy Hoffa. Chicago’s underworld kingpin, Sam Giancana, initially feared that the federal inquiry might interfere and hamper the mob’s business activities, but his fears were quickly assuaged when Joe Kennedy himself promised that “Chicago’s rackets would be left sacrosanct.”
The 1957 Academy Award for best screenplay was awarded to Robert Rich for The Brave One. As a blacklisted member of the Hollywood Ten, Rich refused the Oscar in protest at being investigated by the Un-American Activities Committee. Elvis Presley starred in the runaway hit Jailhouse Rock, revolutionizing the film and music business.
Meanwhile, Marilyn remained in Ascot hopelessly pacing through the drafty old home in the middle of the night, unable to overcome her increasingly frequent bouts of insomnia. The ornate rooms filled with dusty throw rugs and hand-carved oak antiques made her feel gloomy. The British press had lambasted her, saying she was a “rich commoner buying aristocracy.” Sleepless, she worried about her rapidly deteriorating marriage and the fiasco of working with Olivier. Marilyn had replaced Larry’s wife Vivien Leigh, who had performed opposite her husband in the same role on the British stage. Leigh, who had won an Oscar for her portrayal of Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind, boasted far superior accomplishments than could Marilyn, and the embittered star made Monroe guiltridden for stealing her original role. Whitey Snyder was the only one Marilyn now trusted. She saw Paula Strasberg as Lee’s spy sent to check up on her. Why wasn’t there a comforting mother to kiss her fears away in the middle of the night? While husband Arthur slept comfortably, Marilyn would fidget in search of the sleeping pill that would do the trick. Sleeping blinders served as little compensation for her tired eyes, and her worried mind repeatedly flashed on the day’s events.
Marilyn had become increasingly agitated when fans continually climbed over the walls onto the grounds of their English home to photograph her day and night. Normally she enjoyed the attention, or at least was able to tolerate it, but the British fans and press were relentless in their onslaught. The hired private detectives were hardly equipped to keep the public at bay. The complete lack of privacy was getting to both Millers as the constant stream of fans and paparazzi supplied the international gossip columns with the latest.
During the final weeks of filming, Monroe was demanding at least twenty-five retakes on every shot. Everyone of the set felt that the takes were all alike and that Marilyn was overdoing it with her obsessive need for perfection. But this was her history—while the rest of the crew were showing signs of fatigue, Marilyn was just warming up. For hours on end during the rushes, she would sit patiently and meticulously decipher which cut best depicted the precise mood or feeling she was looking for like her film-editing mother. Then, also part of her pattern, she would work herself into exhaustion and illness. When she caught a bad cold, production had to shut down for nearly two weeks. Her own workaholic behavior, insomnia and resultant sickness, the incessant on-the-set bickering, and her growing alienation from her husband, business partner, director, and the British press were collectively taking their toll.
The Millers had been thrust head-first into the whirlwind career of Marilyn Monroe. Enough daily strife surfaces for any recently married couple without the endless demands made upon a bride with an acting and producing career and a groom with a stagnant writing career. Even at the outset, there wasn’t enough glue to hold this marriage together. Arthur didn’t understand his wife’s perceptions about her life and what was unfolding on the set, and he couldn’t provide the support and tenderness she so desperately needed. Gone was the doting wife who oversaw his creative interests. Absent was the partner who had cultivated his writing abilities by subordinating her talents to those of the “man of the house.” Ex-wife Mary had pumped her husband’s “genius,” pushing him to be the sole support of their family. How much was his career the result of his wife’s input? How much did his Pulitzer owe to her editorial gifts?
With his new wife beginning to doubt both his human and creative judgments, how could Miller really believe he had the skills to spawn another theater success? His quest to find the perfect director in England consumed him, leaving him little time to console his wife. Her solace came instead from the sleeping pills prescribed by a local physician. Miller’s impatience with Marilyn was only heightened by her increasing dependence on the pills.
After the Prince shooting disaster, the Millers returned to New York. Relieved to have a breather, they rented an expansive yet inexpensive apartment on East 57th Street, off Sutton Place in Manhattan. The doormen hardly recognized the actress, who again resorted to wearing disguises in an effort to savor a few private moments with her husband.
Marilyn moved her treasured white lacquer piano into the living room as a constant reminder of her mother’s love. She furnished the rest of the flat with bits and pieces. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors adorned the apartment and provided four-way reflections of Marilyn Monroe’s beauty. The wall-to-wall images were comforting. But however gratifying and self-affirming these externals, they were not nearly enough to fill the black hole inside the orphan girl. Separate “his” and “her” wings allowed Miller to write in his private study, while Marilyn’s wing was equipped with an alterations room. The Millers’ bedroom was plain and nearly empty: a king-size bed minus the headboard, more mirrors for displaying sexual activity, a small night stand with a nondescript lamp, and a phonograph with blues and jazz music.
After the initial excitement of coming home, the Millers reverted to their simple domestic life. They hired gray-haired May Reis as secretary. Highly efficient and disciplined, she reminded Marilyn of her own methodical mother. The apartment was Marilyn’s retreat from her acting classes with Lee Strasberg and her therapy sessions with Marianne Kris. For the most part, Marilyn insisted on changing her clothes between appointments. She sometimes traveled in New York City by hired limousine but disliked having to keep her driver waiting in the street at such exorbitant hourly wages. Instead she preferred to take taxis—the drivers never recognized her, disguised in dull outfits with her uncombed hair hidden under a scarf.
Marilyn held low expectations regarding Prince. She was right to do so. The film premiered at the Radio City Music Hall in June 1957. The New York reviews were not positive, through Marilyn managed to eke out a few kind words regarding her performance. Justin Gilbert of the New York Mirror wrote, “The film emerges as the season’s sparkling comedy surprise.” Archer Winsten was not a fan of hers, but he wrote for the New York Post that “Marilyn Monroe... has never seemed more in command of herself as a person and as a comedienne. She manages to make her laughs without sacrificing the real Marilyn to play-acting. This of course, is something one can expect from great, talented, practiced performers. It comes as a most pleasant surprise from Marilyn Monroe, who has been half-actress, half-sensation.” Neither funny nor charming, Olivier’s half-baked portrayal of the Balkan regent missed the mark. The film was tedious and dull. Olivier used the camera as if he were shooting a theater play. The film was a royal bomb.
The failure was rationalized by Marilyn, who figured that Milton Greene was most responsible for it. Padding a bad screenplay with talent never worked, and Prince was no exception. Marilyn was also resentful toward Lee Strasberg for naively advising her that Olivier could direct comedy.
As predicted by a number of her peers, under Milton Greene’s artistic guidance, Marilyn Monroe Productions suffered from too many management problems to survive. Inexperienced and inept regarding film production and literary quality, Greene was increasingly at odds with Monroe. Since Monroe felt he had let her down and was not even contributing one-tenth of what she was, she had made several attempts to buy out his shares, offering him a half million dollars. Still having high hopes for Prince and his future with Marilyn Monroe Productions, he had turned her down. But now with Prince already a fading bomb and his own funds waning, he accepted $85,000 to relinquish his shares. Greene’s influence had been at best marginal. Ready to move on, Marilyn wanted to control her own film career. Furthermore, she wanted to spend some time attempting to have the baby she yearned for.
Arthur Miller did not enjoy the New York social scene. As a result, he and Marilyn declined the many invitations to private dinner parties, movies, and theater. As both a theater lover and movie buff, Marilyn was stifled by her husband’s lack of sociability. Other than a rare jaunt over to Brooklyn to see his parents or an occasional dinner with the Rostens, the Millers were homebodies. Marilyn needed more excitement, more than she got while Norman Rosten stared at her as he chatted with his best friend, or while Hedda fulfilled her own fantasies by trying on Marilyn evening gowns. Otherwise, she had little social outlet, as Miller scarcely uttered a word to her for hours and days on end. Though she desperately hungered for his attention, she believed he was in the midst of creating his next masterpiece, so she resigned herself to obeying his dictum that she not disturb him or dare break his concentration.
Hattie, a black cook with a British accent, was called from an agency to cook for them. Though Marilyn attempted to oversee the domestic help and went to great lengths when his parents were over to look like a proper housewife, the truth was that she relished being served and waited on. After all, she was paying the bills, studying acting, and undergoing Freudian analysis every day, hard work in and of itself. Hattie would present Miller his lunch only to find the writer staring aimlessly at the wall with his typewriter and blank pages in front of him. A thank-you was barely audible. The tiny refrigerator most often contained splits of champagne, leaving little space for perishable food. As a result, frequent grocery orders were necessary. Eggs for breakfast were usual, although Arthur ate early around 7:30 A.M. while Marilyn would awake around 11 A.M. for her breakfast in bed.
Distressed over the federal prosecution that once again was forcing him to testify before a Washington judge, Miller faced a possible jail sentence for contempt of Congress. Then Federal District Court Judge Charles McLaughlin and Prosecutor William Hitz succeeded in reframing his case as the misuse of a United States passport by a known Communist. Miller was banking on a small fine and a suspended sentence, but, with his recent marriage to Marilyn Monroe, he knew the judge might use his notoriety as justification for making a public example of him.
Attorney Joe Rauh pursued Miller’s defense in rigorous fashion. Prosecutor Hitz claimed that Miller had “knowingly gone into Czechoslovakia in 1947 fully aware that by his passport, he had been forbidden to do so.” The assumption was that since Czechoslovakia was a Communist country, Miller was traveling without permission of the United States government.
Fortunately for the Millers, Rauh had done his history homework and discovered that in 1947 Czechoslovakia was still a free country and that the President, Edward Beneš, had been a friendly leader. Bingo! Though the anticipated dismissal was not forthcoming, Judge McLaughlin’s light sentence was, and Miller was handed a $500 fine and a one-month suspended sentence.
The Millers needed a change of pace for the summer and rented a comfortable cottage in Amagansett, Long Island. Marilyn felt the urge to cook for her husband. The maternal part of Marilyn was surfacing, as she became pregnant with Arthur Miller’s child. After the recent Prince debacle, Monroe was reveling in the prospect of being a mother. But this glimpse of contentment would abruptly end, like her past pregnancies. Her doctor determined that her pregnancy was ectopic. The inseminated egg had not traveled toward the uterus and implanted safely in its blood-rich walls. Termination of the pregnancy was necessary as the fetus could never develop fully inside the fallopian tube.
Marilyn had waited too long to see her doctor, and she felt gravely disappointed and guilty. All her feelings of inadequacy surfaced once again, and an unprecedentedly severe depression overcame her. She procrastinated about terminating the pregnancy until one day she collapsed in excruciating pain, screaming that she was losing “her.” Fraught with anxiety, Miller made the call for the ambulance from their cottage. She had to be rushed the considerable distance to emergency surgery at the Polyclinic Hospital near the theater district in Manhattan.
The surgery included removal of one entire fallopian tube. The procedure was simple, but reduced Marilyn’s chances of conception by 50 percent. For several days, she lay in solitude. She had wholeheartedly wanted this child; her body had betrayed her. The regrets of all the other abortions, especially the last one with DiMaggio, flooded her with guilt and despair.
Lena Pepitone, her recently hired Italian cook and lady-in-waiting, brought Marilyn homemade chicken soup to console her. Lena had shopped for sexy and feminine nightgowns, telling the hospital staff untruthfully that Marilyn wore such beautiful nightgowns at home. Detesting the garments, Marilyn succumbed and wore them while in the hospital but anxiously waited to strip them off. Her pale and tired complexion reflected her feelings of defeat. She confided in Lena that her hopes for a child had been torpedoed for good.
During her hospital stay, her friend, photographer Sam Shaw, visited and lifted her spirits. Personally unfamiliar with Shaw, Miller found his company enjoyable as he was a sincere man. Miller and Shaw left the hospital to take a long leisurely walk along the East River. Complimenting the distraught husband for his recently published short story in Esquire magazine, “The Misfits” (which Miller had written in England), Shaw suggested turning the story into a movie. Jumping into an artistic endeavor might ameliorate the pain of losing their child and resuscitate Miller’s career. It was not long before Arthur was sketching out the screenplay to the story.
After a few more days recuperating at the hospital, Marilyn’s strength came back and she was released. She had requested that Lena purchase a coat and dress so that she could fulfill the expectations of the army of reporters gathered outside the hospital. Her hairdresser, Kenneth, shaped her favorite hairstyle, straight but parted on one side with a flip at the ends. Wearing beige always highlighted her blond tresses. Looking radiant, she neared the waiting crowds and sadly joked, “One would think I’m going to a premiere... instead of a funeral.” She then broke into tears and had to put on sunglasses. Then she summoned up her celebrated smile, all the way to the limousine, but no sooner had the limo pulled away from the hospital than she again broke down. Marilyn craved the unconditional love that she believed only a baby could bestow.
When Lena and Marilyn reached home, a tired and somber Miller came to the door to acknowledge his wife’s return, then quickly retreated to his study. Marilyn was heartbroken. She ran to the bedroom, ripped her clothes off, and jumped into bed, where she drowned herself in tears of hurt, anger, and disappointment. When Lena Pepitone came in, Marilyn began apologizing. Still weeping, she kept repeating, “It was my last chance; she was my last chance!”
Despite Marilyn’s unhappiness, Arthur was determined to finish his screenplay for “The Misfits.” The story of a divorcee who gets involved with a Nevada cowboy germinated from his own “divorce” experience near Reno. As Miller completed the final stages of the script, he entertained aspirations that John Huston would direct it. Marilyn adored the ingenious Huston for respecting her own brand of genius and both she and Miller agreed that he was the ideal man for the job. But they clashed over Arthur’s insistence that she play Roslyn, a character she intensely detested because it seemed to her just another dumb-blonde role. But she went along with the idea anyway, ostensibly because he had written the part for her. With John Huston in place as director, could this be the screenplay of her dreams? Could Miller have written an Oscar-winning movie for his wife? (Unfortunately Marilyn’s intuitive sense was initially right. The character was unclear and unattractive, nothing that would further endear her to fans, but against her better judgment, she allowed her husband free rein over the project, hoping to build his self-confidence.)
Any couple who loses a baby faces severe adversity. A shaky marriage like the Millers’ had even lower odds of surviving. The ever widening gulf between Arthur and Marilyn was exacerbated by his mother’s overt hostility toward her for not being able to bear a child for her son. The elder Mrs. Miller reacted to her own disappointment by lashing out at Marilyn.
In retaliation for his mistreatment, Marilyn would repeatedly call Miller a Communist behind his back. She publicly attributed their unhappy times overseas to his being labeled a Communist sympathizer. She had had neither a honeymoon nor the long, peaceful holiday she needed to recover from her miscarriage. Marilyn began openly resenting and criticizing her husband for his inability and unwillingness to meet her needs. Fights were becoming more frequent, often starting over little things like his requesting that “her” maid run errands for him. Soon enough deeper resentments would surface. How Arthur had passively sat by while Olivier made fun of her, how he had allowed her to take on another dumb-blonde role.
As a way of coping with the misery of her depression, Marilyn ate her troubles away. Pepitone observed how much she loved Italian cuisine and made certain her appetite was more than satisfied. On a typical day, Marilyn devoured three eggs, toast, three hamburgers, three plates of home fries, two chocolate milk shakes, a big veal cutlet, two helpings of eggplant parmigiana, and four cups of chocolate pudding while sipping champagne throughout every course. She especially craved chicken cacciatore and spaghetti drowned in spicy tomato sauce.
All the signs were there. Marilyn was overeating to numb her grief over the loss of her child as well as the loss of her husband’s love. In a short time, she gained twenty-five pounds. What she needed the most was time off for mourning her losses. But grieving was risky, since it would undoubtedly bring up Marilyn’s most deep-seated fears and traumas, particularly the loss and abandonment of her own mother, which she never came to terms with. So, true to her pattern, she turned to concentrating on her career and fame.
Fortunately, in spite of the Prince bomb, scripts kept coming in. Arthur and her secretary May Reis would screen them, then give Marilyn what they believed was best. She would instantly react, “Another stupid girl, I can’t stand it!” Miller did find one that he liked and pitched it heavily to his wife. She read the seven-page outline about the lead singer in an all-girl band during Prohibition. What impressed her most about the script for what became Some Like It Hot was that Billy Wilder would direct! Having worked with Wilder on Itch, she praised him as “the best director in Hollywood. He’s funny and smart. He appreciates me more than any other director in town.”
Marilyn also loved the part because she would get to sing. Although naturally terrified of singing, two belts of whiskey erased her apprehensions completely. Another compelling reason for her interest was the hint that Frank Sinatra might costar. Known for being fun on and off the set, Sinatra partied with style and always made Monroe feel elegant. His prowess as a ladies’ man was legendary.
Marilyn had known Sinatra back when she was married to DiMaggio. Joe and Frank were best friends then. The fun she had had in Sinatra’s company was a large part of her attraction to the current project. Since both she and Frank had parted ways with DiMaggio, she hadn’t seen much of Frank.
The story has it that while the divorce was still in court, Joe grew jealous over the possibility that Marilyn might be involved in an affair. Prompted by Sinatra, Joe hired private detectives Barney Ruditsky and Phillip Irwin. Sinatra had long been carrying a torch for Ava Gardner, and Joe was smitten the same way. Here the two macho men were on their knees to their estranged wives! Frank employed investigators to follow Ava to determine if she was in love with another man. Rumor has it that he found Ava in the arms of another woman, actress Lana Turner. Sinatra was aghast, his ego singed beyond repair. It is one thing to compete with a man—and Sinatra’s inflated male ego would never hesitate to try—but to compete with another woman was more than Sinatra could handle. So when his best friend was suffering over his lost wife, Frank was quick to help out. He organized a raid on the apartment that Marilyn was supposedly occupying with someone else.
The hired door bashers included Bill Karen, the maitre d’ of the Villa Capri, Hank Sanicola, and Joe DiMaggio, with Sinatra waiting in the wings. When they kicked open the door to Florence Kotz’s home, the unsuspecting woman almost went into shock, and she subsequently sued.
Confidential magazine published the story. After Sinatra and DiMaggio’s names were released, California State Senate investigators issued two subpoenas to explain the trespass. At first, Frank refused to appear, threatening to sue the Los Angeles police chief and everybody connected with the investigation. Finally he submitted, but when questioned, Frank insisted he had stayed at least a block away from the raid, and Detective Ruditsky corroborated his story.
Under oath the young Irwin refuted Sinatra’s claims, stating that he was in fact present during the raid, that Sinatra was lying about nearly every detail, and that Irwin was afraid of him. Sinatra immediately suspected Irwin of leaking the story to the press. Irwin charged that he had been beaten black and blue by Sinatra’s “boys.” He also showed numerous welts on his back allegedly from belt straps and kick marks.
The landlady of the apartment building also accused Frank of being there and said the four had run out of Kotz’s apartment the night of November 5, 1954.
With so much contradictory testimony, the Los Angeles County grand jury decided to investigate. Frank hired Martin Gang and Mickey Rudin of Gang, Kopp & Tyre along with Chicago Mafia lawyer Sidney Korshak to build a defense sufficient to thwart further damage to his reputation. By March 1955, Frank’s pals finally got their stories straight in time for the hearing. When the district attorney asked Frank why Irwin’s story should not be accepted as the truth, Frank astutely shifted the focus onto the jurors by asking who would ever believe a private eye who made a living breaking down apartment doors.
Sinatra escaped trial for perjury but lost DiMaggio’s friendship in the process. Unwittingly brought into the limelight through his apparent jealousy of his soon-to-be ex-wife, a humiliated DiMaggio severed all ties with Sinatra. Joe was especially angry that the rumor around town had it that Sinatra engaged his “boys” to do his bidding. This affair was far too sleazy for the All-American hero’s taste.
Though Sinatra came away clean, he blamed Joe for not backing his story and felt betrayed by him. Joe wanted only to make headlines in sports sections! The incident, forever after known as the “Wrong Door Raid,” was an excruciatingly public embarrassment to both DiMaggio and Sinatra.
Flattered by Joe’s apparent jealousy, Marilyn was not truly angry with his attempt to invade her privacy; deep down she still loved him. In her own insidious way, she reestablished ties with Sinatra to infuriate the Yankee Clipper, rationalizing that the more jealous Joe became, the more likely he would try to rescue the distressed damsel.
Her fantasies disappeared after reading the entire screenplay. The story actually revolved around two musicians who had witnessed a gangland murder. After escaping the mob at the scene of the crime in Chicago, they flee and disguise themselves as women in an all-girl band. Marilyn concluded that the film’s premise was ridiculous.
Miller was more concerned about the potential income from the film than its credibility, and he tried to convince Marilyn that the opportunity was too great to be missed. The producers were granting her a percentage of the profits in lieu of a mere salary. In Miller’s efforts to sell the project, any mention of money ignited her wrath, as she now openly suspected that he was interested only in her money. She suggested he write a play that he hated and see if he liked it!
Her rage only intensified her overeating; if she gained enough weight, Billy Wilder would not even want her to star. What ultimately motivated her to sign the contract was the prospect of singing and then learning and playing the ukulele. The actress adored the lyrics to “I Wanna Be Loved by You,” and “I’m Through With Love,” singing them incessantly. Then she learned Sinatra was out of the picture when Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis were cast as the leads. Though not familiar with either performer, she was attracted to Tony’s boyish good looks. The tantalizing effect of working with him was matched by a dread of returning to Hollywood. Miller gradually persuaded Marilyn that she would be instrumental in making the film a success. She didn’t care about the money; she had already learned that nothing could buy her happiness. She wanted a multifaceted career. She wanted respect. She wanted friends. She wanted a family, too. But everyone seemed to laugh at her simple desires.
A meeting was arranged between Marilyn, Wilder, Curtis, and Lemmon. Knowing how meticulous and aware Wilder was of every facet of a woman, Marilyn fussed all day to be certain that her hairstyle and makeup were just right. She changed blouses every other minute. When the men arrived, all three were fidgeting and acting nervous. Though Wilder was short, fat, and wore glasses, Marilyn was nonetheless awed by him. When she questioned how her character could possibly believe that the men were women, they replied that a great actress could make the audience believe that she believed. After the meeting, in accordance with Hollywood tradition, they kissed and hugged. Monroe pretended enthusiasm, but later complained to Miller that “they chose me only because no one else is considered dumb enough to actually believe that the two women are really men!”
The film was daring for the fifties; the I. A. L. Diamond script was full of double-entendres that were sure to raise the censors’ eyebrows. Regardless of how much suggestive sexuality she exuded, Marilyn had to appear innocent in order to pull off Diamond’s lines.
When Marilyn found out that she was pregnant again, her attitude toward Some Like It Hot improved considerably. She was happy and could stop obsessing about Joe DiMaggio. Though she still had misgivings about the movie, she shrugged them off, committed herself to doing just another job, to not getting upset or upsetting the baby.
With the additional weight gain brought on by the pregnancy, Marilyn’s figure ballooned to size 14. After the Millers arrived to stay at her favorite hotel, the Beverly Hills, Marilyn knew that the reporters waiting outside couldn’t fail to notice her plump figure.
The fact that the picture was being filmed in black and white annoyed the actress no end; her contract called for Technicolor, her best medium. Wilder argued that the men would look ridiculous in color, but his real reason was probably that he was filming a period piece and wanted an authentic look. Not only was Marilyn angry at Billy’s decision to shoot in black and white, but the way he ordered her around infuriated her as well. She started calling him “Hitler the director.”
The morning sickness Marilyn was experiencing seemed to be intensified by her conflicts with Wilder, but she chose not to disclose her pregnancy to the cast and crew. After her ectopic pregnancy and subsequent surgery, she feared for the life of her child and did not want to jinx this pregnancy by talking about it too much. Not until the third month did she feel safe enough to tell the world. In the meantime, the actress continued to arrive on the set later and later. This time she forgave herself. Often listless and tired from the pregnancy, her energy level was at an all-time low. Since the baby came first, Marilyn knew she had to parcel out her energy in small doses. And, if ever she had an excuse to be late, this second Miller pregnancy would be the one.
When “Sugar” had to sing on the set, Marilyn chugged down her favorite scotch, Cutty Sark, in order to increase her confidence and relax her throat and nerves. At that time alcohol was not known to cause fetal problems, and Marilyn enthusiastically depended on her favorite splits of champagne and scotch as loyal companions during the grueling weeks of filming.
Due to Tony Curtis’s jealousy, Monroe turned to drinking more than ever in her life. Curtis became highly resentful and impatient with her chronic tardiness. Whenever she flubbed her lines, she demanded additional takes or more creative lighting to conceal her bulging curves. Tony, Billy, Jack, and the whole crew grew frustrated and annoyed.
Though Marilyn was physically attracted to her costar Tony Curtis, his resentment of her made her even more nervous and self-conscious than usual, and frequently caused her to forget her lines. Tony hated the daily routine of having to be up early only to have to dress as a woman and have the pasty cake makeup applied, and then sit around for hours on end waiting for his “third lead,” as he referred to Marilyn, to show up. The more Monroe primped, the more Curtis fumed. Curtis did his best work after the first few takes, while Marilyn habitually required countless takes to get it right. Her insatiable need for reassurance, attention, and constant fussing enraged him even more. When asked later what it was like kissing Marilyn Monroe in the scene on board the yacht, he blurted “It was like kissing Hitler”—the same name Marilyn had for Wilder at the time.
While Billy Wilder had tolerated Monroe’s lateness on Itch, feeling now the heat from his two male leads, the production crew and producers, the director lost his patience with Marilyn during Some Like It Hot and began yelling at her. Succumbing to Curtis and Lemmon’s accusation that he was playing favorites and kowtowing to Marilyn, Wilder felt pressured by everyone involved. To add to his headaches, the film was already way over budget. When Arthur Miller approached him to go easier on Marilyn, because of her pregnancy, Wilder was not sympathetic. His sarcasm came out, “I’d gladly send her home by noon if she would just show up at nine in the morning.”
Mrs. Miller enlisted the skills of her dressmakers to disguise her extra poundage and lessen the negative effects of the black-and-white camera on her stunning coloring: her platinum-blond hair, blue-gray-green eyes, and porcelain skin. Black and white accentuates contrast, and it made her appear flat and pasty. In an attempt to compensate, Whitey Snyder gave her a shimmering and glistening makeup that would glow, and wardrobe bejeweled her evening gowns with sequins, beads, and tulle.
Marilyn felt especially vulnerable during the filming of Some Like It Hot. Her recent miscarriage and now the pregnancy mobilized her fears of having, losing, or raising a baby. The morning sickness was getting to her. She feared that childbearing would destroy her looks. Other beauties had been “put out to pasture” after childbirth.
The combination of these present conflicts with the old ones in her career and marriage made it nearly impossible for Marilyn to appear on the set in the morning. Whitey Snyder would get to her suite early, grab her out of bed, throw her into the shower, and turn on the cold water to shock her system into waking up from another restless night with sleeping pills. Always there for Marilyn, Whitey loved her unconditionally and became her greatest single source of daily support.
Marilyn also clashed with screenwriter I. A. L. Diamond. She wished to transform what was originally tagged a “weak part” into a central character who was both funny and beautiful. In her efforts, Marilyn would alter his script, changing and adding dialogue. Diamond vehemently objected, arrogantly believing his every word was carved in stone. Her response—who else but an experienced, successful comedy actress like herself could better do “the dumb blonde,” certainly not the screenwriter. Yet the enraged Diamond would interrupt production insisting on another retake with his exact words. Billy Wilder had to contend with the insecure antics of Marilyn, Tony, the producers, and now even the writer.
Diamond would later refer to Marilyn as “the meanest little seven-year-old I ever met.” Believing that her power had gone to her head, Diamond completely misunderstood Monroe. He explained Marilyn’s lateness as an attempt to throw her weight around, especially after her successful contract renegotiation with Fox. What irritated him additionally was that she never apologized for keeping the cast and crew waiting for hours. He claimed that when the assistant director went to retrieve her in her dressing room, she would audibly scream “Screw you!” Diamond concluded that “having reached the top, she was paying back the world for all the rotten things she had to go through.” The hostility between the two continued well past the end of production.
With Hot running way behind schedule, the front office increased pressure on Wilder to get Monroe in line. The budget rose from $2 million to $2.8 million. As production continued in San Diego by the Coronado Beach Hotel, Wilder had to organize a shoot that included 150 extras. Marilyn’s 9 A.M. call turned into another 11:30. As her car finally came into sight, Wilder indignantly called “Lunch,” irritating the extras and especially Miss Monroe.
Whitey was called upon more and more to act as the buffer between Wilder and Marilyn. He made sure that Monroe’s concentration was on target. Before she went on camera, Whitey would bolster her confidence. He insisted that Marilyn would never appear on the set until she was fully able to perform.
Most mornings Marilyn would catch up on her sleep, lying on her back while Snyder quickly and efficiently gave her the cleanest, freshest makeup in the business, avoiding heavy contouring and complicated eye makeup. Though Marilyn used five different shades of lipstick to create those famous lustrous lips, Whitey confesses the contours took only seconds to duplicate. Marilyn’s hair was usually the early-call problem. Being curly and processed, it had to be frequently straightened and stripped of color. The touch-ups were monotonous and time consuming. While styling the actress’s blond locks, her favorite hairdresser, Agnes Flanagan, would try many styles to create the right look, sometimes even ignoring the period of the picture. Marilyn demanded that her normally unruly hair be perfect. Though at times it fell short, the actress refused to go to the set until it was “right” enough.
After filming was completed, neither the relieved Marilyn nor her husband considered attending the wrap party. Not only does the star of a film customarily avoid such events, but the stress and strain endured by cast and crew hardly left good feelings among them. There is a saying in Hollywood: “If things on the set go too well, one can look for the film to be a flop, and if there is much conflict and misery, then chances are good that you’ll have a hit!” The destiny of the film deserves its place as one of the most celebrated comedies in Hollywood’s history. But one would hardly have known that when production ended.
The Millers gladly returned to New York to lick their wounds. Within weeks a pain-stricken Marilyn was rushed to the hospital for another D&C. With yet another miscarriage and lost baby, the tired, beaten actress blamed the lot for the mishap, especially her husband, Wilder, and the filming of Hot.
While Mrs. Miller was still grieving over this latest loss, Wilder granted a candid interview with Joe Hyams that appeared in the New York press. Attempting to absolve himself of the responsibility for the film’s going over budget, the director blamed Marilyn’s chronic lateness. Hot producers had asked Wilder during the making of the film why he hadn’t been able to control the actress as he had on Itch. Wilder felt it necessary to defend his position in print, “I’m the only director who ever made two pictures with Monroe. It behooves the Screen Directors Guild to award me a Purple Heart.” (John Huston would later become the only other director to do so.) Hyams inquired about Wilder’s health. Wilder replied he was eating better, his back didn’t ache anymore, he was able to sleep for the first time in months, and that he could finally look at his wife without wanting to hit her because she was a woman! When asked whether he would do another film with Monroe, he said both his doctor and psychiatrist told him that he was too old and too rich to go through that again.
Marilyn was so crushed by the piece that she insisted that her secretary, May Reis, read it countless times. Then the actress would read it to herself, then aloud. Totally outraged that a director would use her that way, she obsessed over the betrayal, reporting, “First I saved the picture for him by consenting to do it in the first place, then I graciously allowed him to film in black and white, which I hated, then I go through hell with the pregnancy and then lose the baby over the stupid film... and now he tells the world that I made him sick!”
Without constraint, she verbally assaulted Miller, too. She ordered him to take a public stand defending her honor. If he really loved her, she said, he would say something—after all, he had more respect from them than she did. Lena Pepitone would say afterward that Miller had attempted to comfort his wife, but that three days later she became even more hysterical. Lena tried the formula that typically calmed her, but even the perfect Italian dinner did not work—neither Arthur nor Marilyn came to the dinner table. Instead the actress cried all night, drinking champagne for comfort and sinking deeper into depression.
Miller finally agreed to send Wilder several telegrams protesting his comments and praising Marilyn’s performance. Wilder resolved to make light of the incident by chalking it up to the last line in the film: “Nobody’s perfect!” The eccentric millionaire played by Joe E. Brown uttered these words upon finding out that Jack Lemmon was indeed a man and not a woman as he had thought. Neither Marilyn nor Miller found the retort funny. But Marilyn’s relationship with her husband suffered the most from all the Hot fallout. It was spinning into dissolution more rapidly than ever.
Marilyn turned her attention to the possibility of performing on Broadway with the Strasbergs, vowing she would “never do a movie again.” She changed her mind abruptly when she won the 1958 award for Best Foreign Actress for her performance in The Prince and the Showgirl. The David di Donatello prize was presented to the actress at a champagne reception at the Italian consulate with more than fifty dignitaries in attendance. Marilyn decided beforehand to streamline her figure into shape by starving herself in order to fit sensationally into a sedate black cocktail dress that was elegant and sophisticated, not revealing her trademark decolletage. Monroe wanted to appear respectable when she accepted “the Italian Oscar.” She had never felt so honored.
Then she ran into Italy’s most revered performer, Anna Magnani. The crowds of photographers and fans had swarmed around Monroe and pushed Magnani aside. An outraged Magnani lost control and started screaming at Marilyn, “Putane!” Americans, she cried, could not act, especially the guest of honor.
Magnani’s attempt to destroy the evening did not faze the American. By now such rivalry was routine. Most other actresses (with the exception of Jane Russell) resented Marilyn’s demeanor and abhorred her. And this night merely reminded her of her first award, when Joan Crawford lashed out at her. Marilyn wallowed in the affection lavished on her by the European film community that she had long respected and stopped concerning herself with jealous females.
Some Like It Hot was an instant hit with critics and the public alike. It turned out to be Billy Wilder’s most successful film. His previous hits had included Sunset Boulevard, Sabrina, Lost Weekend, and, of course, Seven Year Itch. By spring 1959, Variety called Hot the biggest hit of the year and the most popular movie in the United States. After twenty-three films, Monroe was finally making a fortune. Paid a guarantee against her eventual payment of 10 percent of the film’s gross earnings (the film earned ten million not including worldwide distribution), she would end up with her most profitable venture.