Marilyn Monroe (56 page)

On September 16, Twentieth made a deal with Cukor, and the next day a letter went out notifying Marilyn that she was to report for pre-production on November 2. Filming was scheduled to start the following week. Thus, before Marilyn could even think about appearing in Arthur’s picture, she would be required to fulfill her obligation to Twentieth.

Gregory Peck needed to be finished by February 1. So, though it would be a tight fit, if all went well Marilyn would be available in time for
The Misfits.
Still, the last-minute commotion over
The Billionaire
—would Marilyn accept? would she be finished in time? would she agree to come out right away to meet with Jerry Wald?—was hardly what Miller needed as he struggled with two very different versions of the ending.

He did not accompany Marilyn when, at Skouras’s behest, she flew to Los Angeles to attend a lunch in honor of Nikita Khrushchev at Twentieth Century–Fox. Though it was rumored that Miller had stayed away for political reasons, the truth was he remained in Connecticut to work.

The Khrushchev lunch, hosted by Frank Sinatra, was billed tongue-in-cheek as “the greatest spectacle ever staged in a motion picture studio.” Many stars, studio executives, and journalists attended. In the crowd were Elizabeth Taylor, Debbie Reynolds, Judy Garland, and Kim Novak. To publicize her upcoming picture, Marilyn appeared on George Cukor’s arm. She actually arrived early, prompting Billy Wilder to remark that Twentieth ought to hire Khrushchev to direct
The Billionaire.
Skouras, though he hosted the event, seemed eager to challenge the Communist leader to a public “sparring session.”

“I was just a poor boy,” Skouras began in a thick accent, “and now I’m head of a studio.”

“I was just a poor boy,” Khrushchev replied through a translator, “and now I’m head of Russia.”

And so it went. Afterward, the consensus was that Khrushchev had “clobbered” the Old Greek.

The real reason for Marilyn’s trip was a four-hour meeting the next day with Wald, Krasna, and Cukor. It was Sunday, September 20.
Marilyn was due to fly back to New York afterward. Yves Montand, who had played John Proctor in the French stage and screen versions of
The Crucible
, was to appear in concert on Broadway, opening the following evening. Since Arthur was busy putting the finishing touches on
The Misfits
, Marilyn was to attend the premiere in his place. He had arranged for her escort to be Montgomery Clift, who was about to leave for Tennessee to film
Wild River
, as
Time and Tide
had been renamed.

The fact that Marilyn had not yet read
The Billionaire
seemed to bother no one at the meeting, especially since Cukor had already demanded a rewrite. Norman Krasna used the opportunity to tell Marilyn the story in detail. To everyone’s relief, when he finished, Marilyn seemed pleased.

“It’s wonderful,” she cooed. “I’m so enthusiastic. I can’t wait to get started.”

She promised not to peek at the script until the revisions were completed. She did, however, have certain requests of her own. Though Marilyn’s contract gave her no say about the cameraman for this film, she made it clear that she preferred Harry Stradling, who had shot
A Streetcar Named Desire
for Kazan. And she wanted Jack Cole for her song-and-dance numbers.

Wald, said to be the model for Sammy Glick in Budd Schulberg’s novel
What Makes Sammy Run?
, promised to try to “pin down” the people she wanted. Marilyn reiterated that she was thrilled with the package. She adored the idea of working with George Cukor and Gregory Peck. She emphasized that she had been discussing Norman Krasna with her husband. She wanted the screenwriter to know that Arthur had great faith in Krasna’s ability to produce a script that would be good for her. The tensions in the marriage notwithstanding, Marilyn appeared to love quoting Arthur. She used every opportunity to throw his name around.

On Thursday, September 24, Miller finally sent off a second draft of
The Misfits.
He still planned to do some work on the ending. Nearly two years had passed since he had completed the 149-page first draft. The new version was nineteen pages longer. He was very excited about the rewrite, but of course it was Huston’s reaction that counted. On Sunday, Miller could not resist wiring Huston to confirm that he had received the screenplay. The response he had been hoping for came two
days later. “SCRIPT MAGNIFICENT,” Huston wired from Ireland. Miller read the message with delight.

It is enormously revealing that before Miller replied to Huston, he dashed off a letter to Brooks Atkinson, the critic who had dubbed the postwar years on Broadway the Williams–Miller era. That, of course, was no longer the case. At the time of
The Crucible
, Eric Bentley had argued that Miller needed a Kazan. Whether or not one agreed, there could be no denying that Williams had been remarkably prolific in recent years while Miller, more and more, seemed to be devoid of inspiration. Eager to counter that impression, Miller wasted no time in contacting Atkinson, who had continued to warmly support the playwright and his work. On October 1, Miller declared that he hoped soon to repay Atkinson’s faith with a new stage play. In the meantime, he informed Atkinson that, appearances to the contrary, he had hardly been inactive. In fact, he had been exploring a broader universe than he had known previously. Miller announced that, as a first leap into that new world, he had just finished
The Misfits.
Bursting with pride, he called it the most fully realized work he had written.

Did Miller really mean to suggest that
The Misfits
was superior to
Death of a Salesman?
Apparently so. At this point, he seemed very much to need to believe that to be true. Miller’s exaggerated sense of what he had just accomplished sounds like a reaction to months of self-doubt, and to years of having repeatedly disappointed people’s expectations.

Four days later, when Miller wrote to John Huston, he crowed that not since
Death of a Salesman
had he been so eager to see his work acted. He assumed the director would see why he had taken such a long time. In revising the screenplay, Miller had discovered an exciting new realm that he had needed time to explore. He felt certain that together they would be able to create something entirely new. He predicted that
The Misfits
was going to be one of those unique creative undertakings in which every aspect would instantly come to life. He assured Huston that Marilyn was getting in shape for the day when they began.

Even as Miller wrote this, however, Marilyn was launching a campaign for the lead in the film of
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
If it turned out to be successful, she would probably be unavailable for
The Misfits.
Truman Capote had put a good deal of Marilyn into the original novel. When Marilyn had first arrived in New York, she had been bright and hopeful,
with everything seemingly ahead of her. In portraying Holly Golightly, perhaps she sought to recapture something of that earlier, more innocent period. At the same time, she seemed eager to subvert Arthur’s plans. If he was willing to put up with anything to get his picture made, then Marilyn, apparently, was ready to do anything to stop it. She prepared two scenes from
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
for Lee Strasberg’s private class. She also performed the scenes for Capote. He insisted she was perfect for the part. But all the bad publicity about the trouble she had given Billy Wilder on
Some Like It Hot
made her
persona non grata
at Paramount. At length, over Capote’s objections, the role went to Audrey Hepburn.

Now that the script was finished, the Millers spent most of their time in the city, driving to Connecticut on weekends in a Jaguar. In letters to Brooks Atkinson and John Huston, Arthur made a point of cheerfully mentioning Marilyn as if nothing had changed. Norman Rosten, at work on a screenplay based on
A View from the Bridge
, often stayed with the Millers in Roxbury. He could see that the image of marital harmony had become a façade.

When the couple fought in town, Marilyn sometimes spent the night at the Strasbergs. Paula would give her a soothing cup of tea and rub her shoulders. Lee, in striped pajamas and a decrepit bathrobe, would perch on the edge of Marilyn’s bed. He was not known for being warm or affectionate, yet he abundantly provided the physical and emotional comfort she missed at home. Marilyn rested her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her. He stroked her hair. He tenderly sang a lullaby. She closed her eyes and smiled.

Strasberg was feeling rather needy himself lately, having been rejected for a top post at the new repertory theater at Lincoln Center. The Actors Studio had been conferring with the Lincoln Square Project (as Lincoln Center was then known) since 1956. Elia Kazan, Lee Strasberg, and Cheryl Crawford had offered their ideas for the theater that would be part of a cultural complex housing the Metropolitan Opera, the New York Philharmonic, and the New York City Ballet. Strasberg assumed the Actors Studio would be the resident company, and believed a leadership position his rightful place. Instead, Robert Whitehead, appointed to set up the theater, invited Kazan to be his partner.

Kazan, for his part, wasn’t so sure he wanted the job. Tennessee Williams urged him to say no, reminding him that he was an artist, not an
administrator. Whitehead, who had co-produced
A View from the Bridge
in New York, arranged a meeting between Miller and Kazan. They talked. They enjoyed each other’s company. They both refrained from mentioning why they had been at odds since 1952. Miller agreed he would like to write for the new theater. For Kazan, a chance to work with Arthur Miller again was a major incentive to take the job at Lincoln Center.

Though Kazan would never forgive Miller for having walked past him that day with Kermit Bloomgarden, there could be no denying that Miller remained the playwright to whom he felt closest. In the past, Kazan had had occasion to think that he and Miller were actually the same person. He often felt he could share things with Miller that he could not with Williams. Kazan believed that in the aftermath of HUAC, Williams had been his most faithful friend, but it was Miller to whom Kazan, still admittedly tense, was ineluctably drawn.

Miller viewed Kazan as the best possible director for his autobiographical work-in-progress. Perhaps Eric Bentley had been right; perhaps Miller really did need a Kazan. At a deeply troubled moment in the Williams–Kazan collaboration, Miller stepped into the breach. At a deeply troubled moment in Miller’s own marriage to Marilyn Monroe, he renewed his passionate friendship with the man he once called brother. Miller agreed to give his plays to the new company. Kazan, as in the old days, would direct.

On October 14, Kazan left to shoot
Wild River
, the film he was originally to have done with Marilyn. Seven days later, there was an official announcement that he had accepted a post as “an associate in the development and direction of the Lincoln Center Repertory Theater.” Neither the reunion of Miller and Kazan, nor Miller’s plans, was announced publicly. Even in New York theatrical circles, few people were aware that the momentous reconciliation had occurred, or had any inkling that one of the great creative teams of the modern American stage was due to be revived.

On October 14, Jack Cole arrived at the Dance Players Rehearsal Hall in New York City. He had a slight, bony physique, with a finely-lined,
cadaverous face, a large, hooked nose, and a cast in one eye. He wore baggy blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt, the sleeves hiked up above his elbows. The dance director had first worked with Marilyn on
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.
At her request, he had also been brought in on
River of No Return
and
There’s No Business Like Show Business.
More recently, he had done uncredited work on
Some Like It Hot.

Three and a half weeks previously, Marilyn had informed Jerry Wald that she wanted Jack Cole on
The Billionaire.
Twentieth, eager to please, went to considerable lengths to hire him. As a choreographer, he was very much in demand. He had television and Broadway commitments and would only be able to work on the picture a few weeks at a time. But in light of the fact that Marilyn believed she needed him, he was willing to squeeze her in.

Today, Cole waited at the rented rehearsal space in anticipation of working on “My Heart Belongs To Daddy.” Thus far it was the only musical number definitely chosen for the film. Others were soon to follow. Gregory Peck’s requirement that he be finished by February 1 meant George Cukor would be working on a tight schedule. Jerry Wald thought it best for Marilyn’s numbers to be fully rehearsed before she arrived in Los Angeles. At this point, the plan was to shoot the musical numbers before anything else.

Cole knew that Marilyn was not a skilled dancer. He also knew she was a perfectionist. So they would need plenty of time to develop her first big number. He intended to go over the music with the rehearsal pianist and the drummer before Marilyn arrived. Knowing Marilyn as he did, he was certainly not surprised that she didn’t appear on time. He was astonished, however, when she failed to show up altogether. The entire day was squandered. Cole, known for a hot temper and a foul mouth, was not amused.