Haunted Icon

Discovered in 1942 by press photographers during a World War II photo shoot at the Radioplane plant in California, Norma Jean Mortenson left her job to sign with a modeling agency, ultimately becoming the most beautiful woman in Hollywood’s pantheon of stars. According to her dressmaker, her classic shape measured 37-23-36. She was voted by People magazine the ‘sexiest woman of the century’ thirty-seven years after her death. Wherever she went, at home and abroad her presence caused riots. Marilyn Monroe made only thirty films but will forever be an icon in film history. She died in 1962 at the age of thirty-six, discovered in her bedroom on an August morning, nude and face down on the bed, a telephone clutched in one hand.

In 1957, at the invitation of Britain’s eminent Laurence Olivier, Marilyn made her first trip to London to star alongside Olivier in a film called The Prince and the Showgirl. It was a difficult time for both stars and the film ended up a disappointment. Though he had great difficulty working with the American star, Olivier didn’t hesitate to acknowledge the peculiar genius of his co-star. Like many before him, he was forced to admit that the camera was in love with Marilyn Monroe. One of those working on the film was a young man hired as a third assistant director, in reality little more than a gofer. His name was Colin Clark and over the difficult months of filming he became close to the star. He kept a diary of those months and later published a book titled The Prince, the Showgirl and Me. That book served as the basis of the 2011 Academy Award nominated film, My Week with Marilyn.

On-set troubles with Marilyn Monroe had been a problem for some years before her arrival in London. She had already been replaced in two films for failing to show up, and her chronic lateness was legendary. Another problem came in the shape of her ‘acting coach’ Paula Strasberg, who often interfered with the director’s work. In addition to the well-known emotional troubles the actress suffered, her intake of pills and alcohol was increasing. On the first day of filming for The Prince and the Showgirl, all these problems were in attendance. When the situation became untenable, the young gofer Colin Clark proved to be the one a haunted Marilyn turned to as confidant. 

With the support of two remarkable performances from Michelle Williams and Kenneth Branagh as Monroe and Olivier, director Simon Curtis has given us a beautiful film chronicling the story of the American star’s time in London. The director and his producers have created a film bristling with authenticity, and in fact, it was filmed on the same soundstage used for the 1957 picture. In addition to that, the house used for Marilyn’s residence was the very same one used originally. It is all a treat for the eyes, backed by a glorious soundtrack from Conrad Pope. The film’s theme is especially haunting, one composed by Frenchman Alexandre Desplat that Pope incorporated into his score. We are also treated to several numbers sung by Michelle Williams, including “That Old Black Magic” and “Heat Wave.”

In a period of filmmaking when bombs, bullets and CGI take precedence, it has become a rare treat to find a film showcasing a collaboration of good writing and directing, fine performances and beautifully conceived production design. My Week with Marilyn fits the bill perfectly.

I was so taken by the composer’s “Marilyn’s Theme” and the playing of Chinese concert pianist Lang Lang, I wasted no time searching out the film’s soundtrack CD. The YouTube clip below is one of Lang Lang playing “Marilyn’s Theme.”

Horseplay

Late on Friday night we were in Jimmy’s blue Chevy convertible, parked on a ferry crawling across the Atchafalaya. Horseplay, loud songs and the smell of beer told anyone nearby that a carload of teenagers was in the area. Another couple of minutes and the ferry would drop us on a back road leading into St Francisville and the old churchyard cemetery we liked to creep through, sitting around on grave markers telling ghost stories under moss hung live oaks. Meanwhile Mark and J.D. were on the floor of the back seat grunting and snuffling, though no one but Nancy Kay paid them any mind. Slipping another Kent from her pack and lighting it with the big silver Ronson table lighter she carried, she told Kermon to slap the two fruits down on the floorboards. “Other people on this ferry are gonna get all over us if they see two men in the backseat moaning and giving each other the homo hug,” she predicted in her usual sarcastic tone, curls of smoke twisting around her blonde hair.

At the front end of the ferry Teetaw stood singing “Bali Hai” to the black waters of the river while one of the crew stood off to the side and stared at her through pale eyes set wide on a flat face. By all accounts we were lucky on those weekend rambles not to be stopped by police, caretakers or angry neighbors rattled out of bed by teenage shenanigans. Most of the time we were too drunk on fun and good times to ever pause long enough to consider the ruckus we kicked up and left behind in churchyards, drive-in movies and curb service hamburger joints. On some nights we coasted on the joy we got from hammering together stage sets and acting out parts in summer musicals at the theatre downtown, hair spattered with paint, voices hoarse from rehearsal. Freed by parents busy with bridge and I Love Lucy, we played out nighttime scenes from Tennessee Williams on City Park lawns and danced through routines under streetlights.

The next night six of us went to the drive-in to see a western. Previews the week before emblazoned the giant screen with words shouting that Burt Lancaster was a man chased by men with guns on their hips and women with love on their lips, preview enough to send us piling into Jimmy’s car for the picture show. Following a familiar routine, Jimmy stopped the car around the block from the drive-in and the other five of us climbed into the car’s trunk. With its tailpipe dragging on the ground the car pulled up to the ticket booth and Jimmy asked for a single ticket, complaining that his date had two-timed him with another man. Dulled by engine sounds and trunk lid, we heard a muffled, “Hun, that’s the saddest thing I heard all night. Maybe the picture will raise your spirits.” Half the time we hardly watched the movies at the drive-in, even one with Rhonda Fleming and her D cup boobs chasing Burt with love all over her lips.

One sweltering weekend in August at a camp on the river the usual bunch sat around the backyard playing records and eating boiled crabs. Jimmy had the boat out pulling Chandler up and down the river on water skis and Lillian dozed in the hammock, the Viceroy in her hand about to set her fingers on fire. Another of those golden afternoons until Kermon came busting out of the screened porch shouting, “Oh, my God, Marilyn Monroe is dead! Marilyn killed herself!” Nancy Kay ran out to the boat dock and shouted the news to Jimmy and Chandler. When words finally cut through the motor noise Chandler fell off those skis like he’d been shot. Jimmy swung the boat around and pulled him coughing out of the khaki green water. Hard news for a while, but youthful vigor had us back to the usual high jinks by suppertime.

Intoxicated by the exuberance of our salad days most of us never saw through the rainbow to a time when life isn’t always kind and forgiving and when understanding doesn’t come as easily as it once did with angry parents and neighbors. Two of the gang never did find that understanding and a few years later ended their time like the movie star in that August headline.