Marilyn & Me Page 5

  “Are you here, Larry?” Marilyn asked.

  “I’m not a champagne person,” I replied.

  “How can anybody not like champagne?” she asked, laughing a little sarcastically.

  Not responding to her question, I asked one of my own. “When did you start liking champagne?”

  “Let’s see, I think when Norma Jeane got married, she had a little,” Marilyn replied, referring to her given name.

  After a pause Marilyn continued as she drove toward her home. “I never wanted to be Marilyn—it just happened. Marilyn’s like a veil I wear over Norma Jeane.”

  When we got back to her house, she dropped me off at my car, said good night, and pulled away without looking back. I stood there wondering how she was going to spend the rest of the night.

  When I got home, I found Billy there, having coffee and chatting with Judi. He was waiting impatiently to find out how it had gone. He also said that he’d figured out how to publicize the photos and get the world’s attention.

  “Let’s give the story to Joe Hyams,” he suggested.

  I knew Joe, who sometimes wrote for Time magazine, and I realized immediately that Billy was onto something. Time wasn’t only huge in America. It also had a European edition and an Asian edition. More important, every editor of every foreign publication read Time.

  “We give Time one of the lesser pictures, make sure our names are in the photo credit, and the world will come knocking on our door,” Billy said. And that was what we did that Saturday night, just in time to make the issue that would be published worldwide thirty-six hours later.

  The next day, Sunday, Tom Blau arrived from London, and when he came to my studio, he was still bleary-eyed. Billy and I showed him the eleven-by-fourteen-inch black-and-white prints that I already had made. They got his attention immediately.

  I followed up with my concerns. We had to have a worldwide release date, I said. We couldn’t take the chance of the pictures appearing in Paris Match and, say, some Italian magazine copying them out of Paris Match and publishing them five days later. We had to impose a condition of sale: the first magazine in each country purchasing publication rights had to publish on a certain date, not before. I told Blau I didn’t have a date, because I knew I needed time to see the picture editor of Life in New York. In my mind nobody would be allowed to publish before Life.

  “That’s impossible,” Blau protested. “Nobody will agree. We’ll lose sales that way.”

  “We will set our clock around Life,” I said. “When Life publishes the pictures, that will be the release date. Everyone else will have to publish after Life does, not before. That’s it,” I said. “This will make our pictures more exclusive, and we can raise the price, make publications bid against each other.”

  Billy chimed in, adding, “Any sales lost will be recouped by the exclusivity.” We were ganging up on Blau.

  “There’s no choice,” I half lied. “This is one of Marilyn’s two conditions. The other is that no magazine can include anything about Elizabeth Taylor in the same issue.”

  Blau was used to representing seasoned, internationally known photographers who trusted him to make their business deals. I think he was surprised to find a twenty-five-year-old brash enough to insist that he fly to L.A., bold enough to insist on imposing conditions of sale, and daring in his belief that he was the bigger expert on how to handle these photos. I was actually just learning on the job, but it was a good plan.

  Blau really had no choice. He even agreed to Globe’s selling the set of pictures in a few countries. The next step was to let Marilyn know that Billy and I had decided to combine our pictures. I called Pat Newcomb and explained what we were up to and how it would work to Marilyn’s benefit. She understood, she said. She had one request: Marilyn had asked to see the color shots again.

  I went about ordering enough sets of prints and duplicate transparencies for each of the countries we’d be selling to, and I prepared for my meeting the next day in Fox’s publicity department.

  By the time Billy and I arrived at Perry Lieber’s office at Fox, Time magazine’s advance copies, with Joe’s story and a small image of Marilyn and the director poolside, were out. We told Perry that we’d decided to go into partnership and to sell our pictures as worldwide exclusives; we explained that we expected to get many magazine covers, and we filled him in on the details. He was quick to see the upside for the studio and was silent as we explained that the publicity would be devalued if Fox released Jimmy Mitchell’s pictures, which we hadn’t even seen. It wasn’t Lieber’s decision to make, so he took us to see his boss, Harry Brand.

  Lieber did most of the talking. “These guys are going to have Marilyn on the front cover of magazines all over the world—Life, Paris Match, and so forth.”

  Lieber also noted that with the breach-of-contract notice Marilyn had been given, nobody knew what was going to happen, but publicity was the name of the game, and the studio had not said to stop publicizing the movie.

  “Well,” Brand said, “since she hasn’t approved Mitchell’s pictures yet, they don’t exist.” That was all he said in the entire meeting. Billy smiled, I was beside myself.

  Lieber then called Pat Newcomb, who agreed to set up some time the next day for the Life reporter Tommy Thompson to interview Marilyn on the set, since Life needed some text to accompany the photos that hadn’t even been seen. I felt that we were on a steamroller and that nothing could get in our way. I even told Judi that we should start looking for a home and get ourselves out of the apartment. With my percentage from the sales, I knew I would have no problem making the down payment on a house in the Valley.

  But no steamrolling is ever smooth, and there were unavoidable bumps on our path. I could tell that Pat Newcomb resented how I had insinuated myself into Marilyn’s business and how I had made a deal with Billy. Now, on top of that, she had to deal with a Life reporter through my negotiations with the magazine, not hers.

  The next day, Marilyn spoke with Thompson in between scenes for the movie. Pat was around, watching the clock, and both Billy and I were shooting Marilyn when we could. Later in the day, I made a series of head shots of her, with Marilyn looking wistfully past me; she wore a golden fur cap that almost matched her hair and a fur-collared suit she’d worn on the set for many days of shooting. Those pictures captured the angel in her at a time when she was fighting the demon of having to make this picture under the threat of a studio that held her in breach of contract. The image was soft. She seemed almost to be gasping for a little air. As if she were looking for a little more life.

  When Thompson finished his interview, he came over and said, “When can I get all the pictures? I’ve got to fly to New York.”

  “Tommy,” I said, “you’re not taking the pictures.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I haven’t closed a deal with Life yet. I’m going to New York to show them directly to Pollard.” He replied, “That’s not what I understand. I’m supposed to fly back with the pictures.” Clearly, he wanted to make sure that Life got first crack at the best pictures.

  “Marilyn has insisted on a worldwide release date,” I said, putting it back on her again. But that didn’t impress Thompson. He was furious and walked away without saying another word. I would never find out what he thought. I saw him at other events over the years, but he never talked to me again.

  Marilyn called in sick the next day, but she was well enough to ask me to come over to her house so that she could look at the color slides once again. I brought over the strips that she hadn’t zipped in half with those pinking shears. She found one or two more she couldn’t stand because they highlighted the muscles in her legs, but she left the rest. I was relieved.

  “How many pages are we getting in Life?” she asked.

  “Don’t know. I’m flying to New York. I’ll let Pat know,” I replied.

  “Good,” she said. “And what about a cover?”

  “I’m sure we’ll have the cover,”
I replied. “You sell magazines.”

  “You’re like a businessman, aren’t you?” she said.

  “You have to be, my father taught me that. He was a salesman.”

  I have no idea why I brought my father into this conversation. I remember telling her that he was the manager of a Davega’s when I was a child. It was a sporting goods and camera store on Forty-Second Street in New York.

  I also told her what happened after my eye accident, how my dad got a job in California to help start the Price Clubs.

  Friday, June 1, was Marilyn’s thirty-sixth birthday. Most of the day had been spent shooting a scene with Wally Cox and Dean Martin in which Dean clowned around, admiring her ass; and late in the day, the cast and some of the crew came together to celebrate with her. A huge birthday cake was brought in with sparklers for candles, and Marilyn posed behind it looking joyful and appreciative, and she posed some more when she cut into the cake. She was given a giant card, signed by everyone connected with the movie, but the atmosphere wasn’t festive. She got no presents. There was more a feeling of gloom than of happiness. And what I noticed was how few people from the studio and among her personal friends were there. I saw Marilyn turn to Whitey Snyder and ask, “Where’s everybody?” It seemed sad. Late afternoon really wasn’t the best time to share a birthday cake.

  The celebration moved to Martin’s dressing room, and the smaller space made for a warmer atmosphere. Bottles of her favorite champagne were uncorked, and Marilyn, Dean, and Wally Cox began to loosen up. George Cukor, who had seemed frustrated with Marilyn during the day, came bearing a gift, the only one she received that day: a small Mexican ceramic bull, which she held to her cheek and rubbed her nose against, as if it were most precious. It didn’t take long for the champagne to have its effect. Marilyn had changed from her working clothes into her white capri slacks, and when she sat on Wally’s lap, she fake-humped him. He loved it.

  As the last drops of champagne were consumed, Marilyn said she was going to a charity baseball game at Dodger Stadium. Her producer, Henry Weinstein, arrived and tried to talk her out of it, worrying that there was a chill in the air and that she might catch cold. Marilyn laughed at him and said she had made a commitment to attend. She would make an appearance, she said.

  Meanwhile, Tom Blau, who had flown back to England, was making deals in Europe and Asia, and then I flew to New York over the weekend to make a deal at Life. The picture editor, Dick Pollard, didn’t like my conditions at first, but seeing that he could do nothing about them and liking the photos enough to want to run five or six pages of them, he agreed. Later that day he asked me how much I wanted, including for the cover. I told him a lot—around $10,000. I understood the value of exclusive U.S. rights. I had sold the teen heartthrob Fabian Forte’s first kiss to a fan magazine for $5,000, and this was the first time I had something that I knew the whole world would want. But what was really most important to me was the cover. “Just kidding,” I added before he could protest. “You can have the entire set—but no more than six pages—and the cover for $6,000.” Dick nodded and said Life would publish the following week on June 16, which would become the worldwide release date of the photos.

  I had a deal, and I had my first Life cover.

  Chapter 7

  Leave Me Alone

  Just as Henry Weinstein feared, Marilyn called in sick the following Monday, and once again filming was delayed. But this time the studio didn’t react benevolently. Peter Levathes, the head of Fox, wanted to see how much of the film had been shot and how much of Marilyn was in the can. Someone had calculated that of the thirty-three working days since the start of the shoot in April, Marilyn had only been available for thirteen days. Levathes looked at forty minutes of Marilyn in character and didn’t think much of what he saw. There were moments of the Monroe magic, he thought, but not enough to warrant the studio continuing with her. The breach of contract would now be enforced, the picture would be shut down until they found a replacement for Marilyn, and the cast would be so informed.

  On June 8, one week after her birthday, Marilyn was fired from Something’s Got to Give.

  Columnist Sheilah Graham broke the story, quoting producer Weinstein. “The studio does not want her anymore. Every time she says she is ill and we have to close down the picture, 104 persons lose a day’s pay.… She seemed quite well last Friday when they gave her a birthday party on the set.… She has not reported to work since. Marilyn’s absence has cost the studio more than half a million dollars.” The next day, Fox sued Marilyn to recover its damages.

  It seemed that there was no longer a movie to promote. Still, I knew that every magazine editor would find a new angle for the photos. The film-going public would never see Marilyn’s last movie. Our pictures would now be seen in a new light. The dark side of Marilyn Monroe would be exploited. Dark, but still beautiful.

  Before I left the lot for good, Billy and I decided to give Jimmy Mitchell $10,000, since his photographs had been killed and we thought it only fair to share some of our projected income with him. As a set photographer, he was earning between $200 and $300 a week, so we knew that ten grand would go a long way. We gave the money to Perry Lieber and asked him to pass it on to Jimmy. A few years later, I ran into Jimmy, and he put his arm around me and said, “You really knew what to do with those photos, didn’t you?”

  I did. The sales far exceeded even our own high expectations. The worldwide release of the photos was scheduled for mid-June. In something less than two weeks before that date, Tom Blau had received commitments totaling over $65,000, a lot of money in those days, and that didn’t include my separate negotiation with Life. After commissions and expenses from just the initial sales, Billy and I expected to clear $30,000 each—the biggest payday for any photographer up to that time (with the single exception of David Douglas Duncan’s famous pictures of Pablo Picasso).

  On June 16, there was Marilyn in a blue robe on the cover of Life (cover dated June 22, 1962). And there she was, that same week, in various states of dress and undress, on the covers of the most important foreign magazines. On June 18 she was even on the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle—which we sold for $1,000 because Billy had a special relationship with that paper and he wanted to repay a favor.

  Once the magazines appeared, I went to see Marilyn at home, bringing her a copy of the Chronicle, which I suspected she might not have seen. The issue of Life was on her coffee table.

  “Just what you said it would be,” she said on greeting me.

  “Well, now I have money for a down payment, so I can look for a house.” Then I joked, “See what tits ’n’ ass can do?”

  “That’s how I got my house and swimming pool,” Marilyn said, laughing. “There isn’t anybody that looks like me without clothes on,” she added.

  “I’m going to have a little wooden sign made,” I continued. “It’s gonna say, ‘The house that Marilyn bought.’ I’m going to hang it over the front door.”

  That’s when she told me how happy she was to be able to help me get my first house, happy that she could do something positive for someone.

  I also told Marilyn that Judi and I were thinking of having another child. When I said that, her reaction was visible. Marilyn seemed to disappear inside of herself, almost as if she had to say something that scared her.

  “I’ve always wanted a baby,” she said in a voice so quiet that it wasn’t more than a whisper.

  I didn’t know what to say. She seemed not to be talking to me. It was almost as if she was talking to her shrink.

  “Having a child,” she continued. “That’s always been my biggest fear. I want a child, and I fear a child.”

  I don’t remember everything she said, but I do recall her mumbling something about the sanity or craziness that part of her family represented. She used the words “nuts” and “weak.” I remember words like “misery” and “unhappiness.” Later I would read that her grandfather had been insane and that he took his own life. But
during our conversation, all I saw was fear in Marilyn’s face.

  And I remember her saying something like, “Whenever it came close, my body said no, and I lost the baby.” I remember her talking about being afraid that she’d wind up like her mother, who had been in and out of mental institutions her whole life. And I could see how that scared her.

  And then, all at once, Marilyn pulled herself together. She looked at the cover of Life, smiled, and, her voice returning to its normal tone, said, “The shape I’m in, I’ll have a child.” I took the clue and moved on to business.

  When I’d originally shown Marilyn the black-and-white proof sheets, I had purposely left out two strips of images that revealed more body, because I was afraid she would kill them. In fact, in those days, no general interest magazine would have shown the images we had, because they were too revealing for the era. But Billy and I knew that Playboy would jump at the opportunity to publish them, now that the other photos had been released. They would want to publish what nobody else had seen—full bust with nipple.

  And now that Marilyn was talking about how good she looked in the nude, I thought it was an opportune time to bring up Playboy.

  “Marilyn,” I started, “I was going through my camera bag and found a roll of film that wasn’t developed. When I developed them I discovered that some images were a bit more risqué than the others.” And then I took a deep breath and continued, “I’m pretty sure Playboy would love to publish these. No question Hefner will agree to the same conditions we got everywhere in the world.”