starring role. From the first, she discovered that she was confident and at ease with reporters in a way that she simply never was on a film set. For the
Collier’s
profile, in the issue of September 8, 1951, Marilyn carefully crafted the story that she would repeat to reporters all that fall. In interview after interview, Marilyn portrayed herself as a courageous little orphan girl, a sort of modern-day Cinderella, whose childhood had been spent being passed from one foster home to another. She painted her youth in the darkest possible tones, leaving readers with the impression that both her mother and father were dead. That last point would soon come back to haunt her, but the immediate effect of all this was to make Marilyn Monroe immensely sympathetic to the public.
The
Collier’s
profile and the many newspaper and magazine pieces that followed encouraged people to root for Marilyn. Readers who had never even seen Marilyn in a film wanted her to succeed in Hollywood, allowing the fairy tale she’d spun to have a happy ending. It quickly became apparent from Marilyn’s fan mail at Twentieth that her one-woman publicity campaign was working. Through her own shrewd efforts, she had attracted a huge following that was entirely out of proportion to the small roles she had played to date. Had Twentieth made a mistake in loaning Marilyn out for her first film with star billing? On the basis of all the publicity, even Darryl Zanuck began to wonder.
When Marilyn wasn’t preparing for her upcoming film with Natasha, she worked with a second acting teacher, Michael Chekhov. Terrified that she couldn’t possibly get through the assignment at RKO alone, she requested permission for Natasha to accompany her. Marilyn’s self-reliance in matters of publicity contrasted sharply with her utter dependence on her dramatic coach. Lang permitted Marilyn to bring her on one condition: that Natasha refrain from going over Marilyn’s lines at home. He didn’t want Marilyn’s interpretation of the role to be locked in before she had an opportunity to work with the director and the other actors.
This arrangement was a problem from the start. Lang, attempting to direct Marilyn, initially had no idea that Natasha stood directly behind him. It was a strange sight, almost comical: The director grimly studied Marilyn from his canvas chair as a wraithlike woman with flashing eyes gestured behind his back. Marilyn and Natasha had worked out a code that Natasha compared to the signals between a catcher and a pitcher in baseball. After a take, as Lang clarified what he wanted, Marilyn, barely listening, would surreptitiously glance over his shoulder. Even when Lang wanted to move on to the next setup, if Natasha failed to nod, Marilyn insisted on another take. It took a while before the director figured out what was going on, but when he did he angrily banished Natasha.
Marilyn—an odd combination of fear and ferocity—reacted with horror. She was painfully insecure about her abilities, and believed she needed Natasha to keep going. She was convinced she just couldn’t do it alone. Yet she was ready to fight for what she needed, and she was prepared to shut down the production if she didn’t get her way. She refused to work without her dramatic coach. Eventually, Jerry Wald, the head of RKO, negotiated a compromise. Natasha could return to the set, but under no circumstances was she to send hand signals to Marilyn.
Word of the trouble Lang was having with Marilyn drifted back to Twentieth, where Zanuck, under pressure from Skouras, was thinking of giving her her first real starring role. The film was Roy Baker’s
Don’t Bother to Knock
, in which Marilyn would play a beautiful psychotic, reflecting Zanuck’s perception of her as sexually dangerous and not a little mad. His view was based on the talk in Hollywood that somehow Marilyn had been responsible for Johnny Hyde’s death. Some of Johnny’s friends, the screenwriter Nunnally
Collier’s
profile, in the issue of September 8, 1951, Marilyn carefully crafted the story that she would repeat to reporters all that fall. In interview after interview, Marilyn portrayed herself as a courageous little orphan girl, a sort of modern-day Cinderella, whose childhood had been spent being passed from one foster home to another. She painted her youth in the darkest possible tones, leaving readers with the impression that both her mother and father were dead. That last point would soon come back to haunt her, but the immediate effect of all this was to make Marilyn Monroe immensely sympathetic to the public.
The
Collier’s
profile and the many newspaper and magazine pieces that followed encouraged people to root for Marilyn. Readers who had never even seen Marilyn in a film wanted her to succeed in Hollywood, allowing the fairy tale she’d spun to have a happy ending. It quickly became apparent from Marilyn’s fan mail at Twentieth that her one-woman publicity campaign was working. Through her own shrewd efforts, she had attracted a huge following that was entirely out of proportion to the small roles she had played to date. Had Twentieth made a mistake in loaning Marilyn out for her first film with star billing? On the basis of all the publicity, even Darryl Zanuck began to wonder.
When Marilyn wasn’t preparing for her upcoming film with Natasha, she worked with a second acting teacher, Michael Chekhov. Terrified that she couldn’t possibly get through the assignment at RKO alone, she requested permission for Natasha to accompany her. Marilyn’s self-reliance in matters of publicity contrasted sharply with her utter dependence on her dramatic coach. Lang permitted Marilyn to bring her on one condition: that Natasha refrain from going over Marilyn’s lines at home. He didn’t want Marilyn’s interpretation of the role to be locked in before she had an opportunity to work with the director and the other actors.
This arrangement was a problem from the start. Lang, attempting to direct Marilyn, initially had no idea that Natasha stood directly behind him. It was a strange sight, almost comical: The director grimly studied Marilyn from his canvas chair as a wraithlike woman with flashing eyes gestured behind his back. Marilyn and Natasha had worked out a code that Natasha compared to the signals between a catcher and a pitcher in baseball. After a take, as Lang clarified what he wanted, Marilyn, barely listening, would surreptitiously glance over his shoulder. Even when Lang wanted to move on to the next setup, if Natasha failed to nod, Marilyn insisted on another take. It took a while before the director figured out what was going on, but when he did he angrily banished Natasha.
Marilyn—an odd combination of fear and ferocity—reacted with horror. She was painfully insecure about her abilities, and believed she needed Natasha to keep going. She was convinced she just couldn’t do it alone. Yet she was ready to fight for what she needed, and she was prepared to shut down the production if she didn’t get her way. She refused to work without her dramatic coach. Eventually, Jerry Wald, the head of RKO, negotiated a compromise. Natasha could return to the set, but under no circumstances was she to send hand signals to Marilyn.
Word of the trouble Lang was having with Marilyn drifted back to Twentieth, where Zanuck, under pressure from Skouras, was thinking of giving her her first real starring role. The film was Roy Baker’s
Don’t Bother to Knock
, in which Marilyn would play a beautiful psychotic, reflecting Zanuck’s perception of her as sexually dangerous and not a little mad. His view was based on the talk in Hollywood that somehow Marilyn had been responsible for Johnny Hyde’s death. Some of Johnny’s friends, the screenwriter Nunnally
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