Marilyn Monroe: My Story

The letter writer cuts out just the bosom of your photograph and writes dirty words across it and mails it to you—without his signature. Or maybe her signature. And there are worse insults and depravities thrown at you by Mr. and Mrs. Anonymous.

The most brilliant man I have ever known is Michael Chekhov, the actor and author. He is a descendant of Anton Chekhov, the great Russian dramatist and story writer. He is a man of great spiritual depth. He is selfless and saintlike and witty, too. In Russia he was the best actor they had. And in Hollywood in the half dozen movies he played, he was considered superb. There was no character actor who could hold a candle to Michael Chekhov—who could play clown and Hamlet, and love interest, half as wonderfully. But Michael retired from the screen. The last picture in which he played was Specter of the Rose in which his performance was hailed as brilliant.

In his home Michael devoted himself to writing, gardening, and teaching acting to a few people. I became one of them.

As Michael’s pupil, I learned more than acting. I learned psychology, history, and the good manners of art—taste.

I studied a dozen plays. Michael discussed their characters and the many ways to play them. I had never heard anything so fascinating as my teacher’s talk. Every time he spoke, the world seemed to become bigger and more exciting.

One afternoon Michael and I were doing a scene from The Cherry Orchard . To set a scene with Michael Chekhov in his house was more exciting than to act on any movie set I had known. Acting became important. It became an art that belonged to the actor, not to the director or producer, or the man whose money had bought the studio. It was an art that transformed you into somebody else, that increased your life and mind. I had always loved acting and tried hard to learn it. But with Michael Chekhov, acting became more than a profession to me. It became a sort of religion.

In the midst of our scene from The Cherry Orchard , Michael suddenly stopped, put his hand over his eyes for a moment, and then looked at me with a gentle grin.

“May I ask you a personal question?” he asked.

“Anything,” I said.

“Will you tell me truthfully,” Michael asked again. “Were you thinking of sex while we played that scene?”

“No,” I said, “there’s no sex in this scene. I wasn’t thinking of it at all.”

“You had no half thoughts of embraces and kisses in your mind?” Michael persisted.

“None,” I said. “I was completely concentrated on the scene.”

“I believe you,” said Michael, “you always speak the truth.”

“To you,” I said.

He walked up and down a few minutes and said, “It’s very strange. All through our playing of that scene I kept receiving sex vibrations from you. As if you were a woman in the grip of passion. I stopped because I thought you must be too sexually preoccupied to continue.”

I started to cry. He paid no attention to my tears but went on intently. “I understand your problem with your studio now, Marilyn, and I even understand your studio. You are a young woman who gives off sex vibrations—no matter what you are doing or thinking. The whole world has already responded to those vibrations. They come off the movie screens when you are on them. And your studio bosses are only interested in your sex vibrations. They care nothing about you as an actress. You can make them a fortune by merely vibrating in front of the camera. I see now why they refuse to regard you as an actress. You are more valuable to them as a sex stimulant. And all they want of you is to make money out of you by photographing your erotic vibrations. I can understand their reasons and plans.”

Michael Chekhov smiled at me.

“You can make a fortune just standing still or moving in front of the cameras and doing almost no acting whatsoever,” Michael said.

“I don’t want that,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked me gently.

“Because I want to be an artist,” I answered, “not an erotic freak. I don’t want to be sold to the public as a celluloid aphrodisical. Look at me and start shaking. It was all right for the first few years. But now it’s different.”

This talk started my fight with the studio.

I realized that just as I had once fought to get into the movies and become an actress, I would now have to fight to become myself and to be able to use my talents. If I didn’t fight I would become a piece of merchandise to be sold off the movie pushcart.

I kept telephoning the studio begging for an interview with its chief. I was told, “No interview—just appear on the set when you’re notified.”

I stayed in my room alone and talked to myself. They were ready to give me a lot of money—a million if I would marry them and never wander off and fall in love with art. I hadn’t wanted Johnny Hyde’s million, and Johnny was a much sweeter and kinder character than 20th Century-Fox. I decided I didn’t want the studio’s million, either. I wanted to be myself and not just a freak vibration that made fortunes for the studio sex peddlers.

I have to be careful in writing about my husband Joe DiMaggio because he winces easily. Many of the things that seem normal or even desirable to me are very annoying to him.

He dislikes being photographed or interviewed. If he is even so much as asked to participate in some publicity stunt he registers a big explosion.

Joe doesn’t mind being written about, but he is against doing anything to encourage or attract publicity. In fact, publicity is something that makes him wince more than anything else.

Publicity was one of the problems in our courtship after the three-hour tour of Beverly Hills that first night.

“I wonder if I can take all your crazy publicity,” Joe said.

“You don’t have to be part of it,” I argued.

“I am,” he said. “And it bothers me.”

“It’s part of my career,” I said. “When you were a baseball idol you didn’t duck photographers.”

“Yes, I did,” he answered.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Don’t I know it,” Joe nodded.

“Do you want me to hide in a basement?” I asked.

“We’ll see how it works out,” he said.

There were a number of things to “work out.” One was the low neckline of my dresses and suits.

I gave in on this one. I wear no more low-cut dresses. Instead they have a sort of collar. The neckline is an inch under my chin.

I put up an argument about the neckline for some time. But after my adventure with the Army in the Atlantic City Beauty Contest, I began to think that Joe might be right in his “show them nothing” stand.

The situation at the Studio seemed to grow worse everyday. I mean every time I thought about it, it looked worse to me.

Among the black marks the front office had against me was the fact that I had kept Mr. Zanuck waiting for an hour at an Award Presentations ceremony. He accused me of doing it on purpose. This wasn’t true. I was working on the set, and it took me an hour to get the makeup off and my hair restored to normal.

But keeping Mr. Zanuck waiting was only a side issue in the trouble that kept growing. Even the matter of getting more money was a side issue—to me as well as to the Studio. When a studio stumbles on to a box-office name in its midst, it means millions of dollars income. And every studio has learned to be very considerate, financially, toward the goose who lays their golden eggs—as long as she keeps laying them, at least.