They
all thought Marilyn had killed herself, of course I new better.
I
cant deny the fact that I somewhat lost my mind back in 1956, whilst working on
The Prince and the Showgirl. Having just graduated from Oxford University, I
was eager to escape home and make my way in the world.
After
many failed attempts I finally landed a role as third assistant, working with
Sir Laurence Olivier, Dame Sybil Thorndike and brushing shoulders with
Authur Miller. However, there was one especially fantastic actress in particular
that I was looking forward to working with.
The
Moment my eyes set upon her I was in love, as were most men across the globe.
She was the epitome of beauty, grace and sex appeal. Marilyn Munroe.
I
suppose you could blame elements of her personality for my newfound mentality.
But it was impossible not to fall in love with her. She was captivating. So
captivating, in fact, that by the time production had wrapped up, she had
chewed me up, and spat me back out.
A
troubled soul - lost in the world around her, and too big and alive for most to
comprehend – she was kept quiet with a heavy concoction of prescription drugs.
They tried to make her fit inside their tiny minds, but she was too big, she
had so much to offer, so much talent.
I saw
her passion for acting everyday. It was pure and true. She wanted to capture
and encompass everything a character had to offer. She was so incredibly
capable too. She gave acting everything she had, she gave her character
everything. With each take she lost herself more and more and transformed into
a whole other person. If was almost frightful on occasions, watching her try to
get in to character, the internal struggle that she so obviously face. It was
as though two parts of her were at war, and she couldn’t bring herself to let
one of them down.
Watching
her work was incredible. Despite the drugs, the alcohol, the silent abuse -
manipulation from the people around her – she always had an astounding
ambiance. Her perseverance was admirable. Although it used to break my heart to
watch her struggle, I couldn’t help but be entirely captivated by her
performances.
Apparently,
she took somewhat of a liking to me also..
We
went away together, for a week. We made love. She stayed sober. I saw the real
her. It was intoxicating. I found myself in bed with Norma Jeane, a raw, real
and erratic young girl, looking for someone, anyone to love her. I began to see
what was happening. The film crew - her people - were doing all that they could
to suffocate Norma Jeane, bury her within the depths of all that was Marilyn
Munroe. It was cruel and twisted.
Eventually
they found us; they didn’t have to look hard. Its not that we had tried to
disappear, it was merely a break. Unfortunately they refused to see it that
way. Sir Oliver was the least understanding of them all, steam arising from his
ears as he hurled words of abuse at us.
They
took us back to set, and I was told to never speak to Marilyn ever again, which
was utterly ludicrous considering our inevitable proximity to one another on
set. Marilyn made it easier on me though, I would catch her looking at me,
searching my face, but as soon as our eyes met she would look away, leaving me
to guess what is was she was looking for.
Weeks
went by, of shooting that is. She was getting weaker. They kept increasing her
medication, trying to keep her under control. What little energy she had left
went into the very depths of her character. As soon as the day would come to and
end, she would withdraw completely, becoming a ghost of herself. It was tragic,
but so beautiful to understand her passion.
It
was too much for me. I couldn’t understand, but I was so entirely young and in
love that when I look back on it now none of it makes sense. I killed them, all
of them, every sick and unappreciative one.
I
don’t exactly know what happened that night. I remember going to Marilyn’s room
too check if she was still breathing. That was my ultimate fear. At least if
she was breathing I knew in my heart of hearts that she was in there somewhere.
She was unconscious, still breathing, but only just, I tried to wake her, but
she lay limp in my arms, ice cold and whiter than her soft curls. I screamed
and left the room in a rage. They simply could not keep doing that too her. She
deserved none of it. I was the only one that could teach them a lesson.
After
that I blacked out. The doctors told me I killed them, all of them, in their
sleep. Stabbed. Dead. He told me I went on a rampage and I lost all control.
There was at least 27 people in that house, all well respected members of
Hollywood, and I murdered them.
I had
lost all control, and I didn’t have the slightest idea as to what I was doing.
The horrible
truth of it all is: I couldn’t stop.
