BIG little Marilyn

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.