My Story

function as some sort of an official.

Everything went well until the U.S. Armed Forces stepped in. The Armed Forces also run a publicity department. A publicity officer wanted to know if I would like to help the Armed Forces in their campaign to recruit Wacs, Waves, and Spars to serve Uncle Sam.

I said I would love to do that.

The next day a Publicity Photograph was arranged. I stood surrounded by a Wac, Wave, and Spar. They were good-looking girls, and they were dressed in uniforms. I, on the other hand, not being in any military service, couldn’t very well wear a uniform. I wore one of my regular afternoon dresses. Joe hadn’t yet won his argument about the neckline.

It was an entirely decent dress. You could ride in a street car in it without disturbing the passengers.

But there was one bright-minded photographer who figured he would get a more striking picture if he photographed me shooting down. I didn’t notice him pointing his camera from the balcony a few feet above me. I posed for the camera in front of us.

The next day brought the scandal. The “shooting down” photograph had been condemned by some army general. He said it would be bad for the Armed Services for parents to think their daughters might be subjected to the influences of somebody like me—who showed her bosom in public.

I thought this a little mean. I hadn’t meant to show my bosom, and I hadn’t been aware of the camera that was peeping down under my bodice.

Of course nobody would believe me.

Earl Wilson, who writes about bosoms in the New York Post interviewed me over the telephone.

“Come now, Marilyn,” he said, “didn’t you lean forward for that shot?”

I said I hadn’t. It was the photographer who had leaned downward.

I felt silly about the whole thing. It was surprising that a woman’s bosom, slightly revealed, could become a matter of national concern. You would think that all the other women kept their bosoms in a vault.

I didn’t mind the publicity too much although I felt I had outgrown the cheesecake phase of my movie career. I was hoping now that some of my other talents might be recognized.

The bad thing about cheesecake publicity is the letters you get from cranks. They are often frightening.

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.

33 a wise man opens my eyes

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