Marilyn Monroe was born a hundred years ago today. She was famous enough in her lifetime to be one of those rare figures referred to by their first name alone. Such fame seldom lasts. Even Frank now needs to be called ‘Sinatra’. She is still ‘Marilyn’ partly because the name fell out of use; her fame survives partly because she died young – of a barbiturate overdose, presumed to be suicide – at the age of thirty-six.
My favourite Monroe story is one told by Billy Wilder, who directed and co-wrote the film Some Like It Hot. Newly engaged to Arthur Miller, the actress was taken to meet Miller’s parents in a small New York apartment with thin walls. Nervous of being overheard while she was using the bathroom, Monroe turned on the taps to cover the noise. Miller phoned the next day to ask what impression his bride-to-be had made. ‘Sweet girl,’ his mother replied. ‘Wonderful girl. Pisses like a horse.’
Monroe’s afterlife has oscillated between those states: goddess and mammal
The joke works because the whole scene ceases to be about fame and becomes about being human. Monroe’s afterlife has oscillated between those states: goddess and mammal, icon and woman caught short. Other stories do the same, but few make you immediately like everyone involved that little bit more. A transcript – supposedly of tapes Marilyn made for her psychiatrist, though the originals were never produced – has her saying that her greatest acting came in bed. ‘I would win overwhelmingly if the Academy gave an Oscar for faking orgasms,’ she reportedly said. Human, certainly, but with an undercurrent of sadness, and even in its kindest interpretation a statement about manners triumphing over sincerity.
