In addition to the gorgeous photographs taken by Milton Greene, I find this half-formed book fascinating for three reasons: for the way the ghost of Marilyn Monroe haunts our image of sensuality, for the way the ghost of Norma Jean Mortenson haunts the image of Marilyn Monroe, and for the way the ghost of ghost-writer Ben Hecht haunts the first person voice of this artful, unfinished narrative.
Three nights ago, for the umpteenth time, I watched Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, and for the first time in many viewings I took my eyes off Jane Russell (my favorite, the sex symbol a man could have a beer with) and gazed steadily at the perfectly-crafted image of Marilyn Monroe. It was weird for me, for, in spite of how fascinating she is, I felt compelled to avert my gaze, as if I were peeping at the nakedness of a divinity, as if I were staring presumptuously into a sacred fire. How could the image of one woman, dead for fifty years, still channel so powerfully the archetype of The Goddess? My Story provides a few hints, but no real answers.
Perhaps it is easier for The Goddess to possess a girl who is unsure of her own identity. Young Norma Jean Mortenson was unsure of everything: who her parents were, what it might feel like to be loved, even the legitimacy of the name by which she was called. (She did not know her father, but she knew his name was not “Mortenson.”) Later, when she began to “develop,” she felt alienated from her own body, and thought of it as something other than herself, her “magic friend.” She states that she never realized her “magic friend” was causing sexual feelings in the boys in her math class, because she, at this stage in her life, had no sexual feelings at all. Sure, she consciously dressed in a revealing sweater, and practiced a new “languorous” walk, but still she continued to be bemused and surprised at her effect on the men around her. Perhaps that way it was easier for The Goddess to begin to do her work.
I think, though, that one of the most intriguing thing about My Story is the presence (and absence) of the voice of its ghost writer, the legendary screen-writer Ben Hecht (Scarface, Twentieth Century, Nothing Sacred, and more than a score of uncredited contributions to classics such as A Star is Born, Gone With the Wind, and The Shop Around the Corner). A couple of years after he scripted one of her best early comic performances (Monkey Business), he was hired to get her story down on paper, based on personal interviews and taped conversations. I surmise that the cynical ex-newspaper reporter only gradually warmed to the collaboration, that he often wearied of her tearful delivery and her doeful revelations: his nicknames for her were “the Ex-Orphan” and "La Belle Bumps and Tears." Eventually, though, Hecht seemed to see her emotional reaction as an advantage for him, for as he remarked, “the moment a true thing comes out of her mouth, her eyes shed tears. She's like her own Lie Detector." The completed memoir was also supposed to include her ascension to stardom, Gentleman Prefer Blondes, the death of her Aunt Grace, and her wish to give birth to a child. But—alas!--the marriage with DiMaggio became too combative, and the whole project was scrapped.
Hecht does an excellent job of re-creating the voice of the wide-eyed Norma Jean, but there are moments—references to pushcart peddlers, a sexual “vampire,” a woman with a rose in her teeth—that sound more like the voice of the 60-year-old screenwriter than the superstar still in her late 20's. And there's one anecdote--about a nice young war veteran hawking miniature silver stars in Union Station who asks Norma Jean to marry him--which sounds just like one of Hecht's "cold city with a warm heart" vignettes, straight out of something like his own Miracle in the Rain.
But that's okay. Looking for the ghost of the cynical old screenwriter in this book's simple, well-crafted prose is one of the fascinating pleasures of reading My Story.