"You're different," she tells him, as he hails a cab for her. "Other men just see a body…they're just attracted sexually." "Maybe I'm not so different," says Miller, who starts saying that he's married and has kids and everything but then winds up kissing her. The Saxophone Of Tawdry Yet Soulfully Compelling Passion plays on the soundtrack. They fall in love. He's kind of an older guy. Do you suppose that means anything?
She and Miller talk to reporters in England. "How does it feel being married?" one asks. "Wonderful," says Marilyn. "Now my life is perfect." Oh, God, there she goes again. And I bet every time Marilyn says, "Ooh, my life is perfect now!" in this movie, Joyce Carol Oates finishes another damn book. She's probably written about 27 books since Sunday and I'm still working on this freakin' recap…um, where was I?
Oh yeah: Marilyn goes off to England to shoot The Prince and the Showgirl with Laurence Olivier. Olivier paces around the set because Marilyn keeps them all waiting for hours at a time. When she finally shows up, she complains to Olivier about the script. "I don't like that my strap breaks when I curtsey! It's cheap, and it’s vaudeville, and it's Marx Brothers --" "Darling," says Olivier, "it's comedy." She fumes a little, and he grins patronizingly. "My dear, just act sexy." He winks, and she runs off the set. Then she starts to really lose it in front of Arthur Miller in their hotel room. "I think Olivier put a curse on me…he hates me…it's like his skin crawls when I touch him," she babbles. "Do I smell? Do I smell? I don't understand, because they hate me, they hate me!" Commence hysterics, accusations, yelling, throwing of pill bottles, screaming, crazed dry-humping. This might be a cry for help or something.
Arthur Miller takes her to his cottage in Maine to calm her down. Marilyn frolics on the beach. "Oh, Daddy, this is the happiest day in my life," she says. Okay, I think I'm going to set up a charity called Pledge A Marilyn Monroe Pathetic Hyperbole. Operators will be standing by every time one of her biopics airs, and the proceeds will help lots of little orphan children who will never ever be sad ever again!
Back to the story: Marilyn's pregnant. Arthur Miller acts as her agent and turns down an offer for Some Like It Hot. Marilyn keeps getting all flaky and comes home late and chatters about meeting her father and insists she hears babies crying in the cellar at night. Then when Miller's out fishing, she comes across a draft of a play of his, and she thinks he's writing about her and gets upset. Then Miller comes home and finds her at the bottom of the cellar stairs, and she's miscarried. Okay, about that pledge drive I just mentioned: I kind of think there won’t be any more pledges ever again.
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Wedding; reporters; sunshine; Marilyn saying, "This is the happiest day of my whole entire life!" And then -- oh, um…and then I guess we're moving on, because now some twitchy guy meets with DiMaggio in a bar and shows him an envelope filled with photos. Twitchy guy says he means no disrespect to DiMaggio and his "real classy lady," but he's blackmailing DiMaggio for the negatives of old dirty photos of Marilyn. DiMaggio hands over an envelope filled with cash. "Thanks, Slugger," says Twitchy. "You did the right thing." DiMaggio gets up and slams the guy's face into the bar and breaks his nose. Then he leaves. Then Simon and Garfunkel write sweet, wistful song lyrics about him.
Marilyn is in the bedroom, which is strewn everywhere with clothes, and she tries desperately to pick a few things up. "I -- I don't know how it got this way," she explains. "I've been sick, I guess." DiMaggio whacks her in the face. Dude, that "Slugger" nickname is supposed to be, like, a baseball thing.
"Is that what you are? Meat?" he yells. "No, Daddy, I don't want to be," she sobs. DiMaggio sweeps bottles off her dressing table and shouts about how messy she is. ["Why don't they have a maid? They're stars, for god's sack." -- Sars
] Then he goes into a tirade about how the studio is exploiting her and she'd better say no to the next movie. She begs him no, but he waves a finger at her and says, "You tell them you're quitting. Your husband says NO!" Marilyn sobs, and then he turns all Nice Daddy and says he's sorry he hit her; he just hates to see her get exploited. Because, dammit, abuse belongs at home! "Yes, Daddy," weeps Marilyn. "It's scary when scenes with real people…just…go on." DiMaggio speaks from The Beyond. "She meant more to me than she meant to herself," he says with remorse. "After she died, I had roses sent to her crypt for twenty years." Oh, way to give away the ending, Slugger.
Next, Marilyn's in New York at that Actor's Studio thingy, doing a read-through of one of Arthur Miller's plays, and no, I don't know which one; it's the one with the character named Magda in it. Everyone is wearing dingy clothes and smoking a lot. Arthur Miller watches Marilyn read through some of Magda's lines, and then he storms out all pissed at Lee Strasberg for casting some Hollywood chick in his play. But later Marilyn meets with Miller to talk about her role. "This girl Magda? She's like the girl in Chekhov's Three Sisters
…Emma? The one with the sash that's the wrong color…" "Did Mr. Strasberg tell you this?" says Miller cynically. "Oh, no," says Marilyn. "I read the play myself, years ago," and she gives a semiotic analysis of the female personal vis-à-vis Chekhov (well, practically) while Arthur Miller's eyes bug out of his head. They make googly eyes at one another, like, intellectually, you know.
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