take care of you,” he told her. “Show business isn’t any business for a girl like you.”
Dorothy Arnold, a minor film actress, had left behind a failed career to become the first Mrs. DiMaggio, and Joe couldn’t understand why Marilyn refused to do the same.
“She’s a plain kid. She’d give up the business if I asked her,” DiMaggio, full of pride, insisted to Jimmy Cannon. “She’d quit the movies in a minute. It means nothing to her.”
DiMaggio, of all people, should have known what the movies meant to Marilyn. The man who once said, “A ballplayer’s got to be hungry to become a big leaguer, that’s why no boy from a rich family ever made the big leagues,” should have understood why Marilyn wanted so desperately to be a star.
DiMaggio had once been the most graceful of players. Toots Shor used to say that Joe even looked good when he struck out. DiMaggio’s movements, wrote Jimmy Cannon, seemed to have been “plotted by a choreographer concerned only with the defeat of awkwardness.” But now, in his new job doing pre-and post-game television interviews for the Yankees, the “deft serenity” which he had projected on the baseball field deserted him. As an interviewer, he was rigid and unnatural. His stage fright was painfully obvious, and it was clear that he didn’t like to talk on camera any more than he did off. He read scripted lines clumsily and, though the show went out live, he couldn’t improvise. On one occasion he refused to go on unless the opening cue card, which had been lost, was found. It read, “Hi, I’m Joe DiMaggio. Welcome to the Joe DiMaggio Show.”
DiMaggio, Toots Shor once said, liked to do things well or not at all. That’s why he quit baseball when his body started to wear out. That’s why his television show was so embarrassing; it felt like a fall from grace. And that, probably, is why his relationship with Marilyn was so painful. He couldn’t seem to understand why it failed to live up to his ideal. DiMaggio had difficulty accepting that in life he might never achieve the perfection he had known in baseball.
Even when DiMaggio was still playing ball, his “deft serenity” on the field did not necessarily carry over into human relations. DiMaggio had a poor boy’s rage which never left him. He was tormented by fears that he was being taken advantage of. He was constantly testing everyone’s loyalty. He was always on the lookout for what a person or an organization wanted from him. He hated the feeling that he was being used. It was a feeling he seemed to have often. DiMaggio engaged in messy, acrimonious contract disputes that led some journalists to call him arrogant. He was acutely sensitive to what other people thought of him—“I know people who meet me go away saying to themselves that I’m a swell-headed Dago,” Joe once told Toots Shor—but he persisted. Salary was not really the issue. Toots Shor, who knew DiMaggio better than most, put it best: “It wasn’t just the money, it was pride.”
DiMaggio’s attitude would begin to show itself in Marilyn’s, and be reflected in her actions. They shared a thick streak of suspiciousness, and because Joe was an outsider in Hollywood who wanted nothing from her but love, Marilyn believed she could trust him. DiMaggio may havehad little regard for Marilyn’s work, but more and more he would have a significant impact on how she handled her career.
In June, Marilyn crossed the New York border to Canada for several weeks of location shooting. Before she even had a chance to get started, however, there was concern back at the studio that casting her in
Niagara
might have been a mistake after all. Zanuck’s upset had nothing to do with whether she could handle the role of Rose Loomis, a faithless wife who plans to kill her husband. Instead, he was puzzled by the disappointing box-office receipts of
Don’t Bother to Knock.
At Twentieth, Marilyn continued to receive an enormous volume of fan mail, but
Dorothy Arnold, a minor film actress, had left behind a failed career to become the first Mrs. DiMaggio, and Joe couldn’t understand why Marilyn refused to do the same.
“She’s a plain kid. She’d give up the business if I asked her,” DiMaggio, full of pride, insisted to Jimmy Cannon. “She’d quit the movies in a minute. It means nothing to her.”
DiMaggio, of all people, should have known what the movies meant to Marilyn. The man who once said, “A ballplayer’s got to be hungry to become a big leaguer, that’s why no boy from a rich family ever made the big leagues,” should have understood why Marilyn wanted so desperately to be a star.
DiMaggio had once been the most graceful of players. Toots Shor used to say that Joe even looked good when he struck out. DiMaggio’s movements, wrote Jimmy Cannon, seemed to have been “plotted by a choreographer concerned only with the defeat of awkwardness.” But now, in his new job doing pre-and post-game television interviews for the Yankees, the “deft serenity” which he had projected on the baseball field deserted him. As an interviewer, he was rigid and unnatural. His stage fright was painfully obvious, and it was clear that he didn’t like to talk on camera any more than he did off. He read scripted lines clumsily and, though the show went out live, he couldn’t improvise. On one occasion he refused to go on unless the opening cue card, which had been lost, was found. It read, “Hi, I’m Joe DiMaggio. Welcome to the Joe DiMaggio Show.”
DiMaggio, Toots Shor once said, liked to do things well or not at all. That’s why he quit baseball when his body started to wear out. That’s why his television show was so embarrassing; it felt like a fall from grace. And that, probably, is why his relationship with Marilyn was so painful. He couldn’t seem to understand why it failed to live up to his ideal. DiMaggio had difficulty accepting that in life he might never achieve the perfection he had known in baseball.
Even when DiMaggio was still playing ball, his “deft serenity” on the field did not necessarily carry over into human relations. DiMaggio had a poor boy’s rage which never left him. He was tormented by fears that he was being taken advantage of. He was constantly testing everyone’s loyalty. He was always on the lookout for what a person or an organization wanted from him. He hated the feeling that he was being used. It was a feeling he seemed to have often. DiMaggio engaged in messy, acrimonious contract disputes that led some journalists to call him arrogant. He was acutely sensitive to what other people thought of him—“I know people who meet me go away saying to themselves that I’m a swell-headed Dago,” Joe once told Toots Shor—but he persisted. Salary was not really the issue. Toots Shor, who knew DiMaggio better than most, put it best: “It wasn’t just the money, it was pride.”
DiMaggio’s attitude would begin to show itself in Marilyn’s, and be reflected in her actions. They shared a thick streak of suspiciousness, and because Joe was an outsider in Hollywood who wanted nothing from her but love, Marilyn believed she could trust him. DiMaggio may havehad little regard for Marilyn’s work, but more and more he would have a significant impact on how she handled her career.
In June, Marilyn crossed the New York border to Canada for several weeks of location shooting. Before she even had a chance to get started, however, there was concern back at the studio that casting her in
Niagara
might have been a mistake after all. Zanuck’s upset had nothing to do with whether she could handle the role of Rose Loomis, a faithless wife who plans to kill her husband. Instead, he was puzzled by the disappointing box-office receipts of
Don’t Bother to Knock.
At Twentieth, Marilyn continued to receive an enormous volume of fan mail, but
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