My Story by Marilyn Monroe, Ben Hecht Page A

feel that behind his burst of laughter Mr. Huston was watching me and waiting for me.
    I felt desperate. What was the use of reading in a shaking voice like a terrified amateur? Mr. Huston caught my eye and grinned.
    â€œWe’re waiting, Miss Monroe,” he said.
    â€œI don’t think I’m going to be any good,” I answered.
    Everybody stopped talking and looked at me.
    â€œWould you mind if I read the part lying on the floor?” I blurted out.
    â€œWhy, not at all,” Mr. Huston replied gallantly. “Bill here, will cue you.”
    I stretched myself out on the floor and Bill crouched down beside me. I felt much better. I had rehearsed the part lying on a couch, as the directions indicated. There wasn’t any couch in the office. Lying on the floor was almost the same thing, however.
    I went through the part, with the crouching Bill reading Louis Calhern’s lines. When I finished I said, “Oh, let me do it again.”
    â€œIf you want to,” said Mr. Huston, “but there’s no need.”
    I did it again.
    When I stood up Mr. Huston said, “You were in after the first reading. Go fix yourself up with the wardrobe department.”
    I knew this part wouldn’t be cut out of the picture because it was vital to the plot. I was the reason one of the stars, Louis Calhern, committed suicide. My characterization was Mae West, Theda Bara, and Bo Peep—in tight silk lounging pajamas.

20
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up—and down again
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    In a movie you act in little bits and pieces. You say two lines, and they “
cut
.” They relight, set up the camera in another place—and you act two more lines. You walk five feet, and they say “cut.” The minute you get going good in your characterization, they cut.
    But it doesn’t matter. There’s no audience watching you. There’s nobody to act
for
except yourself. It’s like the games you play when you’re a child and pretend to be somebody else. Usually, it’s even almost the same sort of story you used to make up as a child—about meeting somebody who fell in love with you because, despite everything they’d heard against you, you were a good girl with a heart of gold. I’ve wondered sometimes when I’ve been in a picture if the people making it hadn’t had their children ghostwrite it for them, and I’ve thought, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I accidentally opened a door and there they were—the children who really make up the movies—a room full of eight- and nine-year-old kids. Then I could go to the studio head and say, ‘I’d like to play in something a little better than the script you’ve given me. Something a little more human and true to life.’ And when he answered me that the script was made up by the finest brains in the country and I was a fool to criticize it, I’d tell him I knew his secret—the room full of babies who were creating all the movies. And he’d turn pale and give in, and I’d be given a script written by some adult and become a real actress.”

    I didn’t have this daydream during
Asphalt Jungle
because it was an adult script. There was also an audience watching me act—an audience of one, the director. A director like Mr. Huston makes your work exciting. Some directors seem more interested in photographing the scenery than the actors. They keep moving thecamera around saying, “Here’s a wonderful shot.” Or, “This is a superb set-up. We’ll be able to get the fireplace and the Oriental mask in the frame.” Or they say, “That’ll cut beautifully. It’ll give us a fast tempo.”
    You feel they’re more interested in their directing than they are in your acting. They want the Front Office to praise
them
when the rushes are shown. Mr. Huston wasn’t like that. He was interested in the acting I did. He not only watched it, he was part of