Hollywood BiographyWas Marilyn Monroe murdered? Did she die by her own hand, and if so was it an accident? What was the Kennedy connection?
The Mafia connection then? Was she a genius or a beautiful ham? Was she beautiful at all, or merely, as the photographer Burt Glinn would have it, "nothing special, a face like a Polish flat plate who simply had the ability to project". What of her personality - bitch or angel? Victim or manipulating liar? Monroe the nymphomaniac or Monroe the frigid? Monroe the once-off lover of Joan Crawford? Did her mother try to smother her, or was that the mad granny? What about that Joe di Maggio beating her up in a jealous rage after she showed her knickers to the world in the famous Lexington Avenue air-vent photograph? Or maybe she got those bruises after a drunken/dope-fuelled fall? And who invented her in the first place - the studio bosses? Or was she her own sweet, slow creation? One thing is for certain - all these questions and more will not be answered by reading Sarah Churchwell's book.
In fairness to Churchwell, she doesn't promise answers; what she does instead is offer us "the story of the stories of Marilyn Monroe". In other words, she has compiled a sort of mini- encyclopaedia containing extracts from biographies and writings, fictional or otherwise, on the Monroe enigma. And what a bitchy lot those biographers are! They contradict and dismiss each other at every turn so that nothing is definite and yet anything is possible. In the meantime, Churchwell isn't much help, hopping from fence to fence, feet never touching the ground. Presumably this is in an effort to give an impartial view of Monroe but surely a bit of a guiding hand wouldn't be too much to expect? On the odd occasion when she does involve herself, Churchwell wanders through the different versions of events scattering favourite words such as "apocrypha" about the place like rose petals and slapping wrists in a manner that lets us know there can only be one true teacher in this particular classroom. And still she confirms nothing.
So what do we get? A lengthy introduction which reads more like a series of excuses for writing the book in the first place. Then we have the story or "stories" per se, dealing with every aspect of Monroe from her eyebrows down. All ends with a cringe-inducing chapter in which Churchwell claims Monroe as her own, repeating the phrase "My Marilyn" is this, "My Marilyn" is that, until at last it's all over and we are left as bewildered as the ditziest doped-up blonde ever to have sashayed across a film set.
For all the supposition and so-called facts there are significant omissions; the little details that make up a life. Monroe's childhood is barely touched on, although the possibility of sexual interference gets plenty of mention. Nor is her relationship with her mother ever explored. Her life prior to stardom also remains a mystery and even when she dies we are told Monroe's body was left unclaimed for hours in the morgue ("the body desired by millions belongs to no- one"). Yet we are never told who eventually did claim her, nor are the details of the funeral related. It would have been interesting to know who turned up to say goodbye to this pathetic woman and whether the Kennedys had the nerve to send flowers.
Throughout 351 pages there is no sense that anyone may have actually loved Monroe. Oh, her body is eulogised, adored, desired, and dissected. Even her womb is a topic for discussion going beyond the gynaecological catalogue of miscarriages and possible abortions (did she or didn't she?) into the fiction of Joyce Carol Oates's Blonde, where we find Monroe entangled with the US president and wondering if "my empty womb this man might fill". As if.
Arthur Miller too, appears to have looked on his brand-new wife as an object, taking notes on their marriage which he later used in his play, After the Fall, showing Maggie as a "version of Marilyn" in a far from flattering light and confirming that Monroe the wife had been demanding and vicious, in need of constant nursing and reassurance. But, of course, by then Monroe was the ex-wife and dead, so hardly in a position to defend herself. Which leads us to the question of respect.
Why did nobody seem to respect Monroe? She was the main box-office draw for Fox Studios yet received 10 times less than her co-star, Jane Russell, for Gentleman Prefer Blondes. And she had to fight for her own dressing room. Something's Got to Give paid no more than $100,000. Meanwhile, Fox was throwing a cool million at Elizabeth Taylor for Cleopatra with an extra $50,000-a-week bonus for the overtime she was herself reportedly causing. The prize for the ultimate lack of respect, however, must go to Elton John for snatching back his tribute, Candle in the Wind, adjusting it accordingly, then handing it over to Princess Diana.
It is interesting to note that nowhere in this book are we shown the slightest touch of generosity on Monroe's part, not even a simple act of charity. She spoke often of her life in the orphanage. But if she ever threw a few bob towards any orphans it's not mentioned here.
Will the legend live on? Not if this bore of a book has any influence. One last question remains - why is this book entitled The Many Lives of Marilyn Monroe ? It seems to me to have been just one life, and a rather narrow one at that.
Christine Dwyer Hickey's latest book, Tatty, is published by New Island
The Many Lives of Marilyn Monroe: A Biography By Sarah Churchwell Granta, 336pp. £18.99