The Misfits

DEATHWATCH

John Huston’s The Misfits is, of course, a must-see curiosity because it’s the deathwatch of Marilyn Monroe and Clark Gable. It’s also a mediocre movie. Even without Monroe’s pill-popping during its making and her well-publicized martial wars with playwright Arthur Miller, who wrote the screenplay, it would have been a disaster. Somehow Miller thought he could write for his wife a character (expanded from his short story published in the 10/57 Esquire) revealing both her angst and vulnerability. Audiences have always accepted the latter but who wants to see her an emotional timebomb, especially after her highly publicized breakdowns and Let’s Make Love? Her drug-bloated performance is sloggy and droopy, her physique booze-flabby; she’s a pitiful zombie, and not earning our pity. The expressionless smiles and anxious sleepy eyes are like after-effects from botox; when Eli Wallach says to her “You have the gift for life,” Miller had to know he was injecting lies. (Her two worthy acting moments come as she’s sitting in a bar soon after getting her Reno divorce and then chewing out Wallach toward the end.) Huston’s direction is equally toxic. Just where was he going with this macabre, morbid horse-as-dog-food opera? Would take Mad Men to provide perspective. According to Miller’s account in Timebends, Huston sometimes fell asleep behind the camera, waking up not remembering what scenes were being filmed. Having viewed the telltale rushes, did he and Miller consciously sabotage Marilyn? With so many sets of eyes leering as she’s playing paddle ball in a bar, we become acutely aware of the contemptible exploitation. By the time Huston “took the bull by the horns” and had Marilyn undergo a two-week detox, it was too late to salvage. Reading James Goode’s The Making of The Misfits, we’re told repeatedly how enthralled everyone was by the screenplay, and with the movie itself even after post production was being hurried to release soon after Gable’s death, yet the comments reek of deceptive advertising, especially composer Alex North’s opinions ranking among the most extravagantly false ever uttered. The book lacks substantial informational imput overall, glancing over much of Monroe’s turmoil, Gable’s drinking, Huston’s drinking and gambling by phone and his and Miller’s ambivalence, the Lee Strasberg minions’ gross meddling. In Roy Newquist’s Conversations with Joan Crawford, Joan claimed Gable called her while he was shooting and said, “This picture couldn’t be better named. None of us should be in the same goddamn room together. Miller, Marilyn, Monty Clift—they’re all loonies. It’s a fucking mess!” He instinctively knew it would be: initially turning down the part, he carped the screenplay didn’t make sense. Miller’s personal pitch convinced him to take the plunge: “This is an Eastern Western about the meaninglessness of life.” (A lot of rewriting on location.) According to Huston, Gable, hospitalized after suffering a heart attack five days after filming was completed, saw a rushed rough cut of his performance and deemed it the best of his career before a second and fatal heart attack seven days later. After the arduous shooting and all of Monroe’s unhinging—she would be dead a year and a half later—he probably wanted to believe he was “the last real man left” who could play a character named Gay. If there’s a surprise, it’s Clift acting reasonably well and looking as opposed to being healthy, giving us the impression he was, temporarily, somewhat free from his psycho kinesthesia. With Thelma Ritter, Estelle Winwood and Kevin McCarthy.

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ralphbenner@nowreviewing.com