Jerry Lewis' Supercharged Fun-Loving Masculinity

Jerry Lewis was one of the most radical stars within mainstream Hollywood. His elevation of emotional trauma to the level of star status was an extraordinary innovation. While the norms of Hollywood storytelling and acting emphasize hierarchy and consistency, Lewis developed throughout his career a wildly unpredictable, volatile performance style, one that destabilized the notion of “character” as conceived by Hollywood and pointed to the innovations of experimental filmmakers like Jack Smith. In 1954, the Martin and Lewis tandem was on its last legs: the duo was squabbling openly, but managed to eke out three more films together, including Tashlin’s pair Artists and Models (1955) and Hollywood or Bust (1956), certainly among their best films. In Hollywood or Bust (1956) the naïf is Malcolm Smith (Jerry Lewis), a nebbish who wins honestly the car raffle. Through Steve Wiley's (Dean Martin's character) eventual redemption, the swindler (Martin) wins back the love of his girlfriend Terry (Pat Crowley) while Jerry nurses a crush for Anita (Ekberg). His story arc with Dean was so constant in their film adventures that Jerry complained to Modern Screen magazine in 1953: "I may be a box office attraction, but I never get the girls."

Yet our first impression of Malcolm as a lusty and somewhat dorky all-American boy is entirely misleading. Over the course of Hollywood or Bust, Malcolm’s hunger for Anita Ekberg blossoms into an almost fetishistic perversion. Malcolm obsesses about Ekberg’s “undies” hanging next to his own, while biting his knuckles, arching his eyebrows, and making guilty faces. Malcolm’s immediate response to Steve’s “last picture” comment is sexually oblivious, however: he launches into a detailed explanation of Ekberg’s last movie (The Lavender Tattooer, a dopey pun on The Rose Tattoo [1955]): 'It was produced by the Nathan Brothers and directed by William B. Hoffmeyer. The screenplay was by Willie Rachauer, Harry Jones and Florence Hershfield—that was for the woman’s touch—from a play by John and Betty Stetson, based on an incidental remark dropped by a waiter at Sardi’s (Nicholas Blaney), in Technicolor and VistaVision.' 

Malcolm follows this insanely nuanced description with a brief wince—as if exhausted by the level of erudition he’s exhibited—and then proceeds to demonstrate Anita Ekberg’s “Bali-Bali dance.” He ends the dance by grimacing and rubbing his head, a gesture that invokes Lewis’s usual “spastically” desperate performance style. If Malcolm in Hollywood or Bust changes personality on the slightest of whims, The Nutty Professor’s Julius Kelp is so self-contradictory that he fractures into two entirely different characters. Frank Krutnik sees a similar schizophrenia not only in the characters Lewis plays onscreen but also in the other, nonfilmic images that Lewis has cultivated throughout his career. According to Krutnik, there are at least three different Jerrys, all of whom clearly on display in Hollywood or Bust: the Idiot-Kid, the familiar Lewis-figure; the “successful” Jerry Lewis as Hollywood director; and Telethon Jerry, the persona that ascended with the decline of Lewis’s film career, but prefigured in the sentimental didacticisms of films like The Errand Boy and The Nutty Professor.

In an article from Films in Review in 1953, critic Robert Kass provided a vivid description of Lewis’s Idiot persona as it had appeared in the half dozen Martin and Lewis films the team had already made: 'In appearance, Lewis is a freak—a shockingly immature, stringy six-footer with a crew hair cut, wide and expressionless eyes, and a face capable of astonishing grimaces. He hides behind an idiotic laugh. His speaking voice is a squawk, his singing voice a shattering screech. Despite unpredictable behavior, tantrums, fits of weeping, he is rather nice—because he is harmless. Men can look down with comfortable superiority upon his athletic failures; women feel a tender protectiveness as toward a retarded child… he is the neighborhood freak, the affection-starved moron... Like a child suffering from an extreme form of hyperactivity, the Idiot is incompetent, chaotic, and unruly, crashing around, sometimes teetering on the edge of violence but never quite going over that edge, never quite becoming dangerous.' Kass provides a good start, but Lewis’s screen persona is more complicated than this. Kass particularly objects to Lewis’s “supercharged lunacy” and is especially repelled by how Lewis makes a comic shtick out of mental dysfunction, characterized by lack of bodily coordination and a crazy, purposeless energy. 

The Stooge (1951) provides Lewis with his own love interest in the form of “Frecklehead” (Marion Marshall), a childlike, pigtail-wearing, lovestruck ditz, as prone to fits of lisping and pouting as Lewis is to whining and screeching. Frecklehead is Lewis’s female equivalent, an Idiot girl, awkward and incompetent like Lewis but not unlovable in her own way. Similarly, however ridiculous and imbecilic Lewis appears in The Stooge, he is always warm-hearted and affectionate, rather like a backward child who can be irritating at times but never annoying enough to become actively dislikable. Not only was the film a hit with audiences, but also remembered by Lewis with great fondness. 

Frank Krutnik explains how this disruptive behavior was notably emphasized in the Martin and Lewis comedies, where Jerry Lewis appears as Dean Martin’s “grotesquely deformed doppelganger,” adding: “Lewis developed his comic persona as a hysterical inversion of the cool and self-possessed handsome man.” Baffled by Lewis’s enormous popularity, critics attempted to rationalize audiences’ fascination with this bizarre aping of imbecility, complete with spastic gestures and emotional incompetence. The mentally ill thus became one group among many—beatniks, feminists, minories—suggesting the radical potential of a united counterculture against the gigantic, normalizing hegemony of capitalist consensus.

The secularization of psychoanalysis, the development of group therapy and counseling programs, and the public visibility of the mentally ill meant that those with mental difficulties were gradually ceasing to be “them” and rapidly becoming “us.” Today, only 2 percent of the mentally ill are in hospitals, and 93 percent are in the community, in group homes, or in comparable settings. Massachusetts, for example, had eleven state mental hospitals in 1950; now it has only four. Had the number of asylum patients kept pace with the state population, there would have been more than thirty-two thousand patients in Massachusetts hospitals today. Instead, there are slightly fewer than one thousand, the majority of whom will spend less than a year in an institution. This movement toward deinstitutionalization was both a result of a reaction to a major change in public attitudes toward mental illness. The development of new psychotropic medications often made mental illness virtually invisible; tics, twitches, and seizures were replaced by a sedated, zombie-like calm that allowed people to appear less peculiar, if also less expressive, in public. By the mid-1950s it was no longer necessary to see mental illness in terms of odd behavior, violence, and psychosis, indicating a movement toward increased acceptance of the mentally disabled.

What is the connection, then, between the enormous appeal of Jerry Lewis’s Idiot persona in the early 1950s and the new public exposure to former mental patients now living ordinary lives in the community? One might imagine that their new public presence would make audiences less predisposed to finding amusement in a comedian whose act involves what can be seen as an imitation of the mentally disabled. To understand fully the appeal of Jerry Lewis, we must first understand how laughter functions as an index of repression, how the audience’s warm reception of a comedian’s routine can be seen as an indication of the audience’s profound fear. It has been suggested that laughter is not so connected to humor as it's related to a nexus of deep emotions related to fear, aggression, shame, anxiety, and neurosis. The lack of a sustained and coherent relationship between laughter and feelings of “mirth” has been well testified (see Psychological Health and Sense of Humor by Thorson and Powell, 1991). According to psychoanalysis, only when the unconscious motives of the comedian are recognized as paramount can humor be understood at all. 

In this light, certain displays of humor can be seen to function as a somatic displacement, revealing bitter and hostile despair. The comic display constitutes a ritual form of protective cover, a socially sanctioned disguise. Most frequently, the comedian is using the form of comedy to exteriorize or “get rid of” unpleasant truths and experiences, and humor is a means by which he can “pass on the blow” and, in the process, slough off some anxiety onto his listeners. Later Freudian and Lacanian analysts have discussed how, in such typical vignettes, the clown comes to represent the self, whose embodiment as mature adult (Martin) is mocked by the childhood personality (Lewis). The adult is reduced, destabilized, and desexualized by the child, a process that articulates fears of regression and disintegration. In A Reclassification of Psychopathological States (1961) Joseph Levine regards the clown as expressing—in an appropriately controlled and yet uncontrolled form—the repressed aspects of a particular society. The public clown or comedian offers us an outlet for our anxieties about those events, situations, that we find most frightening. The comedian is thereby responsible for handling something that Levine describes as “embarrassing, astonishing and shocking.” In the case of Jerry Lewis, this shameful societal taboo is the dread of mental illness. 

At Paramutual Studios we find ourselves in a delightful but precarious dream state in which English as we knew it outside the theater is not spoken. Everyone we see seems to share Jerry Lewis’s fabled penchant for fractured speech. Further, a logical ground of sorts is provided for Morty’s infantilistic vocal stylings when we recall that he is an infant in the studio community. Is Morty attempting to pronounce the surname “Babewosental” in respectful imitation of hapless Miss Giles? In any case, he fails utterly, gargling hopelessly and self-deprecatingly, and with no serious attempt at a verbal skill he has no reason to believe he can master “Benvedbenten.” Then, with real optimism, he tries, “Ben-paybobo-pay-b’pay.” A 1965 piece by John Russell Taylor accurately addresses Lewis’s verbal comedy. “an entirely personal way of mangling English, with nouns turning into verbs, verbs into adjectives, notions duplicating themselves, twisting, turning, dividing and re- forming in a babble which stays always tantalisingly on the edge of comprehension, just this side of total disintegration into gibberish.” 

In making this beautifully articulated film about being cut off from honest and serious participation in the community/social scene, Jerry Lewis comments on exclusion and alienation in relation to social value. Morty is locked out of genuine participation in the world he is observing for his superiors. The Errand Boy can be seen as a statement about exclusion— a central concern of Jerry Lewis at the time this film was made. The “nuttiness” of his stage persona was gradually shifting from the nominal weirdness of an eccentric neurotic shackled to Dean Martin’s conventionality to an entirely different kind of isolation, an existential singularity and essential unrelatedness, a man enisled. Morty is confronted by some twenty secretaries, each at her own desk, and all working mum against the echoing crackle of their typewriters. Here the inability to recognize an appropriate moment for delicate silence reveals Morty’s disconnection. The swimming-pool scene is a handy exemplification of Morty’s overall detachment from studio life. It is also a profoundly comic moment, unique, as far as I can tell, in that it seems unrelated to any of the six categories of visual gags that Noël Carroll presents in his thesis On Jokes (1991).

The counterhegemonic authorial stance that leads Lewis to frame the story of a linguistic bumbler in—of all places—a film studio opens for us the possibility to see that studio in full exploitative swing as a site of capitalism. While some critics would suggest with Laura Mulvey that power is a reflection of masculinity, The Errand Boy suggests the reverse: that “masculinity” is an attribution of power and that our use of the label “male” is a production itself, not the natural outcome of an intrinsic force. That the studio environment—a model of capitalist society—is far from a utopia, The Errand Boy reminds us persistently, as we listen to Morty not fitting in as any proper employee should. Jerry Lewis arranged himself carefully for that bad fit, with some real awareness of the damage hierarchical social arrangements could do. In the face of the kind of disenfranchisement shown so clearly in The Errand Boy, indeed, the idea of society as a sanctuary is only a dream. —Sources: "Jerry Lewis and Screen Performance in Hollywood or Bust" by Craig Fischer and "The Errand Boy: Morty S. Tashman and the Powers of the Tongue" by Murray Pomerance (2002)

Highly intelligent people tend to make good progress in the workplace and are seen as fit for leadership roles: overall, smarter is usually associated with success. But new research in the Journal of Applied Psychology finds evidence that too much intelligence can harm leadership effectiveness. Intelligence showed a positive linear relationship with leadership, but this association flattened out and then reversed at an IQ of about 120. For leaders with higher intelligence than this, their scores in transformational and instrumental leadership were lower, on average, than less smart leaders; and beyond an IQ of 128, the association with less effective leadership was clear and statistically significant. The new findings can’t tell us why very smart people seem to make poorer leaders, but it’s possible leaders who stand intellectually apart are less inspiring, and they may find it difficult to reduce tasks to an appropriate level of simplicity. In a social world, even highly advantageous traits can come with some drawbacks. And they also give defensive managers an excuse for a poor performance review: “I’m too clever for these guys!” Source: digest.bps.org.uk

Jerry Lewis's alleged IQ was 145. As much as Jerry Lewis and the Rat Pack had disdained the rise of the hippie movement, their early ethos of casual masculinity anticipated the late 1960s concerns around leisure, slacking off, tuning out, and freeing one’s mind. It is common to see Buddy Love in The Nutty Professor as Lewis’s commentary on Dean Martin, perhaps the ultimate incarnation of the slacker/worker. But in changing into Buddy Love, Professor Kelp physically became more like Jerry Lewis himself with his well honed sense of casual cool. The Ladies Man blurs vocation and avocation and signals a quite 1960s sense of man’s “work” as highly sexualized. Herbert charms in a guileless manner: it is even central to Lewis characters that they become sexy even as they’re geeky. The ending of The Nutty Professor—where Kelp combines features of both of his personalities (professor and playboy)—encapsulates this desire to capture 1960s masculine identity as a blend of cool suaveness and carefree spontaneity. This sexualization of a fun-loving masculinity is central to a 1960s ethos. Jerry Lewis’s sexual persona differed from that of Bob Hope’s in that, whereas Hope was wolfish but effeminate, Lewis was girl-crazy and immature. Lewis is not so much emasculated as he is underdeveloped, reduced to blabbering and extreme uncoördination by the mere presence of attractive women. By 1957, beginning with The Delicate Delinquent, the sexually immature man-child of films such as Artists and Models is gradually replaced by gentler, more normal characters who are genuinely interested in attaining romantic love.

Women want sex far more than we've been allowed to believe. So suggests a new book that shatters many of our most cherished myths about desire, including the widespread assumption that women's lust is inextricably bound up with emotional connection. In What Do Women Want? Adventures in the Science of Female Desire (2013) journalist Daniel Bergner suggests that when it comes to acknowledging just how much women lust, we've passed the point of no return (the phenomenon of the “swinging single” woman, as defined by Helen Gurley Brown). Women may want sex just as much as men do, and this drive is "not, for the most part, sparked or sustained by emotional intimacy and safety." When it comes to the craving for sexual variety, the research Bergner assembles suggests that women may be "even less well-suited for monogamy than men." Source: www.theatlantic.com

Women are nearly five times more likely to show an automatic preference for their own gender than men are to show such favoritism for their own gender, according to a study in the October issue of the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology (Vol. 87, No. 4), 2017. Both male and female participants associated the positive words--such as good, happy and sunshine--more often with women than with men, Laurie A. Rudman (PhD of Rutgers University) says. Moreover, men and women tended to show high implicit self-esteem and high gender identity; however, men showed low pro-male gender attitudes, according to the study. "A clear pattern shown in all four studies is that men do not like themselves automatically as much as women like themselves," Rudman says. "This contradicts a lot of theoretical thinking about implicit attitudes regarding status differences." 

Because men are implicitly more enthusiastic about sex, their dependence  on  women  for  sexual relations  may  lead  them  to automatically favor the opposite sex. "These results suggest that for men, pro-female bias is moderated by sexual gratification," Rudman says. Experiment  1  tested  and supported that only women have a balanced gender identity. Thus, women’s automatic in-group bias is stronger, in part, because they alone  possess  a  cognitive  mechanism that  promotes  own  group preference. Experiment 2 showed that people who implicitly preferred their mothers also favored women in general. Of course, because  of  early  (even  preverbal) attachment  to maternal caregivers, people’s mental machinery may be geared to automatically  favor  the  feminine  sex. Experiment 3 predicted automatic  pro-female  bias  for  both  men  and women. Thus, men’s greater proclivity for violence and aggression may bolster automatic preference for women. Experiment 4 showed the power of sex to predict heterosexuals’ gender attitudes. As expected, men reported greater liking for sex than  did  women, echoing past  research (Baumeister,  2000) and this enthusiasm  might  lead men  to  show pro-female  bias. The four experiments suggest that in the absence of specific power manipulations, women strongly implicitly prefer their own gender, whereas men do not. "If we treat each [gender] attitude as likely to be bonafide but influenced by different causes, we can begin to map the complexity of the human cognition," Rudman says. Source: www.apa.org

"The Delicate Delinquent": Essential Jerry Lewis

“I’ll face the unknown, I’ll build a world of my own,” sings Sydney Pythias (Jerry Lewis) in The Delicate Delinquent (1957). This film, the first that Jerry Lewis made withouth Dean Martin, is an important, although largely neglected film in the Jerry Lewis canon—Leonard Maltin called it “an agreeable blend of sentiment and slapstick”—yet an appreciation of it does speak directly to what Gerald Mast called “The Problem of Jerry Lewis,” that is, “whether he should be taken seriously.” For The Delicate Delinquent, Lewis hired Don McGuire, a writer who had just directed his first film Johnny Concho (1956), starring Frank Sinatra. Lacking the stylistic influence of a strong director like Frank Tashlin or Norman Taurog, The Delicate Delinquent inevitably reveals much of its aspiring auteur, Jerry Lewis. In the story, a nebbishy apprentice janitor (Jerry Lewis) is mistaken for a young hoodlum by the cops, and a do-good patrolman (Darren McGavin) decides to take him under his wing and reform him. Jerry resists McGavin’s help at first, but pretty soon he wants to become a cop. 

The slim plot serves as a pretext for the redemptive value of niceness that would constitute an essential aspect of the Lewisian vision in later films. As Dana Polan noted in Being And Nuttiness: Jerry Lewis and the French (1984): “There are two Jerry Lewises—the Id (short for Idiot but also suggesting the roots of comic idiocy in a primal unreason) and Jerry Lewis the Serious Man.” One of the reasons Lewis’s films were not so well regarded in North America is because The Idiot is simultaneously silly and sentimental—although, for the French, Lewis’s life and films “appear to combine the contradictory sides of America.” At the same time as Lewis’s Sydney is The Idiot, he is also an idiot savant, the wisest character in the film. Even as Sydney is silly enough to become involved in the scientist’s crackpot plan to evacuate all of Earth’s frogs in tiny spaceships with little toilets, he frequently drops pearls of moral wisdom, like a Shakespearean fool. For example, despite his tongue-tied embarrassment in the presence of his neighbor Patricia (Mary Webster), Sydney’s love interest, he articulately explains his shyness to her by observing, “You got to find out what you are before you can know what you want to be.”

Sydney confesses to Damon: “When I was a boy, I was jerky. And now, now I’m a man. And I’m empty.” In other words, Sydney is grown physically but not psychically. Damon says in defense of Sydney as a police candidate to the captain (Horace McMahon), “He’s honest, he’s got guts, and he’s a decent human being.” And as the film moves toward its climax, Sydney becomes “something,” now capable of standing up to Monk (Robert Ivers): when the cops scuffle with the boys in the alley, Sydney is shown exchanging punches blow for blow. A close-up at the end of the fight shows a dribble of blood at the side of Sydney’s mouth, his red badge of masculine courage. And Sydney’s conception of this better life (“There’s an awful lot of nice people in the world, Monk, and I just wanna be one of them”) marks him as the type of homo americanus that William H. Whyte Jr. had defined in the bestseller “The Organization Man” (1956).

The last scene shows Sydney in his new police uniform, embracing a suddenly proud Patricia, who describes him as “tall and handsome” and “respectable.” The Delicate Delinquent overlays the generic codes of the newly emergent family genre in postwar American cinema on the similarly emerging auteur Jerry Lewis, belonging to what Richard Staehling describes as “the fantasy sociology of the 1950s.” Raymond Durgnat cites two main themes in Lewis’s films, both of which are fully apparent in The Delicate Delinquent: “Jerry’s desperate attempts to live up to his own ideals of ‘benevolent toughness,’ and his equally desperate search to find, be worthy of, and be accepted by a loving world.” Perhaps these two versions of youth in the 1950s, the delicate and the delinquent, represent what Scott Bukatman sees as the juvenile and virile sides of Jerry Lewis’s personality, respectively.

Within the larger generic landscape, The Delicate Delinquent occupies a contradictory position. It is a movie in the venerable tradition of the postwar social problem film such as Gentleman’s Agreement (1947) and Pinky (1949), filtered through Blackboard Jungle and Rebel Without a Cause (both 1955) which present juvenile delinquency as a social problem. On the other hand, it is a comedy. Treating serious issues with humor is always a difficult aesthetic balancing act, so given its confusing mixture of tones it is no surprise that contemporary reviews of The Delicate Delinquent described the film as confusing, “neither fish nor fowl.” The film is Lewis’s attempt at making socially conscious comedy in the tradition of Charles Chaplin. At the conclusion of his musical number “By Myself,” Sydney moves two garbage cans from one side of the door to the other, a visual metaphor for the burden of his woes in the world. And when Monk confesses the truth about Artie’s gunshot wound in the climax, he explains that there “ain’t no reason for Sydney not to climb out of the garbage.” From scene to scene, The Delicate Delinquent veers between slapstick and social significance, just as Lewis lurches from stupid to smart. Where one scene is funny, the next is serious. The film’s very tone and style pull in two different directions, mirroring the tension within Sydney.

Beginning with shots of a city street complete with expressionist shadows and pools of water on the pavement, the film starts as film noir. Along with these images, jazzy percussion rises in volume on the soundtrack, the staccato rhythms connoting bohemianism, urban culture, and decadence. But when the delinquents begin to appear, their actions are expressionistic, stylized, like the gangster choreography of “The Girl Hunt Ballet” in The Band Wagon (1953). When three of the youths confront three others in the alley, they take out their weapons sequentially—first chain, then knife, then brass knuckles—with dramatic flair and in perfect time with nondiegetic musical accents. I wouldn’t agree that The Delicate Delinquent is “a minor work of American neorealism, a forgotten cousin of On the Waterfront (1954) or Marty (1955).” Lewis’s character challenges the typical representation of masculinity—here, delinquent adolescent masculinity—suggesting it is less monolithic than performative. 

Just as Sydney—as he himself tells Patricia—is a torn man, a nobody who wants to be a somebody, so Lewis is torn between the comic and the social critic in The Delicate Delinquent. Gerald Mast argues in The Comic Mind (1973) that his problem with Lewis is that he “contrives gags—many of them good ones. But the gags do not flow from any personal center.” But such a criticism is true only if we measure Lewis’s characters by realist criteria. Lewis’s films might more accurately be called “incoherent texts” by Robin Wood in Sexual Politics and Narrative Film (1999). For Wood, in certain fragmented films the fragmentation “becomes a structuring principle, resulting in works that reveal themselves as perfectly coherent once one has mastered their rules.” Jerry Lewis’s films, with all their inconsistencies of narrative, mise-en-scène, and style, speak to the difficulties of maintaining the kind of masculine ego ideal typically constructed by Hollywood movies and reveal it as constructed, rather than natural. Andrew Sarris, in The American Cinema (1968), argues there is no “essential unity” to Jerry Lewis's personality. But as The Delicate Delinquent demonstrates, it is precisely this disunity (lack of unity) that is fundamental to Lewis’s vision—at war with itself—which is fully representative of Lewis’s cinema, built as it is on a number of tensions between auteur and genre. It is these tensions that reveal the ongoing attempt by “Jerry Lewis” to negotiate his place in “the world,” the Symbolic Order. Because of and not despite these tensions, The Delicate Delinquent emerges as an essential Jerry Lewis film.

As Frank Krutnik put it his critical analysis Inventing Jerry Lewis (2000), “American film and television reviewers routinely vilified his work before he even directed his first film.” There is indeed a smorgasbord of vilification laid out for Mr. Jerry Lewis, notwithstanding an important fact that Jean-Pierre Coursodon once emphasized: "Lewis was the only Hollywood comedian to rise from mere performer to “total filmmaker” during the sound era. The uniqueness of this achievement alone deserved sympathetic attention rather than the hostility or indifference it met with." Frank Krutnik identifies the Martin-Lewis split in 1956 as the origin of the sentimental dimension of the Lewis persona, and Lewis’s solo films, beginning with The Delicate Delinquent, do evince a pronounced sentimentality. Lewis himself has said, “At heart I really belong to the old school which believed that screen comedy is essentially a combination of situation, sadness and gracious humility.” As Krutnik astutely notes, some of the Martin and Lewis films feature a put-upon Jerry who commands our sympathy. Over the years, critics have sometimes found Lewis’s comic routines curiously disheartening, suggesting an implicit understanding of how humor can serve as a displacement for feelings that are more akin to hostility and despair. 

In his review of The Stooge for the New York Times in October 1953, Bosley Crowther described the film as “oddly depressing.” In 1961, in the Los Angeles Mirror, Al Capp described how he accidentally wandered into a movie theater showing The Ladies Man and he couldn’t stand the film, explaining: “It was painful: I felt it had been somehow indecent of me to peek at a grown man making an embarrassing, unentertaining fool of himself.” “It may well leave you in a state of depression,” read the Newsweek review of Hardly Working (1981), while the critic for Time magazine wrote of Lewis’s performance in the same film that “the only emotion he arouses is pity.” One of Jerry Lewis’s earliest forays into professional entertainment was with something known in the biz as a “dummy act,” in which he performed “outrageous mimes to phonographic records.” According to John Philip Sousa: “The phonograph is an extension and amplification of the voice that may well have diminished individual vocal activity.” Lewis’s dummy act looks like a significant example of the Sousa doctrine: the performer appears as an automaton whose movements and behavior are determined by the prerecorded status of the phonograph record. 

In You’re Never Too Young (1955), Jerry's character lipsynchs to a record by Dean Martin: in this ventriloquist act, an act of condensation, Dean is the voice, Jerry the dummy. This determinism is nowhere clearer than in the inevitable breakdown of phonographic technology as the record player winds down or the record skips or the wrong record is played. In The Patsy (1964), the staff of a dead comedian decide that they should use their combined talents to create a new star; their new “patsy” (Jerry) will be, in other words, programmed. Frank Krutnik describes one of the scenes when their big-hearted ex-bellboy patsy performs their material: “Stumbling onto the stage, he knocks the microphone off its stand and then proceeds to decimate the polished routines that have been taught to him. Stanley presents a spectacle of maladjustment.” Even the dummy act, perhaps a metaphor for this entire performance of middle-management ventriloquism, goes awry. Perhaps the performer of this dummy act is no dummy but a dialogic subject possessed of a new kind of self.

Jerry Lewis’s speech is characterized by free association, syncopated rhythms, and more than slightly Tourettic set of neologistically extended lines—a speech both smoothly improvised and stutteringly stuck. Like a ventriloquist, Lewis has multiple voices—his Donald Duck–like squawk, his high-pitched nasal drone, and the sober voice of the “adult Jerry Lewis.” Moved to laugh or not, we can see something startling and suggestive, even profound in some of his films. “Jerry” frequently seems intemperate and therefore asocial, even mortifying. He is strident, dysfunctional, uncoordinated, inarticulate, hyperactive (while at the same time paralyzed, as Scott Bukatman noted). Ed Sikov suggested that Lewis served postwar U.S. culture as “a jester in a court of sexual panic.” According to Andrew Sarris, “Martin and Lewis at their best had a marvelous tension between them. The great thing about them was their incomparable incompatibility, the persistent sexual hostility.” The appeal of Martin and Lewis was not a result of their closeness and cohesion but of the differences between them.

Jerry Lewis said, speaking to Cahiers du Cinéma in 1966: “One can talk about society, but in fact absolutely everyone is excluded.” In The Nutty Professor (1963) Julius Kelp says to Stella Purdy, “Whatever you see [in Buddy Love] is very well buried. Perhaps he chooses to keep the inner man locked up so no one steps on him.” A principal concern in the film, then, is the disentangling of the appealing, positive excitement but also the hurtful dominance that Buddy Love represents. One logic dictates that Kelp would learn positive excitement, confidence, and assertiveness from the “unleashing” of the Buddy Love within him, while retaining his gentle, kind demeanor to counter the hurtful dominance. But the film contradicts its own narrative trajectory. In the scene where Buddy Love transforms into Kelp in front of the college faculty and students, he says that the lesson he learned was to be himself—his insecure, submissive, but gentle self. —Sources: Shtick Meets Teenpic in The Delicate Delinquent (2000) by Barry Keith Grant and The Inner Man: Transformations of Masculinity in The Nutty Professor (2000) by Peter Lehman & Susan Hunt

Rose Marie, Jerry Lewis, Lou Reed

A new study in Evolutionary Psychological Science found that men were more likely to think of an opposite-sex friend as “a member of the opposite sex to whom I am attracted and would pursue given the opportunity” while women were more likely to think of them as simply “a friend of the opposite sex.” New research from the University of Guelph and Nipissing University shows that people who help others are more desirable to the opposite sex, have more sexual partners and more frequent sex. The study was published recently in the British Journal of Psychology. "This study is the first to show that altruism may translate into real mating success in Western populations, that altruists have more mates than non-altruists," said Pat Barclay, a psychology professor who worked on the study with lead author Prof. Steven Arnocky from Nipissing. Arnocky added: "It appears that altruism evolved in our species, in part, because it serves as a signal of other underlying desirable qualities, which helps individuals reproduce." However, "it's a more effective signal for men than for women," Barclay said. The study found that while altruism is a desirable quality among both genders, it affects men's lifetime dating and sex partners more than women's. "Also, given the importance we place on attractiveness, resources and intelligence, it would be worthwhile to explore how individuals 'trade-off' altruism against other desirable qualities," Arnocky said. Source: www.sciencedaily.com

Rose Marie "left them laughing" (and applauding) for nine decades, having traversed through every 20th century entertainment medium that ever was, as a singer and brilliant comedienne. With "The Dick Van Dyke Show," she was part of the cast of one of the most iconic television shows of the 1960s and what's more, she played a lady TV writer who held her own with the boys, thus, planting the seed in the minds of viewers, that girls could grow up to have interesting and creative jobs too! She professes to still go over her act in her head, since at age 94, she isn't booking tours anymore...

WAIT FOR YOUR LAUGH tells the story of the longest active career in entertainment, but it also looks at what it was like to be a female performer in the 20th century (she has opinions on the casting couch mentality), to work through periods of extreme personal heartbreak and it also casts an eye on how Rose Marie and her fellow nonagenarians Dick Van Dyke, Carl Reiner and Peter Marshall, still have the drive to create today. The film contains amazing behind-the-scenes color footage from Rose Marie's personal collection, chronicling what went on backstage on "The Dick Van Dyke Show" and other sets.

Far more than just sassy Sally Rogers on "The Dick Van Dyke Show," and the top center square on "Hollywood Squares," Rose Marie worked in every facet of showbiz. She was "the darling of the airwaves" at the age of four and went on to work in vaudeville, Vegas, Broadway, movies, television, theatre, concert halls and nightclubs. Along the way she was known as "the kid" by the mob. Though unlikely to reach nearly as broad an audience, this film will be warmly received by the TCM crowd. Sounding a bit like that network's late, beloved host Robert Osborne, narrator Peter Marshall (host of long-running game show The Hollywood Squares) begins with what will be news to most viewers younger than, say, 75: Before Shirley Temple was even born, Rose Marie was a comparable child-star sensation, touring the country singing with a grown-up voice under the moniker Baby Rose Marie. Belting tunes out in a style like that of "Last of the Red Hot Mamas" Sophie Tucker, she was a hit on the radio, with listeners demanding to see her in person to prove she was actually a child. It didn't hurt that she was adorable, with bobbed dark hair and easy poise.

As far as her personal life goes, Wise is most interested in her apparently blissful marriage to Bobby Guy, a stout trumpeter who was a standout in Bing Crosby's band. Vintage film and photos of the two capture a truly charming couple, but Guy contracted an unexplained blood disease and died in 1964. Even today, Rose Marie weeps when she tells the story. Her friends include the best show business has to offer: Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Johnny Mercer, Jerry Lewis, Johnny Carson, Jimmy Durante, Milton Berle, Doris Day, Rosemary Clooney, Margaret Whiting and Bing Crosby to name a few!! Unbeknownst to fans, the woman always looking for a man was actually married for almost 20 years to the love of her life, Bobby Guy, one of the best trumpeters in the business. His untimely passing and its impact on "the one who makes you laugh" is recounted by her friends Peter Marshall, Carl Reiner, Dick Van Dyke, and Tim Conway. Source: www.broadwayworld.com

Morey Amsterdam, Rose Marie's costar in The Dick Van Dyke Show, phoned Jerry Lewis to inform about Bobby Guy's doctor prognosis. Rose Marie got on the phone and Lewis was very supporting, not trusting the diagnosis of cancer of the liver given to his husband. Lewis sent his personal doctor Marvin Levy to the hospital in Santa Monica Boulevard and asked Rose Marie if she needed money. Jerry said: 'If you need money and don't tell me, I'll never talk to you again.' Rose Marie, appreciating his kind gesture, started to cry and thanked her friend. Dr. Levy examined Rose Marie's husband and made arrangements to move him to Cedars Sinai hospital, where Jerry Lewis called and visited Bobby frequently. Dr. Levy figured it was an overpowering blood infection. Lewis kept in touch daily with Dr. Levy and asked him to get in touch with all the specialists in the country, offering to pay for all the bills. Finally, Levy operated Bobby Guy, removing his spleen, but he couldn't save him. 

"Jerry Lewis was an angel to me. Loved him & will never forget what he did for me during one of the worst times in my life. RIP, Love Roe," tweeted Rose Marie when Jerry Lewis died. "A lot of people only saw the ego & harshness that he used as a defense to push people away due to his fears," replied one of her followers. "I hear people talk ill of Jerry. I don't care what anyone says to me. I will never forget his kindness and thoughtfulness at the most horrible time of my life. I will be grateful to him forever. He is truly one of my special angels," she had written previously in her memoir Hold the Roses (2003).

"I’d never been what you’d call a ladies’ man—all the more so since I had married at 18," Jerry Lewis wrote in his autobiography. Esther Calonico had been married to singer/band leader Jimmy DiPalma (Jimmy Palmer) in the early 1940s. Esther entered into a singing career using the stage name Patti Palmer. A fledgling comedian (Jerry Lewis), who was working the East Coast Vaudeville circuit with his "record mime" act, met the divorcee Patti in 1944; and after a short romance, they got married. In September 1980, thirty-six years after they first met in Detroit, Patti filed for divorce in California Superior Court, asking for $450,000 a year in alimony, custody of and support for sixteen-year-old Joseph, and half of their community property. These demands would have been hard enough for Jerry to meet, but he was also facing a mid-October trial date in Los Angeles Federal Court stemming from bankruptcy. His entire life’s earnings were in jeopardy. His checking account just contained $140,000. 

Patti claimed she had written her book I Laffed Till I Cried to help support herself. But there was clearly a measure of revenge involved; the book may even have begun after Patti heard the news that Jerry and SanDee had adopted a baby girl. Jerry never said a word about the book in public. And Patti determinedly tried to maintain an air of dignity. Publishers Weekly reviewed I Laffed Till I Cried in 1993, calling it "this shapeless script, presumably a history of Patti's marriage to Jerry Lewis, provides too few details of the story promised." In 1983 Patti Lewis was forced to put the Bel Air house on the market. Asking $7.5 million for a house in less than pristine condition, she had to wait nearly three years before she sold it, afterward buying a smaller home in nearby Westwood and filling it with the mementoes she and Jerry had accumulated on St. Cloud Drive. Patti Lewis lives now in an assisted living facility, and has occasional visits from family members. 

Americans had never seen a grown man behave this way before. Jerry Lewis created a number of comic masterpieces, most notably The Nutty Professor and The Patsy. Even his worst films have their moments of redeeming comic brilliance. No wonder then that Jerry has influenced the very shape of modern comedy. Comedians from Robin Williams to Woody Allen to that vile epigone Jim Carrey have drawn inspiration from the free-form id-driven comic style Lewis created. By his late 20s, despite a nasty split with Martin, Lewis was the most popular entertainer in America. Twenty years later, he was a ridiculed has-been. Lewis accused Martin of being aloof. Dean Martin saw Jerry Lewis sometimes as a hostile guy with a big temper. But Lewis was a brilliant talent, an immense humanitarian, a difficult boss/interview, and a quixotic sort of genius, as often inspired as insipid, as often tender as caustic. The scrim of individual identity keeps the essential Jerry at an impassable distance. —"King of Comedy: The Life and Art of Jerry Lewis" (1997) by Shawn Levy

During his early years in Syracuse, Lou Reed's mannerisms came from his idols Dion, James Dean, Jerry Lewis, and Lenny Bruce. 'Who else but Lou Reed,' Lester Bangs wrote for Creem magazine in 1975, 'would look like a bizarre crossbread of Jerry Lewis and a monkey on cantharides?' Born Lewis Allan Reed on March 2, 1942, at Beth El Hospital in Brooklyn, Lou Reed's problems began with his complicated and antagonistic relationship towards his parents, Sidney Joseph and Toby Reed. Sidney was a smart ambitious accountant, and Toby a housewife whose beauty was remarked upon by all who knew her. She had been chosen “Queen of the Stenographers” at one of the many local beauty pageants in New York at that time. Her photo ran in the Brooklyn Eagle, and she was crowned queen at the Stenographers Ball held at the Manhattan Center. Sidney Reed was an opinionated man who despised organized religion. He was something of a loner, and the family did not have many close friends. And when Sidney Reed was offered the job of treasurer at Cellu-Craft, a Long Island firm that, in the true spirit of The Graduate, manufactured plastics, it seemed as if the Reeds were finally getting their shot at the American dream. So in 1952, the Reed family moved to Freeport, Long Island. The Reeds’ home was an undistinguished three-bedroom ranch-style house at 35 Oakfield Avenue. Reed’s gay posturing in his parents’ and others’ presence was a defiant, conscious provocation, and, along with his mood swings and general recalcitrance, it elicited a crushing response. 

Allan Hyman described Reed’s affect during and immediately after the electroshock treatments. “When I saw him during the holidays, he was very withdrawn,” he said. “He was never a friendly, outgoing type, but he was totally hostile and more sarcastic than ever. He was dark. He had always had this rebellious side to him, but that was kind of comical. It was fun. Now he had a nasty edge to him that he had never had before. Very cynical.” Lou Reed's first girlfriend Shelley Albin said about his sexuality: "I think by nature he was more driven to women because of his relationship with his mother. That’s what he thought was normal. It was comfortable.” Reed, Shelley said, was “a romantic. He could be very sweet. He’s probably the only person who ever literally gave me a heart-shaped box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day. But he wasn’t happy unless he made somebody more miserable than he was. Misery made for his best work, whether it came from me or somebody else. He wasn’t anybody I wanted to live with and put up with. It wasn’t worth it. It was too much grief.” As for his reputation as a sexual player, that, too, was something of an image. “I got the impression that he never really had a girlfriend in high school,” she said. “I think he put on an aura later of being a ladies’ man. Hardly at all. That didn’t fit with the guy I met. He didn’t do as much in college as he pretended later. I met him after he’d been at college for a year. He was awkward. Boys I went out with in high school were smoother.” 

What drew her to Reed was his sensibility. “I liked his brain,” Shelley said. “We could talk for hours and hours, days and days. We connected. He was an incredible romantic. So we connected on that level. It was very much a creative-mind thing. I was crazy about him. He was a great kisser and well coordinated. His appeal was of a very sexy boy/man. Lou was very insecure, and he needed a nurturer. Like many men are, Lou was basically looking for a replacement for his mother with a little sex thrown in.”  Lou's deep, passionate love of doo-wop and that kind of adolescent swept-away-on-the-wings-of-love, it was a very essential emotion for him. But he definitely enjoyed getting under particularly his father's skin—he was acting out almost in performative terms. There was an incredible level of fear of abandonment and terror and that's what motivated his violence—coming out of a kind of desperation, it was less about hostility than about a kind of self-hatred and fear. As Lester Bangs wrote: "I never met a hero I didn´t like. But then, I never met a hero. But then, maybe I wasn´t looking for one."

At the time of its release, the box set Between Thought and Expression (1992) did not make much of an impression, either commercially or critically. Before the release of the box set, Reed had delivered a book of his lyrics, titled Between Thought and Expression: Selected Lyrics of Lou Reed. Published by Hyperion in 1991, perhaps the most striking aspect of the book is its dedication: “For Sid, Toby, Bunny / And most of all / For Sylvia.” Including his family in a book devoted to his most prized vision of himself—that is, as a writer—suggests an ongoing effort on Reed’s part to come to terms with his upbringing and his past. Bill Bentley, who handled Reed’s publicity at Sire, accompanied him to a book signing for Between Thought and Expression at Book Soup in Los Angeles. “Lou built a real toughness around himself,” Bentley said. “He would be polite, sign everything. He could be rude but he wasn’t a hard person. At that signing, one lady said, ‘My sister had cancer, and Magic and Loss really got me through it.’ Lou would never show a whole lot. But afterwards he went into a private room in the back of the store, and just sat down, fell into Sylvia’s arms, and started to weep. That image has always stuck with me. He’d been so touched by what people said. These were his words: 'I’ll never forget that.' I remember looking at him and thinking, ‘That’s a Lou Reed that very few people have ever seen.’ I would always think of that when another side of him would come out. It made me really appreciate the depth of his feeling for other people. Lou Reed was no fool.” —Sources: "Transformer: The Complete Lou Reed Story" (2014) by Steve Bockris and Fresh Air Podcast (NPR Music) by Terry Gross

Jerry Lewis: “I do comedic shtick, but the French call it Art." In The Comic Mind: Comedy and the Movies (1979), film historian Gerald Mast explained: "Where American critics and audiences see Jerry Lewis as banal, for the European critic, Lewis's comic strength is the comically accurate depiction of the American mentality, its brash overzealousness." During the disastrous production of the Broadway show “Hellzapoppin” (1976) wich teamed unsucessfully Jerry Lewis with Lynn Redgrave, several backstagers were witnesses of how often Jerry Lewis displayed symptoms of profound exhaustion and grief, being seen while weeping openly at least fifty times offstage. The “Hellzapoppin” stage play was modeled on the 1941 film version directed by H.C. Potter, following the story written by the comedy team of John Olsen & Harold Johnson about a millionaire pretending to be poor so a girl will love him for himself. Kevin Kelly wrote in the Boston Globe in 1977, “The evening’s beckoning, wide open, gap tooth smile finally is revealed as a mock tic paralyzed in place,” commenting on the disconnection of Jerry Lewis from his audience. As Victor Hugo pondered in his novel The Man Who Laughs (1889) of Gwynplaine whose mouth has been mutilated into a perpetual grin, “What a weight for the shoulders of a man, an everlasting laugh!” —"King of Comedy: The Life and Art of Jerry Lewis" (1997) by Shawn Levy

Marilyn Monroe & The Kennedys

With the recent release of the long sought-after JFK documents, there’s been a renewed interest in all things related to the 35th president. Few things of the Kennedy era are more recognizable than the dress Marilyn Monroe wore when she serenaded him with her sultry “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” The dress has remained out of the public’s view for most of the time since that night in 1962. That all changed last year when Orlando-based Ripley’s Entertainment purchased the dress and other items from the birthday gala. The dress sold for a whopping $4.8 million – with the auction fees, it clocked in at over $5 million, making it the most expensive dress ever sold. The Jean Louis-designed, champagne-colored dress has over 2,500 crystals and 6,000 rhinestones hand-sewn on it. “This is the most famous item of clothing in 20th-century culture,” says Ripley's VP of Exhibits and Archives, Edward Meyer, who is responsible for acquiring items for Ripley’s for nearly four decades, including the dress. “It has the significance of Marilyn, of JFK, and of American politics.” Ripley’s Orlando Odditorium will also screen Marilyn Monroe films on select Saturdays throughout December. The exhibit is scheduled to remain in Orlando through the end of the year. Source: www.orlandoweekly.com

“One of the bright spots in Ladies of Chorus (1948) is Miss Monroe’s singing,” wrote critic Tibor Krekes. “She is pretty and, with her pleasing voice and style, she shows promise”—hardly a rave, but nevertheless a gratifying first review that did not alter Harry Cohn’s decision. His major star was Rita Hayworth, just as Fox had Betty Grable and MGM had Lana Turner; none of them was listening to Harry Lipton or Lucille Ryman when they spoke of a potentially sensational new movie star named Marilyn Monroe with unusual qualities. “Under Marilyn’s baby-doll, kitten exterior, she was tough and shrewd and calculating,” was Lucille’s assessment. ‘Hollywood will never forgive me—not for leaving, not for fighting the system—but for winning, which I’m going to do,’ Marilyn told Susan Strasberg. 

At a New Year’s Eve party given by producer Sam Spiegel, in 1948, Marilyn had been introduced to Johnny Hyde, executive vice-president of the William Morris Agency and one of Hollywood’s most powerful representatives. Hyde was besotted and prevailed on Marilyn to accompany him on a short vacation to Palm Springs, where he spoke of her career prospects. Johnny Hyde was desperately in love. Despite Johnny Hyde’s strong recommendation of her to MGM, production chief Dore Schary did not offer a deal for more work. His excuse was that the studio had Lana Turner under contract and therefore no need of a rival blonde; to colleagues like Lucille Ryman Carroll, he expressed a quaint moral outrage at the Hyde-Monroe affair. Ladies of the Chorus was already a forgotten second feature, and The Asphalt Jungle, despite some critical acclaim, was too bleak to win much popular favor.

When not studying with her drama coach Natasha Lytess, Marilyn posed for pinups in evening gowns or swimsuits, scoured the trade dailies and was seen in the movie colony’s dinner-party circuit with Johnny, with whom life became increasingly difficult as his health became ever more fragile. Despite this, he refused to limit himself, escorting Marilyn to an endless round of social and corporate events, presenting her proudly as valuable and available talent. More poignantly, Johnny also wanted Marilyn known around town as his fiancée, the desirable young woman he still hoped to marry. Fearful of displeasing or alienating her, Johnny acted the nervous, benighted lover, taking action perilous in his condition: he was often breathless and in pain after trying to satisfy what he presumed were her sexual needs. Johnny Hyde had no opportunity to resolve with Marilyn the tension that underlay his unrequited love, and she had no chance to express her gratitude. “I don’t know that any man ever loved me so much,” she said in 1955. “Every guy I’d known seemed to want only one thing from me. Johnny wanted to marry me, but I just couldn’t do it. Even when he was angry with me for refusing, I knew he never stopped loving me, never stopped working for me.”

A passionate love affair between Marilyn Monroe and John F. Kennedy has been assumed for so long that it has achieved as solid a place in public awareness as almost any other event in the man’s presidency. All that can be known for certain is that on four occasions between October 1961 and August 1962, the president and the actress met, and that during one of those meetings they telephoned one of Marilyn’s friends from a bedroom; soon after, Marilyn confided this one sexual encounter to her closest confidants, making clear that it was the extent of their involvement. In October 1961, after a photography session for a magazine, Marilyn asked Allan Snyder to deliver her to a party at Patricia and Peter Lawford’s Santa Monica beach house. The occasion was a dinner party honoring President Kennedy, and among the other guests were several blond movie stars—Kim Novak, Janet Leigh and Angie Dickinson, for all of whom the president had a keen appreciation. All contrary allegations notwithstanding, this was the first meeting between Marilyn Monroe and John Kennedy; hearsay about any earlier introduction simply cannot be substantiated. The schedules of Monroe and Kennedy since his January 1961 inauguration reveal wide geographic distances between them. That October night, Marilyn was driven back to her apartment by one of the Lawfords’ staff.

The second encounter occurred during February 1962, when Marilyn was again invited to a dinner party for the president, this time at the Manhattan home of Fifi Fell, the wealthy socialite widow of a famous industrialist. She was escorted to the Fell residence by Milton Ebbins. The third meeting occurred on Saturday, March 24, 1962, when both the president and Marilyn were houseguests of Bing Crosby in Palm Springs. On that occasion, she telephoned Ralph Roberts from the bedroom she was sharing with Kennedy. “She asked me about the solus muscle,” according to Roberts, “which she knew something about from the book The Thinking Body, and she had obviously been talking about this with the president, who was known to have all sorts of ailments, muscle and back trouble.” That night in March was the only time of her “affair” with JFK. “A great many people thought, after that weekend, that there was more to it. But Marilyn gave me the impression that it was not a major event for either of them: it happened once, that weekend, and that was that,” said Roberts. Accounts of a more enduring affair with John Kennedy, stretching anywhere from a year to a decade, owe to fanciful supermarket journalists and tales told by those eager for quick cash or quicker notoriety: those who fail to check the facts of history and are thus easily dispatched as reliable sources.

“Marilyn liked [President Kennedy] the man as well as the office,” according to Sidney Skolsky, among the first friends to be informed of the March tryst; he added that she also enjoyed the fantasy that this experience carried—“the little orphan waif indulging in free love with the leader of the free world.” And as she soon after told Earl Wilson, Rupert Allan and Ralph Roberts, she found John Kennedy amusing, pleasant, interesting and enjoyable company, not to say immensely flattering. As for Mrs. Kennedy, as Skolsky added, “Marilyn did not regard her with envy or animosity.”  The posthumous revelations of Kennedy’s philandering revealed the impossibility, for obvious reasons, of pursuing any serious romance with one woman. The exaggeration of his “affair” with Marilyn is part of the myth of King Arthur’s Camelot. There was a need to believe in the tradition of courtly intrigues and infidelities—Lancelot and Guinevere, Charles II and Nell Gwynn, Edward VII and Lily Langtry. But in this case there was but one rendezvous between the attractive, princely president and the reigning movie queen; to follow the Arthurian simile: the mists of Avalon are easily dispersed by shining reality’s clear light onto the scene. It is important to establish definitively the truth of this matter not only for the sake of historical accuracy but also because of a far more damaging rumor that began after Marilyn Monroe’s death. 

The unfounded and scurrilous accounts of a concomitant or subsequent sexual affair with Robert F. Kennedy, has been even more persistent than that of the presidential liaison. It has also led to the completely groundless assertion of a link between Robert Kennedy and Marilyn’s death—a connection so outrageous as to be hilarious were it not also injurious to the man’s reputation. The rumors of an affair with Robert Kennedy are based on the simple fact that he met Marilyn Monroe four times, as their schedules during 1961 and 1962 reveal, complementing the testimony of Edwin Guthman, Kennedy’s closest associate during this time. But Robert Kennedy probably never shared a bed with Marilyn Monroe. Guthman, a Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative reporter and journalist, was Special Assistant for Public Information in the Kennedy administration as well as senior press officer for the Justice Department. The travel logs of the attorney general’s schedule for 1961–62 (preserved in the John F. Kennedy Library and in the National Archives) support the detailed accounts provided by Guthman. These, collectively, attest to the fact that Robert Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe enjoyed a socially polite relationship—four meetings and several phone calls over a period of less than ten months. But their respective whereabouts during this time made anything else impossible—even had they both been inclined to a dalliance, which is itself far from the truth on both counts.

Marilyn’s first meeting with Robert Kennedy occurred several weeks before her introduction to the president. “On either October 2 or 3, 1961,” said Guthman: “Kennedy and I were attending a series of meetings with United States attorneys and members of the FBI in Albuquerque, Phoenix, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland and Seattle. The attorney general and I attended a dinner party at the Lawfords, and around midnight Marilyn decided to go home. But she had drunk too much champagne, and we were worried for her. Bobby and I would not let her drive her car, and we did so together, delivering her safely to her door.” The second meeting between the attorney general and Marilyn occurred on Wednesday evening, February 1, 1962, when he and his entourage dined at the Lawfords en route from Washington to the Far East on a diplomatic journey. “That evening,” according to Guthman, “Marilyn was quite sober—a terrifically nice person, really—fun to talk with, warm and interested in serious issues.” Pat Newcomb, also present at the dinner, remembered that Marilyn really cared about learning. The day before [the dinner party], Marilyn told me, “I want to be in touch, Pat—I want to really know what’s going on in the country. She was especially concerned about civil rights. She had a list of questions prepared. When the press reported that Bobby was talking to her more than anyone else, that’s what they meant. I saw the questions and I knew what they were talking about. She identified with all the people who were denied civil rights.” —Marilyn Monroe: The Biography (ekindle, 2014) by Donald Spoto