Happy 97th Anniversary, Marilyn Monroe!

“I knew and acted with Marilyn Monroe,” Niagara co-star and actor Joseph Cotten later wrote. “I am proud of having had that privilege. May she rest in peace.” “She did an awful lot to boost things up for movies, when everything was at a low state,” remarked actress Betty Grable, co-star of How to Marry a Millionaire. “There’ll never be anyone like her for looks, for attitude, for all of it.” “Nobody discovered her,” Twentieth Century-Fox Studios’ head Darryl F. Zanuck professed, “she earned her own way to stardom… I disagreed and fought with her on many occasions, but in spite of her temperament she never let the public down.” Evidence surfaced in the early 1990s demonstrating Fox was negotiating with Monroe’s attorney to rehire her during the summer of 1962 due in part to Robert F. Kennedy using his influence to get her reinstated by 20th CenturyFox Film studios.

What did Hyman Engelberg report in 1982? On September 27, 1982, Los Angeles District Attorney’s Office investigators Al Tomich and Robert Seiler interviewed Hyman and Miriam Engelberg at Engelberg’s office at 465 N. Roxbury Drive, Suite 1003, Beverly Hills. Engelberg identified himself as Monroe’s physician at time of her death and for approximately the last five years of her life. He directed his wife to retrieve Monroe’s medical file for specific information, but she was unable to locate it. Engelberg stated the file may have been released to the coroner’s office following Monroe’s death. According to Engelberg, he coordinated her treatment and medication with her psychiatrist, Dr. Greenson, who was considered the primary doctor in charge of her treatment. While working on Something’s Got to Give, Monroe suffered from a sinus infection, and Engelberg treated her with liver vitamin injections. He recalled visiting her residence on the evening of August 3, 1962, and administering such an injection, using a small needle on her arm. Engelberg also reported having prescribed Nembutal to Monroe as a sleep aid, regulated at one pill per day. On August 5, 1962, Engelberg was living alone in the West Los Angeles area and received a phone call at approximately 2:30 or 3:00 AM. He was awakened by call, but could not recall the caller’s identity, only that the caller informed him that Monroe had died. Engelberg stated he arrived at her residence about fifteen minutes after ending the call. Engelberg recounts entering Monroe’s residence and entering the master bedroom where he found Greenson. Engelberg observed Monroe “sprawled” on the bed. Monroe’s internist recounts his examination of the body for signs of life by using a stethoscope for heart rate and checking the eye pupils for a reaction to light. He determined she was dead. “Dr. Greenson knew anyway,” Engelberg says in the recording, “but I had to go through the motions.” In the recording of the excerpt of Engelblerg’s interview, the investigator states, “There was apparently quite a volume of pills that were discovered upon her death.” “Yes,” Engelberg affirms. “Do you recall looking at a list of those pills and were they all prescribed by you?” “Only one had been prescribed by me,” Engelberg responds. “I had prescribed Nembutal to help her sleep, but as I recall to the best of my ability, I was surprised to see at the side of her bed a large number of other sleeping pills which looked like Seconal, which she had apparently purchased on a recent trip to Mexico. It is my understanding that in Mexico you could go into any pharmacy and buy any tranquilizers or sleeping pills you wanted.” “Chloral hydrate specifically?” asks the investigator. “I didn’t notice that specifically,” Engelberg responds. “I know that the coroner told me after that they had found evidence of barbiturates and chloral hydrate. I knew nothing about any chloral hydrate. I never used chloral hydrate.” “So, you wrote her prescription for Nembutal only,” the investigator clarifies. “That was it,” Engelberg asserts. “The only prescription I wrote.” This is simply not true. The Los Angeles Coroner’s Report of Chemical Analysis report dated August 6, 1962, listed four vials of medications prescribed by Engelberg in addition to Nembutal (confirmed by prescriptions that subsequently were photographed or went to auction): • Librium 5 mg, 50 units prescribed on June 7, 1962. • Librium 10 mg, 100 units prescribed on July 10, 1962. • Chloral hydrate, 0.5 mg, 50 units prescribed on July 25, 1962, and refilled July 31, 1962. • Nembutal 1.5 gr., 25 units prescribed on August 3, 1962. • Phenergan 25 mg, 25 units prescribed on August 3, 1962. According to the investigator’s summary report of Engelberg’s interview, the physician “further stated he never prescribed chloral hydrate for his patients.” We now know that Engelberg lied about prescribing chloral hydrate to Monroe. The vial of this medication may have been found on her night table, as it was photographed by Barry Feinstein and published in LIFE and Paris-Match in 1962. Engelberg’s name, Monroe’s name, the date, and the name of the medication are visible on the label in the photograph. Additionally, on June 7, 1962, Engelberg prescribed Monroe one hundred units of chloral hydrate. Evidence of this came to light when the prescription was auctioned by Julien’s in Los Angeles on May 7, 2011.

 

An interview with Hyman Engelberg appears in the documentary Marilyn Monroe: The Mortal Goddess, which aired on A&E network’s Biography television series on September 29, 1996. On camera, he reported his theory surrounding Monroe’s death, based upon his belief that Monroe called Peter Lawford in a cry for help. However, according to Lawford’s interviews by investigators in 1975 and 1982, Monroe had not initiated a call to Lawford, he called her. Engelberg explained his theory about Monroe’s symptoms of Bipolar Disorder and possible situational triggers in the documentary: "I believe she was in a manic phase and then something happened to suddenly depress her, and she grabbed pills there— she had plenty of pills at the bedside. I think she was suddenly depressed and in that sense it was intentional. Then, I think, she thought better of it when she felt herself going under because she called Peter Lawford. So, while it was intentional, at that time, I do believe that she changed her mind." Engelberg also discussed Monroe’s battle with Bipolar Disorder, which he referred to as manic depression, in the documentary Marilyn Monroe: The Final Days, released in 2001. “I had never given her Seconal,” Engelberg vehemently asserted in The Mortal Goddess. However, a prescription auctioned by Julien’s of Los Angeles on October 21, 2011, proves otherwise. Dated July 10, 1962, the prescription revealed Engelberg prescribed Monroe twenty-five units of Seconal, “one for sleep,” along with fifty units of Valmid, “one for sleep,” twenty-five units of Tuinal, “one for sleep,” and one hundred units of Librium, “as directed.” This totals two hundred pills. Again, Engelberg lied about the medications and quantities of medication he prescribed to Monroe in her final months. In the documentary’s interview, Engelberg denied prescribing Monroe chloral hydrate just as he had denied to Los Angeles District Attorney’s investigators prescribing her Seconal. “I never gave her chloral hydrate,” he asserted, “and I don’t think any doctor in the United States gave it to her.” Of course, we know this is simply not true. 

Following her divorce from Arthur Miller, Pat Newcomb supported Monroe through a major depressive episode resulting in two consecutive psychiatric hospitalizations in New York in early 1961. The publicist also assisted Joe DiMaggio in coordinating Monroe’s discharge from Payne Whitney Clinic in February, transfer to Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital’s Neurological Institute, and discharge from the latter hospital in March. Newcomb maintained an apartment in Los Angeles on South Canon Drive when Monroe returned to the West Coast in the late summer of 1961 to resume her film career. Newcomb also accompanied Monroe to Mexico in February 1962 on a shopping spree for authentic furnishings, décor, and art for her recently purchased Spanish Colonial hacienda. Following Monroe’s termination from 20th Century-Fox Studios, Newcomb assisted her in emotionally rebounding and orchestrated a media blitz to salvage her career. Loyal, stable, and grounded, Newcomb spent Friday night, August 3, 1962, at Monroe’s hacienda. The publicist lounged by her host’s swimming pool beside a medicinal desert-air lamp. The lamp provided relief from bronchitis, asthma, and head colds. According to Newcomb and accounts provided by Eunice Murray and Dr. Greenson, Monroe was irritable on Saturday. Newcomb had slept soundly the previous night, and Monroe’s sleep had been disturbed. Newcomb went on record to state she believed Monroe’s irritability had not been related to the difference in their sleep patterns. In 1969, Newcomb co-founded Pickwick Public Relations with other prominent female agents including Lois Weber Smith (Monroe’s former publicist), Pat Kingsley, and Gerry Johnson. At the time, the motion picture studio system was ending, and studios no longer provided public relations services.

Los Angeles District Attorney’s Office investigator Al Tomich interviewed Patricia Newcomb at her residence on Hidden Valley Road in Beverly Hills on September 7, 1982. Newcomb described Monroe as a “very secretive and suspicious person.” In response to investigator’s questions, Newcomb stated Monroe did not relate to her any romantic relationships with John F. Kennedy or Robert F. Kennedy. Newcomb recounted spending the night at Monroe’s residence on Friday, August 3, 1962, at Monroe’s suggestion because Monroe had a heat lamp to alleviate the publicist’s symptoms of bronchitis. Newcomb recalled accompanying Monroe to a restaurant in Santa Monica or Brentwood. She described Monroe’s mood that night as “very up” and observed her “laughing.” They returned to Monroe’s residence after dinner where Newcomb spent the night. Newcomb surmised Monroe’s anger was clearly not really triggered by the difference in their sleep pattern. On Saturday, August 4, Newcomb utilized Monroe’s heat lamp and also observed Dr. Greenson’s arrival at Monroe’s residence in the late afternoon. When Greenson later exited Monroe’s bedroom, he told Newcomb it would be better if she left. She followed his directive and departed. Newcomb described Eunice Murray as “very strange.” Newcomb also reported no knowledge of Murray being a psychiatric nurse. According to Newcomb, Monroe’s closest confidante was Ralph Roberts. Newcomb told investigators that she believed Monroe’s death was accidental. Newcomb was aware that Dr. Hyman Engelberg was supposed to advise Dr. Ralph Greenson of when Monroe requested medication. Newcomb had heard from an unknown source that Monroe’s last prescription from Engelberg was not reported to Greenson because Engelberg was experiencing “other problems and forgot.” [Engelberg separated from his wife Esther on May 5, 1962, and the couple’s divorce was finalized June 11, 1964.] Monroe and Newcomb were four years apart and became close personal friends outside of their professional affiliation. As a result of this emotional connection, Newcomb was personally protective of Monroe. She took personal offense to the media’s crass exploitation of Monroe’s death after which she immediately left her position at Arthur P. Jacobs Company. Newcomb remained loyal to Monroe by refusing to publish a memoir about her knowledge about Monroe’s life despite multiple lucrative offers. Columnist Dorothy Manners reported in the 1960s that Newcomb refused a sizeable sum to sell her memories of Monroe to the press. The former publicist has been widely criticized for not publicly responding to every inane rumor about Monroe’s life broadcast in the media over the last sixty years. 

Critics fail to consider Pat Newcomb as a member of Monroe’s chosen family who experienced a deep personal loss and labored to achieve healing and closure. Newcomb responded to my calls by defending herself for the first time after three decades of rumors: "The Kennedys never gave me a dime, never offered me anything, and never made a job available to me. On the afternoon of the day Marilyn died, I had been with her, but her psychiatrist advised me to go home, because he wanted to talk with her. I did go home and was awakened at 4 in the morning by the lawyer Mickey Rudin. He told me Marilyn was dead—an overdose. I rushed to Marilyn’s house. The press was there, and I did become overwrought and yell at them, calling them “vultures.” Patricia Newcomb said of Monroe. “But of course, she was under the care of a psychiatrist, and never should have been given as many Nembutal pills as she was given by Dr. Engelberg. Engelberg was supposed to let Greenson know if he gave her such a prescription but that week, he was having trouble with his wife and he forgot about it. It is hard to understand negligence such as that. If there is any doctor to blame, it’s Engelberg.” The author upholds Patricia Newcomb’s privacy and reveals only that she has acknowledged to him her devotion for Monroe and her knowledge of Monroe’s deep emotional pain. 

According to Ralph Roberts, Dr. Greenson appeared heavily influential in Monroe’s life; she seriously considered his recommendation to sever several relationships and placed herself entirely in his hands. Once Greenson secured Eunice Murray as Monroe’s selected companion in the autumn of 1961, he maneuvered Roberts’ distance from Monroe. One November afternoon as Roberts sat in his car parked at the curb outside Greenson’s residence, waiting to drive Monroe home from a session, she climbed into the car sobbing. “Dr. Greenson thinks you should go back to New York,” she wept. “He has chosen someone else to be a companion for me. He said that two Ralphs in my life are one too many…” Trusting Greenson’s judgment, neither Monroe nor Roberts protested. Roberts later described Murray as intimidating, manipulative, and divisive of Monroe and her friends. Roberts and Monroe conspired to maintain their close association by scheduling massage appointments after nine o’clock in the evening, after Murray had gone home. Roberts typically entered the home without ringing the doorbell. On one awkward occasion, Roberts and Greenson accidently confronted each other, and the doctor grimaced with disapproval. Roberts also stated Monroe did not keep a diary in her last year. He described her as sometimes disoriented and disorganized. Roberts denied observing Monroe consuming alcohol except for champagne and never observed her intoxicated. He reported that during Monroe’s last months of life, she took chloral hydrate for sleep. Peter Lawford went on record three times to report his last telephone conversation with Marilyn Monroe in what may have been her last moments of consciousness. This connection has led many to assume Lawford and Monroe were longtime close friends. This simply is inaccurate. 

An attractive and desirable playboy in his youth, Lawford had been romantically linked to Rita Hayworth, Lana Turner, and Ava Gardner. According to publicist Rupert Allan, Monroe never truly liked or trusted Lawford but shared a friendly association with his wife. Patricia Kennedy Lawford was allegedly smitten with Monroe’s warm personality and celebrity, and like most of Monroe’s friends, wanted to protect and take care of her. Patricia Lawford was vibrant, lighthearted, and acerbic. She especially enjoyed making Monroe laugh. Eunice Murray, Monroe’s housekeeper/companion in the last nine months of her life, overheard Monroe’s telephone conversations with Patricia Lawford and perceived the President’s sister as Monroe’s best friend. “Marilyn had a quiet voice and she would smile at me and head out to walk on the sand with my mom,” Christopher Lawford wrote in Symptoms of Withdrawal: A Memoir of Snapshots and Redemption. “My mother told me Marilyn was like her ‘little sister.’ It surprised her that Marilyn was so open with her. My mom didn’t come from an environment where emotions and feelings were openly shared. Marilyn Monroe trusted my mother’s love for her.” Christopher recalled Monroe teaching him to dance the Twist in his living room when he was still a toddler. Peter Lawford reported he had phoned Monroe but she was tired and wasn’t going to be able to come to dinner. From her slurred voice, Lawford recognized that she was nearly asleep from pills… Monroe’s voice trailed off, and the phone apparently dropped from her hand. Lawford wanted to go to Monroe’s home but was dissuaded by agent Milton Ebbins. Rupert Allan never believed Monroe would have called Lawford in an emergency. Allan said that Monroe despised Lawford, and her only connection to him was the close relationship she had with Patricia Kennedy Lawford. Allan asserted Monroe would more likely have turned to Patricia if in crisis. Furthermore, Monroe wouldn’t have tried to reach Patricia at the beach since she was aware her friend was visiting Hyannis Port. In all likelihood, Marilyn’s last contact with a human being was the voice of an operator informing her that Mr. Ralph Roberts was out for the evening. At 7:00 or 8:00 PM, Lawford called Monroe again to ascertain the reason she had not yet arrived. Lawford described her as sounding “very despondent,” and her voice was “slurred.” When Monroe’s voice became inaudible, Lawford yelled into the telephone to “revive” her, describing it as a “verbal slap in the face.” Monroe told him she was very tired and would not be coming to his residence. Lawford told investigators that Monroe said, “Say goodbye to Pat, say goodbye to Jack, and say goodbye to yourself because you’re a nice guy.” When the phone went dead, Lawford assumed Monroe ended the call. He tried redialing several times, but her phone line was busy each time. Lawford described having had a “gut” feeling something was wrong and said: “I still blame myself for not going to her home that night.” 

Lawford reported first meeting Monroe in 1951 and described her as shy and introverted. He told investigators Monroe experienced episodes of depression during which she withdrew and isolated from others. Lawford was unable to estimate the frequency of these depressive episodes. In her last years, Lawford observed Monroe taking pills but was unaware of the medications prescribed to her. He speculated that she took a sleeping medication named Placidyl. Lawford also stated Monroe drank champagne but was “not a drunk.” According to Lawford, his former wife, Patricia Kennedy Lawford, met Monroe in 1958, and both women became “close friends.” Patricia attempted to help Monroe reduce her intake of pills and suggested Monroe use Dramamine as an alternative to more dangerous drugs. The President and Monroe never engaged in a romantic relationship, Lawford asserted. Also, Lawford told investigators Monroe and Robert Kennedy were not engaged in a romantic relationship either. When Lawford called Monroe at 7:00 PM, her phone was busy for thirty minutes. He called the operator who told him Monroe’s phone was off the hook. Lawford then called Milton Ebbins, his agent, and expressed his concern about her. Lawford instructed Ebbins to contact Monroe’s attorney, Milton Rudin, and psychiatrist Ralph Greenson, to check on her well-being. Lawford consistently reported in interviews documented in 1962 and 1975 that he had initiated the last telephone call to Monroe. “We all knew Marilyn took too many pills and was drinking heavily,” Ebbins recalled. “I suggested we could call Milton Rudin, Marilyn’s attorney, and her psychiatrist, Dr. Ralph Greenson, and ask them to go to her house. I talked to Milton about Peter’s apprehension.” As corroborated by Eunice Murray’ statement to the police, Milton Rudin called Monroe’s house. Ebbins recalled Rudin called him at 7:30 to say he had spoken to Murray “who said she had looked in on Marilyn.” According to Ebbins, “Murray told Milton, ‘She does this every night. She takes the pills, calls somebody and falls asleep. She’s fine.’” Lawford’s telephone calls to Ebbins continued into the night. “Peter called me twice more when he was getting a little drunk,” Ebbins recalled, “expressing his fear that Marilyn was very ill. Peter called me once after midnight and he was bombed.” One can imagine Rudin advising both Dr. Greenson and Dr. Engelberg as the psychiatrist and the internist discussed the medications discovered in Monroe’s home, some of which were contraindicated, and some prescribed by Engelberg without Greenson’s knowledge. The following is a transcription of a recording of Milton Ebbins’ interview with biographer Anthony Summers archived at the Margaret Herrick Library in Beverly Hills: "Peter Lawford invited her to dinner that Saturday night. He asked me to come out. I stayed home watching TV. Then he called me and told me that Marilyn was not going to come because she was tired. She wanted to have a sandwich and go to bed. And then he said he got a phone call from her. It was quite a strange phone call. She had obviously taken some medication to sleep which she did whenever she went to bed. It was about 8 o’clock at night and she talked, kind of rambled along, she told Peter how marvelous everybody and the Kennedys were, and she loved his wife Pat. And all of a sudden, the phone went dead. So, Peter called back, and he said he got a busy signal. So, he called the operator, and she said the phone was out of order. I know Jack Kennedy and Robert weren’t going to kill her. That's absurd. They were very fond of Marilyn Monroe."

Monroe reportedly received telephone calls congratulating her on the interview with Richard Meryman on the topic of fame, published in the August 3rd issue of LIFE magazine currently on newsstands. Meryman was clearly touched by the charismatic child-woman he discovered at her home on Fifth Helena Drive. He recorded memories in an article titled “A Last Long Talk with a Lonely Girl” published in LIFE shortly after Monroe’s death and in an HBO documentary Marilyn: The Last Interview (1992). Meryman perceived “the house was saturated in paranoia,” with an eerie “me-against-the-world” quality. Aside from finding Monroe to be surprisingly unsexy, he was astounded by her excellent taste in decorating. Meryman especially admired a Chinese horse carved from wood from San Francisco’s China Town. When he had difficulty setting up his tape recorder, Monroe offered help and the use of the recorder given to her by poet Norman Rosten. At midnight during the interview, Monroe suggested grilling steaks. They searched the refrigerator for food but found it nearly empty. In Dr. Robert Litman’s first interview with Dr. Greenson on the day prior to Monroe’s funeral, Geenson summarized his history of treating her. Monroe’s psychiatrist reported first providing services to her in late 1959, during the filming of Let's Make Love (1960) directed by George Cukor. 

The psychiatrist told Litman that Monroe exhibited “extremely weak psychological structures” and further described her as “extremely impulsive, she felt unimportant and derived self-confidence from her beauty.” Apparently, Monroe shared with Greenson her perception of the most important aspect of her life being her acting profession. Litman went on to document Greenson’s description of Monroe having “neurotic complaints” and “extreme sensitivity to rejection.” In Litman’s second interview with Greenson, one-week later, on August 14, Greenson “made it clear she was not a drug addict.” Engelberg, who was in charge of the prescription of medication while Dr. Greenson handled the psychotherapy, began to cautiously try out Nembutal again to help Miss Monroe sleep.” Interestingly, in the four-page letter, Litman wrote of a third doctor involved in Monroe’s care: “Unknown to Greenson, however, Miss Monroe obtained sleeping pills from two doctors. Furthermore, the two doctors did not know that she was getting pills from the other one. She received a prescription for 25 Nembutal tablets from Dr. Siegel (filled August 3, 1962 and found empty in her bedroom), and 50 chloral hydrate capsules refilled July 31 from Dr. Engelberg. Litman also confirmed that when he interviewed Engelberg in 1962, Engelberg stated he may have prescribed Nembutal to Monroe. Finally, Litman also reported having interviewed Dr. Siegel in 1962, who stated he prescribed more Nembutal. However, only the prescription number on the Nembutal vial’s label #20858 was recorded on the toxicology report. Another prescription number corresponds with prescription #20857, visible on the surviving prescription for Phenergan dated August 3, 1962, and signed by Engelberg. This appears to prove that Engelberg wrote at least these two prescriptions for Monroe on the same day. If Dr. Lou Seigel had also prescribed Nembutal to Monroe around the same time, the vial of this supply of the medication was not documented by the authorities. 

Stanley J. Coen’s article, “Narcissistic Temptations to Cross Boundaries and How to Manage Them” (published in the Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Associate) referenced Dr. Greenson’s apparent countertransference in the life of his arguably most impressive and tempting patient. Without passing judgment on Greenson, Coen identified the warning signs of the amount of time the doctor devoted to Monroe at the expense of other patients and his family, his involvement in her career, and his talking about her with others. In his article, published in 2007, Coen explored the rarely studied danger of an analyst’s narcissistic neediness; steering treatment away from the patient’s needs and toward the analyst’s own needs, seemingly describing Dr. Greenson and Monroe’s dynamic. An analyst may find a patient “impressive” by her celebrity, power, wealth, attractiveness, sexiness, and youth. He may inflate one or more of these features into making the impressive patient and himself somehow special and wanted to share the patient’s world. The analyst may also attempt to manage his own feelings of both envy of and separateness from his impressive patient by overly identifying with her. Coen pinpointed Dr. Ralph Greenson died on November 24, 1979, three years before the Los Angeles District Attorney’s threshold probe into the death of his most famous patient. However, he went on record to discuss his perceptions in two interviews with Dr. Robert E. Litman on August 7 and 14, 1962, and in correspondence with Dr. Marianne Kris dated August 20, 1962. Eleven years after Monroe’s death, in response to Norman Mailer’s explosive mainstream allegation of her murder, Greenson also consented to an in-depth interview with biographer Maurice Zolotow. 

The interview was published in articles titled Marilyn Monroe’s Psychiatrist: Trying to Untarnish Her Memory, and Mailer’s Book Upsets Leading Psychiatrist. Greenson’s letter to Dr. Marianne Kris, dated August 20, 1962, referenced his reported unawareness of Monroe’s internist, Dr. Hyman Engelberg, having recently prescribed a barbiturate to their mutual patient. “On Friday night she had told the internist that I had said it was all right for her to take some Nembutal,” Greenson wrote, “and he had given it to her without checking with me, because he had been upset for his own personal reasons.” Greenson implied that Monroe had successfully manipulated her internist into prescribing medication through deception that Greenson had approved it. Regardless, Engelberg failed to inform the psychiatrist. Greenson’s letter to Dr. Marianne Kris contained additional details of his last or near last interaction with Monroe. “I was aware that she was annoyed with me,” he wrote. “She often became annoyed when I did not absolutely agree with her. She was angry with me. I told her we would talk more, that she should call me on Sunday morning.” Monroe may have indirectly informed Greenson of her access to Nembutal and provided an opportunity for him to further question her. This is likely the main crux of the case and a pivotal moment in the constellation of events that ultimately led to her death. Based on Greenson’s letter to Dr. Kris, he overlooked questioning Monroe about Nembutal in that moment and failed to reconcile her supply and access to dangerous medication. Since Greenson went on record stating he believed Engelberg had discontinued prescribing barbiturates to Monroe, it was incumbent upon him to pause after Monroe’s mention of Nembutal and further assess the situation. Greenson also admitted in the letter to Dr. Kris that he was “being led by countertransference feelings.” 

“She was a borderline schizophrenic. If I behaved in a way which hurt her,” Greenson wrote of Monroe in his letter to Dr. Kris, “she acted as though it was the end of the world and could not rest until peace had been re-established, but peace could mean reconciliation and death.” The last statement is cryptic; what is the meaning of “reconciliation and death”? Maurice Zolotow’s 1973 article also quoted the Greenson’s inference about Monroe’s intent in ingesting the overdose: "I will always believe it was an accidental suicide because her hand was on receiver, her finger still in the dial. I am convinced she was trying to phone me. If only she had reached me! Many times, she called me at 2, 3, 4 a.m.—countless times. She was trying to call me as she had so many times before. I can assure you that, contrary to Norman Mailer’s speculations, Marilyn did not have any important emotional involvement with Robert Kennedy or any other man at this time. Marilyn Monroe died of an accidental overdose of barbiturates. She was a good human being. She was a lost and very lonely woman who had never gotten over being a waif. It is a tragedy that her artistic achievement as an actress, and all the wealth and fame it brought her, did not give her peace. She had a good future ahead of her. She was making progress. If only she had completed that call to me." By 1973, Dr. Greenson had no hesitancy in telling Maurice Zolotow, “I can assure you that, contrary to Norman Mailer’s speculations, Marilyn did not have any important emotional relationship with Robert Kennedy or any other man at this time.” 

Borderline Personality Disorder was a diagnosis first accepted by the American Psychiatric Association in 1980 and first appearing in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychiatric Disorders, Third edition. “It was just devastating,” Joan Greenson told Christopher Turner of The Telegraph in 2010 regarding the impact of Monroe’s death on her father. “I don’t think my father ever got over it… He had never had a patient die before that he was taking care of other than from a natural death.” We can only imagine Greenson’s emotional reaction of knowing Monroe had asked him if he had seen her vial of Nembutal and acknowledging his failure to act. Did Greenson and Engelberg realize Monroe had obtained medication from a third physician, Dr. Lou Seigel? We can only imagine Engelberg’s reaction to the consequences of his oversight in informing Greenson of his recent prescription of Nembutal or Greenson possibly confronting Engelberg on his collusion with Monroe and resulting in her death. ―Icon: What Killed Marilyn Monroe, Volume One (2023) by Gary Vitacco-Robles

The Opposite Sex, Dick Powell's Model Wife: Joan Blondell vs June Allyson

No one remembered exactly when Joan Blondell met Dick Powell, or when she stopped seeing him as a fellow contract player at Warner Bros. and started seeing him as a potential suitor. By the time they made Broadway Gondolier, they had already appeared in four movies together. They were first spotted dating in late September of 1935, less than one month after Joan’s divorce from cinematographer George Barnes. Joan began to see why Dick Powell was one of the most well-liked men in town. Powell was personable and upbeat and a great asset to any party. He had a rendition of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” sung slightly off-key, that James Cagney said was “one of the funniest things he’d ever heard.” Dick Powell was born on 14 November 1904 in Mountain View, Arkansas. In 1914, his parents moved the family to Little Rock, where he grew up with two brothers. As a young man he discovered a talent for music. “I started out with two assets,” he once said, “a voice that didn’t drive audiences into the streets and determination. I’ve always worked like a dog.” He mastered the piccolo, sax, trumpet, and the banjo, then joined a number of bands and toured in vaudeville. His dark, wavy hair, dimples, twinkling eyes, high cheek bones, and nice smile provided him with boyish appeal. He was drawn to the spotlight, but his ambitions were stalled by an ill-advised marriage to a Little Rock native, Mildred Maund. They eventually divorced due to Dick’s constant touring.

On contract at Warner Bros. since 1932, his movie popularity had come as quickly and completely as Joan’s. He saved and invested wisely. When he had enough money, he bought a house for his parents in North Hollywood. The only scandal that accompanied him so far was his short affair with actress Marion Davies that had been oddly unnoticed by W.R. Hearst. Just as the Blondell-Powell romance began to simmer, Joan cranked out a team effort with Glenda Farrell called Miss Pacific Fleet. After her forthright letters to Hal Wallis, Joan believed this latest show-girl part was a catalyst for her career. Romance with Powell was getting serious, and it was time to meet the parents. Dick’s mother found Joan to be “a lovely girl and a perfectly beautiful one.” Joan’s parents similarly voiced their approval of Powell. Even her close sister Gloria, currently touring in It’s a Wise Child on stage, thought Dick Powell was really good for her big sister. Compared to George Barnes, Powell seemed nice and easy to live with. Warner Bros. decided to unite the pair in two more movies. 

The first one, Stage Struck, was cursed with Joan’s sprained ankle and Dick’s throat problems. But Joan once again proved amusing as a temperamental actress of marginal talent who finances her way to fame in musical comedies after shooting her husband. (Echoes of Beulah Annan and Peggy Hopkins Joyce were likely to be intentional.) No one was much impressed by Stage Struck. Orry-Kelly declared Joan’s mouth the most beautiful in Hollywood. Significant, too, was the fact that Dick Powell visited her in her dressing room to go over lines. Fan mail for Blondell and Powell increased, and Warner Bros. began treating both of them like proper stars. In Gold Diggers of 1937, she played a chorus girl, while Dick was a dull life insurance salesman. Finally, their newfound mutual attraction translated onscreen. 

As the last Gold Diggers musical, there were hummable tunes sprinkled throughout, including “With Plenty of Money and You,” “Speaking of the Weather,” and the lavish showstopper “All’s Fair in Love and War.” Joan and Dick frantically completed Gold Diggers of 1937 in time to stage their showy wedding. On 11 September 1936, they filed a marriage application amid hundreds of gawking civic employees at the Los Angeles County Marriage License Bureau. On 17 September, they announced that they would be married in two days on the yacht Santa Paula at San Pedro shortly before it was to sail from Los Angeles to New York. Joan’s hairdresser-confidant, Ruth Pursley, was maid of honor, and Dick’s good friend, actor Regis Toomey, was best man. For reasons never divulged, Dick’s parents were not there. The onboard reception for fifty guests was attended by Busby Berkeley, James Cagney, Glenda Farrell, Orry-Kelly, Mervyn LeRoy, and, as a business courtesy, Hal Wallis. Joan gushed, “I’m deliriously happy,” as she lifted her glass of champagne. “This is the greatest event of my life,” said Dick. Dick was a friendly guy, freely giving autographs to fans, but the stress of a fishbowl honeymoon sent him to bed with an ardor-suppressing cold. Dick had orchestrated the refurbishing of an English-style house on North Maple Drive in Beverly Hills to coincide with the honeymoon. Dick was also an attentive stepfather to Norman and won Joan’s affection when he knocked the wheels off of a trailer home in the backyard, set the body on blocks, and filled it with Norman’s toys. 

Joan was thrilled that Dick wanted more kids as Joan had “no intention of letting her one child grow up without brothers or sisters.” Joan was enjoying domesticity like never before, in part because Dick, unlike George, was a fully participating spouse. Joan wanted nothing more than stability without overwork, and to keep a stable address. Dick had other plans, since he saw their house as an investment besides a home and this brought considerable friction to the marriage. There were arguments about where to move, whether to buy or lease, add a wing here, knock down a wall there. In March, the Powells moved to a 1920s Tudor-style house on Selma Avenue near Fairfax, previously owned by actress Fay Wray and her husband, writer John Monk Saunders. It was one block from Schwab’s drugstore and next door to screenwriter Frances Marion’s huge estate known in Hollywood as “the Enchanted Hill.” The house was set among eucalyptus trees, with a broad front lawn framed by low hedges. Joan did not grieve Maple Drive long and got busy applying her eclectic taste. They were by all appearances happy, committed to their children, and delighting in a shared sense of humor. With him in a purple dressing gown and her in lounging pajamas, and coffee percolating on the mahogany side table, they fielded softball questions from high-ranking New York Times film reporter Bosley Crowther.

Dick had recently completed Naughty but Nice and singing royalties kept him awash in money. His ventures into real estate were exceedingly rewarding, as property values rose exponentially during the great twentiethcentury migration into Southern California. Joan appreciated that Dick’s boyish charm belied a clever businessman. As for movies, he was frankly demoralized by seven years of playing the All American crooner. Contract playing in Hollywood held little appeal to him. Thanks to Dick’s skill with savings and real estate, the Powells invested in vacation property. In honor of their love of the sea, they signed a ninety-nine-year lease on an old Irvine Ranch house in Newport Beach. It was not large, just three bedrooms, but it was open and airy, and it included a private dock. The outside was painted in gunmetal blue-gray and adorned with yellow flower pots filled with geraniums. Model Wife was the last movie Joan made with Dick. 

They play employees of a hoity-toity salon run by an imperious biddy who prohibits her staff from being married. But Joan and Dick secretly are—and to each other. All’s tidy until the boss’s son woos Joan and enrages Dick. After rumors spread about Joan seeing Broadway impresario Mike Todd, Dick Powell went to see Broadway musical comedy Best Foot Forward at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre and was taken with sprightly young cast member June Allyson, who sang the praises of the barrelhouse, blues, and boogie-woogie in the “Three B’s” showstopper. Dick went backstage to meet her, and she was agape that a star of his rank would single her out. Joan began going solo to the exclusive Cub Room of the Stork Club, that see-and-be-seen nightclub on East Fifty-third frequented by the café society of Broadway, Hollywood, and Washington. Mike Todd frequented the Stork Club as well. The man was singularly charismatic. He could walk into a room and suck up all the available oxygen with his bear-trap mouth, ubiquitous cigar, and rattling voice. Beat the Band was an incidental moment in an outsized life, except that it offered him an introduction to Dick Powell’s wife. Mike Todd was used to getting what he wanted. 

And right now he wanted Joan. Dick usually kept a sunny disposition at home. He tinkered around the house, helping the kids build model planes or play musical instruments. Dick had installed an advanced music system and alternatively played ’78s of classical music or the up-to-date Bing Crosby and Sammy Kaye.The unraveling of the Powells marriage began in early 1943, when Joan ventured to New York. Mike Todd’s pursuit of Joan had been delayed by the onset of the war, but when she wound down her work in the North Atlantic, he made his next move. Born Jacob Hirsch Goldbogen in 1907 to Polish immigrants in Minneapolis, Todd was part P. T. Barnum, part Houdini, and part huckster. He was one of nine children born to a poor rabbi, but somehow his powers of fund-raising and risk-taking were astounding. He once bet a man that he could raise one hundred thousand dollars in one night. He won the bet. Abel Green of Variety noted, “He may parlay himself into the poorhouse or Fort Knox, but in either case he will sup on caviar and champagne.” When he came to show business producing, he had transformed into the Gentilesque Mike Todd. 

The Powells were nearing the crucible of their marriage, and both knew it. Certainly, Joan looked guilty of carrying on a torchy affair during those long months back East, leaving Dick feeling justified in pursuing his own extramarital agenda. According to next-door neighbor Frances Marion, Joan was informed by thirdhand sources of “a certain young lady, dressed like a prim and proper school girl though she had long since emerged from her school days, who came for dinner and left just before the milkman arrived.” She was June Allyson, the Bronx-born hoofer who bewitched Dick Powell on the stage in Best Foot Forward. Mike Todd phoned constantly, telling her that his love and the road show of Something for the Boys would cure her anguish. She was not ready for the 20 January opening of the show in Philadelphia, and the backers were impatient to recoup, so Merman stepped in for three weeks. Dick meanwhile followed the Hollywood wisdom that says a marital split should be accompanied by Dionysian revelry. 

In the early months of 1944, he was seen with June Allyson at Romanoff’s, Ciro’s, Chasen’s, and Mocambo. Joan announced publicly her separation from Dick: “I am going to file against Dick as soon as he returns from the East. . . and after I have talked the matter over with him. The matter of a divorce is final, however.” Dick had moved out, Mike was hot on her heels, and a showdown seemed inevitable. June Allyson further complicated the romantic geometry. While Joan was touring Boys in early 1944, Dick made Meet the People at MGM, conveniently featuring his girlfriend in a supporting role. Later Allyson said it hurt to play the heavy in a marital split, telling Dick, “I didn’t think I was taking you away from anybody.” Powell comforted her by saying that he had been “a chump. Joan came home with a fur coat and she said Mike Todd gave it to her because he couldn’t afford to pay her a salary.” Once again Joan's behavior suggests that she wanted freedom from Dick Powell, who now seemed drab and tightfisted compared to Mike Todd. Whoever was first unfaithful indeed will never be known. 

In one of the great miscalculations of her life, Joan told Norman the truth of his father on the eve of her second divorce. She believed telling Norman that Dick was not his “real” father would soften the pain of a split home. This decision was a tactical catastrophe. Todd was spending time at the Selma house, and whenever Dick intruded, there was screaming and slamming doors followed by the screeching of car tires. On 15 July 1944, Joan went to court to win her freedom from Dick Powell. Dick did not fight for custody, choosing rather to settle out of court to prevent further hurt to the kids. He agreed to pay one hundred dollars each for Norman and Ellen every month and Joan’s divorce settlement money was over $100.000. Joan marveled at Mike Todd's bedroom stamina. In contrast, love making with Dick had been affectionate but somehow routine-like. She had admitted that Dick “made me feel secure,” but Todd brought about her erotic awakening. As a result she rationalized a certain neglect of her children, and a certain burden on her mother. According to Art Cohn, Todd did not gamble to win, he gambled to gamble. “He was a psychopathic loser. He had no card sense,” he wrote. “Why is it that three of the shrewdest gamblers in show business—Sam Goldwyn, Jack Warner, and Mike Todd—are probably the three poorest card players in town?” 

With Joan’s career attenuated, the family had to rely exclusively on Mike’s earnings as a producer. Todd was gripped with an irrational possessiveness, perhaps because fluctuating professional success threatened his identity, selfesteem, and manhood. He and Joan still generated tremendous passion; a casual glance could trigger a blood rush to the loins. But she dreaded having a child by him. In contrast to the George Barnes's multiple (six or seven) abortions, Joan was diligent in practicing conventional birth control, wearing a gold IUD recommended at the time. Norman was given a .22-caliber pump-action rifle and a motor scooter by Dick Powell for his fourteenth birthday, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he was supposed to use the rifle on Mike Todd, then flee on his new set of wheels. Joan socialized only with already established friends, including actresses Betty Bruce and Glenda Farrell. She was still close to Gloria in California, they talked at least once a week, and she was thrilled when her sister met, courted, and wed handsome ad man Victor Hunter. 

But Joan’s world was narrowing. By 1949, Todd’s rages were occurring at least once a week, and the children were witnesses. “I am sure he never struck her, but his verbal abuse was so loud that it seemed more intimidating than a physical assault,” said Mike Junior. As the Girls Go company manager David Lawlor noted that she did not always negotiate Mike’s temper. He said, “In my book each gave the other the devil’s due.” Lawlor was in the Irvington kitchen before a Broadway opening when the Todds had a huge altercation, and Joan finished it by shoving her homemade cheesecake, which was reputed to be delicious, into Mike’s face. She then plastered the mess into his dress shirt and tuxedo. She left the room, he followed, changed, and then got into a waiting limousine with Lawlor but without Joan. When Joan believed she caught Mike fleetingly leering at Ellen’s newly adolescent body, at that moment she knew it was time to leave him, she said. 

Mike Todd was in the midst of a grand movie experiment in widescreen projection called This Is Cinerama, which became the third-highest-grossing movie of all time and made Todd a multimillionaire. Dick Powell was enjoying success on an equally high level. He was one of the founders of the pioneering Four Star Television Production Company and was living in show-business splendor in Bel Air with June Allyson. Joan was currently unemployed, visiting New York after the Brooklyn tour and apartment-sitting for a friend in Manhattan. She found an apartment with a terrace for $395 a month on the nineteenth floor at the corner of Sutton Place South and East Fifty-seventh Street along the East River. It was in a large and weighty building, with a facade of red brick and pseudo-classical detailing of the quoins. She gave Ellen the master bedroom and bath, while Joan’s wardrobe, makeup, business file folders, and various other professional necessities were well organized in the second bedroom. Joan also found a captivating group of friends and companions. There was talk of marriage to millionaire sportsman and architect Hal Hayes, but nothing came of that. She was seen repeatedly in the company of lawyer Charles Mintz, and was delighted when he secured more child support from Dick Powell. She went out with the great New York Post sports columnist Jimmy Cannon, occasionally double dating with heiress Gloria Vanderbilt and Frank Sinatra. 

Vanderbilt recalls the conversation was always all about Sinatra, leaving her and Joan to do little but smile over their cocktails and cigarettes. Cannon’s open adoration of Joan was not returned. “Jimmy Cannon has a big crush, but I haven’t,” Joan wrote to Gloria. “Talks an ear off me and is a short fat bore—but a gent in good standing around town, so I go out to dinner with him a couple of times a week.” Joan was hurt when Ellen announced her wishes to live at the huge Mandeville Canyon ranch of her father and stepmother. Ellen could exercise her love for horses there, but it was excruciating for Joan to let her go. She was most afraid of Todd’s anger, but her second greatest fear was June Allyson’s potential to undermine her mothering. Ellen’s departure was also a demonstration of an unhealthy dependence Joan had acquired for her daughter. If they were apart, Joan would call daily, express her worry, and unwittingly instill guilt in Ellen for developing independence. On January 10, 1956, it was announced that the company formed by the Powells, Pamrick Productions, would adapt the Robert Wilder novel And Ride a Tiger into a film. Allyson would co-star and Powell would produce and direct with the film distributed by RKO. In the meantime, she returned to MGM to play the top-billed role in the Metrocolor musical comedy The Opposite Sex (1956) for producer Joe Pasternak. The film was praised by Variety; Bosley Crowther in The New York Times wrote that Allyson did an excellent job, but the film was not a box office success. 

Allyson has group scenes and a one-on-one scene with Joan Blondell who plays Edith. Allyson reported that the latter scene was very awkward since Blondell had called Powell to say his wife had tried to keep her out of the film. Allyson said this was not true; she didn’t even know that Blondell wanted to be in it. Allyson thought Blondell was great in the film. Blondell was also reportedly insecure because she had not been in a film since 1951’s The Blue Veil, having only worked on TV in the meantime. Members of the publicity department prowled the set for days but it turned out that all the women liked one another (except Joan Blondell's irrational dislike of Allyson), boosting each other in private and praising each other on the set. David Miller told Allyson that they were going to use the first take, no matter what happened. It seems Allyson's slap knocked Joan Collins out cold and she fell to the floor with a black eye while Allyson burst into tears and ran to her dressing room. Joan Collins was a long time coming to, but when she did, Allyson approached her diffidently and they cried together. 

Allyson reported that Ann Sheridan was lovely but since she was also friends with Joan Blondell, Allyson kept away from them when they were together. Blondell also asked that Allyson not be on set to read lines off-camera for her in their scene together. Allyson insisted that she do it, and later Blondell thanked her for it. Despite June Allyson's good intentions towards Joan Blondell, Joan would prove to be losing touch with reality and she would try to justify her loneliness convincing herself Dick and June also had serious problems or extramarital affairs; the latter Allyson denied in her autobiography, claiming Dick never gave her motive for suspecting of unfaithfulness. However, when a crisis gripped their marriage and Allyson thought of divorcing Powell, Allyson's lawyer Giesler got in touch with Powell’s lawyer and worked out a deal. Powell sent word through his lawyers that the divorce would not be contested. She was unaware of the property settlement until she saw a cartoon in the newspaper: A husband told his wife, “I don’t know why they’re worrying about the national debt. Dick Powell just settled four million dollars on June Allyson.” That was an exaggeration because, with the aid of transatlantic phones and cables, the lawyers worked out the agreement that she would get $2.5 million. 

When Powell flew back, Allyson met him at the airport with the children. She kissed him as if nothing had happened, the children clung to his hands, and he smiled benignly. Allyson and Powell went home and made love half the night, after which the man told her that was what she would be missing, since he insisted "there is a lot of lovemaking but real love like ours is rare." On January 18, the Powells were photographed at their Beverly Hills home with Powell saying, “If people will only leave us alone, maybe we’ll be able to work out our situation.” The Powells then reconciled and had their delayed second honeymoon with the family sailing his boat to Mexico. In the summer of 1962 Dick Powell was diagnosed with cancer of the lymph glands. When he resigned as president of Four Star and accepted the less demanding post of chairman of the board, it was common knowledge in Hollywood that the cancer was probably inoperable. Powell was ashen but cheerful when Ann and Norman visited with their infant daughter, Stephanie, born on 26 September. During his decline, Dick and Joan enjoyed a convivial if not close relationship. Old animosities were retired. Dick scribbled a note to Joan on Four Star stationery: “Dear Joan: Loved your card. You know somethin’?—I’m gonna fool ’em and make it! Best as ever, Dick.” Three days later, he wrote to her again: “Dear Joanie-Poo, the doctors tell me the tumor in my chest has shrunk about 85% and that in two more weeks I’ll be just as obnoxious as ever. Lots of love, Dick.” As a favor to Joan, he cast her in an affecting episode of The Dick Powell Show, even though her role would have been better served with a plain-faced actress.

“Joan was a standout during the long days and nights,” June Allyson wrote diplomatically. “Once she stood talking to Norman, she sobbed and said, ‘I should never have divorced Dick.’ The words cut like a knife.” Now Dick was dying, and June accommodated Joan’s visits for a time, but eventually barred her from their apartment. The actress didn’t want to give up one minute of precious time with her husband, and when Blondell saw the look on Allyson's face, she headed for her car without speaking again. Powell was fading away before Allyson’s eyes, his lucid moments interspersed with confused states and periods of morphine-induced coma. Powell would hallucinate, once reminding her to get Marion Davis’ clothes off the foot of the bed, and she went through the motions. He wanted a normal Christmas so June wrapped presents and made the children deliver them. He was pleased she had found things he could use, and not the usual wild ties. There were gadgets to make it easier for him to read by holding books and papers. January 2 would be his last day. As Powell seemed to be coming out of a coma, Allyson sat on the bed and cradled his head against her shoulder, he hanging onto her sweater. Suddenly she was aware that the room was full of people and she became angry. At the foot of the bed was Ellen, her face wet with tears. Powell opened his eyes and Allyson moved him a little so she could look at his stunning blue eyes for the last time. Powell took a deep breath and said he loved her and he was sorry. ―Sources: June Allyson: Her Life and Career (2023) by Peter Shelley, Joan Blondell: A Life between Takes (1993) by Matthew Kennedy and Confessions of a magazine writer (1981) by Jane Wilkie

Dick Powell (From Emcee to Philip Marlowe), Marion Davies (Captain of Her Soul)

In Pittsburgh, Dick Powell was a stage show emcee — a now defunct species that flourished during those halcyon days of the American movie palace, from around 1925 to 1932. In those frenetic years, the city's "super deluxe" theaters were invariably "vaudefilm" houses, patrons getting for their money not only a first-run film together with assorted celluloid featurettes but from four to seven "live" acts of vaudeville. In point of fact, what brought Dick Powell to Pittsburgh early in 1929 was the decision made by Warner Brothers' zone headquarters to revamp the weekly vaudeville bills at their Enright Theater in East Liberty. They had in mind incorporating them into stage shows over which Powell, as the resident master of ceremonies, would preside. And though Powell considered his very first show a disaster, he was "going strong" the second week. What was the secret of his success? As expressed a critic from the 1930s:"We all had fun with Powell" — and this because "he painted the clouds with sunshine." 

No mean feat in a Depression-haunted America. His efforts and energies had gone into singing in several local church choirs and into playing the saxophone, the cornet, and the clarinet. Indeed, Powell's decision to put school behind him seems to have been prompted by a desire to transform an avocation into a professional career. Toward this end, he joined the Peter Pan Orchestra in Little Rock in 1923, playing the cornet and singing with the fourpiece group, which played dance engagements locally and between the reels of silent movies at The Majestic Theater on Main Street. Then, in 1924, Powell graduated to a review unit that was appearing in small-time vaudeville houses in the St. Louis suburbs. Returning home to Little Rock, he went to work in the commercial department of the Southwestern Bell Telephone Company. Presumably, he was determined to be a prudent professional man in his father's image. What he had not counted on was the appearance in Little Rock of the Royal Peacock Orchestra, playing an engagement at the Rainbow Gardens Ballroom in December 1924. 

Powell, who had come to dance with a girl from the phone company (Mildred Maund, who would be his first wife), was given the opportunity to sing with them on more occasions. His days at the phone company are recalled by Vera Harvill, a retired employee. She describes him as a happy person who had dated another company employee, Blanche Hart. According to Mrs. Harvill, they went to the movies and out dancing frequently. By February 1927, Powell was back in Indianapolis. He did get the chance to sing at the Apollo Theater, but his financial situation and professional prospects seemed so bleak that he took to selling insurance with determination, if little enthusiasm. Charlie Davis, not unaware of Powell's plight, at length relented and took him back —but at a reduced salary. At first, Powell displayed some early awkwardness, but in his Pittsburgh years Dick Powell matured into a poised personality —one a national audience would soon be applauding on their movie screens. Powell had his big opening in the Stanley Theatre affiliated with Warner Brothers studios on November 4, 1929. The downtown audience, enchanted with Powell, literally took to their hearts his opening song, "You Were Meant For Me." 

Afterwards, he was Hollywood-bound, destined to appear in more than thirty musicals in the next thirteen years. Films like Cowboy from Brooklyn (1938), Going Places (1938), and Naughty But Nice (1939), were made toward the close of his association with Warner Brothers. However, it was Powell's good fortune at the very outset to be featured in what movie historians number among the finest musicals made at Warner Brothers — 42nd Street, Gold Diggers of 1933, and Footlight Parade all released in 1933. Of course, it was not only Powell's presence that made them "amazing pieces of entertainment" but rather the kaleidoscopic production numbers of Busby Berkeley, the epitome of the Warner musical of the 1930s. Fully aware that he was at a career crossroads in the late 1930s, Powell began importuning Warner Brothers to cast him in straight dramatic roles. 

Then, in the face of the studio's reluctance to do so, he purchased his contract release. Subsequently, he signed with Paramount, only to find the roles offered him were again singing juveniles. Determined to break out of the stereotype, Powell lobbied hard in 1944 to get the lead in James M.Cain's Double Indemnity. When Paramount turned him down, he quit the studio, signing with RKO only after they agreed to his playing the cynical detective in the 1945 screen version of Raymond Chandler's Farewell, My Lovely, which was released as Murder, My Sweet. Audiences took to the "tough" Powell, for he was wonderfully convincing as the glib, sardonic Philip Marlowe. So, too did Edward Dmytryk, the film's director. In his autobiography Dmytryk speaks of trying to work the actor into his character, saying Powell accepted direction "competently and effortlessly." 

Indeed, in Dmytryk's  judgment, Powell comes closer to the essence of Marlowe's character than Humphrey Bogart, Richard Montgomery, and Robert Mitchum — other distinguished portrayers of Chandler's fictional creation. By way of explanation, Dmytryk wrote, "I wanted Marlowe played as I believed Chandler visualized him — really an Eagle Scout, a do-gooder, with a patina of toughness only skin deep." The director goes on to identify this "good-guy" characterization with Dick Powell himself; and if his point is valid, it suggests interesting affinities between the tough detective and the stage show emcee. In the late 1940s, Powell would reinvent himself as a producer and executive, becoming the president of the prestigious Four Star Productions. 

Quite evidently his was a talent for all seasons. The point is surely worth making, but the Powell we are most apt to remember is not the ambitious businessman, but that friendly young fellow, that fine, decent, and wholesome man —full of life and fun— who is with us whenever his classic films of the 1930s and 1940s are revived. Powell made the audience believe that they too could succeed with hard work and diligence and a little good luck. But then it was his particular genius to make a generation experience anew from week to week the possibilities as well as the fun of being smart and optimist. They may not have succeeded but, remembering Powell, they believed they might have done just that. —"Remember a Local Singer Named Dick Powell?" (1976) by Howard Caldwell and "Dick Powell: The Indianapolis Years" by John L. Marsh (Indiana Magazine of History, December 1985)

Marion Davies’s Warner Bros. contract was reminiscent of most at this studio in the 1930s. The practice of extending time on seven-year agreements was found illegal in 1944, when Olivia de Havilland toppled the procedures at Warner Bros. in the landmark De Havilland Decision. In this ruling, the Supreme Court of California clarified that a seven-year contract meant seven calendar years, not seven years of time worked, under California law. But for Marion, and others at the studio in the 1930s, refusal to make a movie meant extra time was added. In early April 1935, Marion began work on her first Warner Bros. film, Page Miss Glory. She took to co-star Dick Powell right away, and he to her. Powell felt that Marion might be developing a crush on him, and with W.R. Hearst on the set constantly, he feared what this might mean for his career. 

As with all of Marion’s flirtations, it is difficult to know when the line crossed between a romantic friendship and a sexual interest. Marion was very tactile and demonstrative in her affection, hugging, kissing, and touching freely. Despite of it, it was clear for the crew who worked in her films with Powell that they didn't misinterpret their romantic relationship. Also, however harmless Marion’s potential crushes were, they frightened her co-stars, who were all too aware of the power that Hearst wielded over their careers. As at MGM, elaborate lunches for the cast were held at Marion’s bungalow. Much like the picnics at San Simeon, there was chicken and champagne, and W.R. kept a watchful eye on Marion throughout. At one of these lunches, given for some Hearst higher-ups from the East Coast, W.R. was busy talking to guests when Powell entered the bungalow. When Marion caught a glimpse of Powell coming through the door, she gleefully welcomed him by blowing exuberant kisses across the room, beckoning with both her arms for him to come over and sit in the seat she had saved next to her. Powell, afraid that W.R. Hearst would turn around and catch the whole scene, gestured to her in no uncertain terms that she should be very careful. In addition to the fear that Powell had of W.R. Hearst’s jealousy, he also knew that “the Chief” had the power to ruin his career in a single blow if Powell displeased him. 

“You always felt Mr. Hearst’s possessive attitude toward Miss Davies,” Powell recalled for the Hearst biographer W.A. Swanberg. “I remember feeling that he had a possession complex—that Miss Davies was his possession and had to be guarded.” Given W.R. Hearst’s all-encompassing need for control, Powell was allegedly approached once about what was going on between Marion and himself. W.R. just laughed at the insinuation that he was jealous of Powell, but still he warned him, "just watch your steps, Richard." To Dick Powell, Marion Davies was the “best-hearted woman in the world,” whose interactions with him on the set were "endearing." Marion, in turn, remembered Dick Powell with tenderness. “I really adore him,” she said. “He’s a darling, a gentleman. He’s one of the sweetest persons I’ve ever met.” Hearts Divided, co-starring once more with her beloved Dick Powell. 

Hearts Divided was set during the Napoleonic era, with Marion playing Elizabeth “Betsy” Patterson, the wife of Napoleon’s brother Jêrome. With many emotional scenes and plenty of comedy, the movie appeared to be headed toward success. Marion looked young and beautiful in her Napoleonic garb and hair that seemed more platinum with every passing movie. Marion and W.R. planned to leave for San Simeon as soon as filming was finished, but those plans were held up when Dick Powell came down with laryngitis and couldn’t complete his final number. After several days of inactivity on Hearts Divided, Powell finally consulted with doctors to see what they could do. One put a tincture of silver on his vocal cords, allowing him to sing the final number and get Marion and W.R. off to San Simeon. However, Powell said that he developed a vocal cord nodule due to the silver, and couldn’t sing for four months afterward. —Captain of Her Soul: The Life of Marion Davies (2022) by Lara Gabrielle