candle in the wind

As I think I mentioned a while back, I'm reading Donald Spoto's biography of Marilyn Monroe. This 500+ page book is taking me FOREVER to read. It's full of facts, names, places, and sadness. It's not boring, though--not in the least. I can't quite get a grasp on all the names and faces, and that's my fault. What I want to grasp onto but almost hate learning about is how beautiful and fragile and funny and smart Marilyn was. I've rented two of her films while making my way through this book--I watched The Asphalt Jungle (a movie in which she has only a handful of lines and just a couple minutes of screen time) and Bus Stop. I wanted to see them for their own sake but also because I'd just read about her auditions, the other cast members, her agonizing self-criticism that caused her to ask for take after take until she got things somewhat right. A classic perfectionist (and not a narcissist, as it's erroneously believed), she would make and remake her face for hours before going out into public, terrified of any possible scrutiny, feeling as if she always had to look her best. The reasons for this fear were founded in her upbringing as well as her own temperament, I'm sure.

Donald Spoto's biography of her is well-revered for many reasons: it's well-written and very well-researched. He strips away layers of myth surrounding her, myth that was often created by people on her periphery (or even people who didn't know her in the least), people who used her name to make themselves some money. The whole JFK "love affair"? Yeah, that was one time. The two of them met exactly four times and shared a bed once. The way that story spun out of control is all documented.

Most of the book isn't made up of Spoto unraveling myths. On the contrary, he paints a beautiful picture of this vivacious, loving person who made her place in Hollywood and the world.

Right now my reading has slowed to a snail's pace. Look at me as we speak: I'm writing about the book instead of reading it. Why, you ask? I've reached 1962, the year of her death.

And I've just come to love her.