It was 4:00 am on Sunday and the music was pounding on the other side of the bathroom door that was guarded by two private security employees of the R&R Club on West 14th Street in Manhattan. Lindsay Lohan was donning a short pink dress and dark grey high heels, her hair was brown, parted in the middle, with gentle curls that ran to below her shoulders. Her legs were crossed and she was holding a pina colada as she leaned against one of the toilet stall partitions. A simple red Kabbalah bracelet was on the wrist that held her heavily spiked drink. (more…)
Continued From Yesterday.
Marilyn Monroe’s question about who takes her body after she dies struck the lawyer as bizarre. It was not an ownership issue, or he didn’t think so.
“Why do you ask?” asked the lawyer.
“You said Lee gets everything left over, the residual clause; he gets everything that is not mentioned in the will. Who gets my body? Who gets my body after I die?” asked Marilyn. (more…)
Continued From Yesterday.
Marilyn Monroe felt lost, unloved, used and abused. If there was not a man waiting for her at the end of the day, she looked forward to wine or pharmaceuticals. It was either-or for her. Occasionally she would call her mentor, Lee Strasberg, but lately this was not producing any benefits. Lee was imposing some kind of professional distance between the two of them, and she could not help think that Lee was displeased with her acting work. Marilyn had dredged the deepest corners of her past for Lee, for the acting work, but Lee never seemed entirely satisfied. She obsessed about her acting so much, that it sometimes felt like her entire life had become about the Method, staying raw, with emotional blisters oozing from moment to moment. Lee had given her the keys to turning it on, but she did not know how to turn it off. (more…)
Marilyn Monroe sat in a leather-backed chair in the center of a long conference table made of polished maple. Her position was lazy, sitting back, somewhat lumped over. Her hair was long and bleached blond with brown roots showing from her lack of attention. She was wearing a black wool coat with large round black buttons over a yellow blouse that was a bit too tight for her bust. Marilyn was huddled in her coat, still feeling the cold wet weather of January in New York City. It was 1961, and the new decade was dark and cold to her. So dark that it prompted Marilyn to come to her lawyer’s office and sign the last will and testament that she had been advised to execute a few years ago but never thought it necessary. (more…)
It was a hot Spring day in Los Angeles. The still air for the past three days had left a purple haze that floated above the basin. Jake Gyllenhaal was sitting in a comfortable chair looking at the palms and other desert flora that peppered the view he had from the top floor of 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, the offices of Creative Artists Agency. Kevin Huvane sat behind his polished mahogany desk that was supported by brushed nickel posts. An LCD monitor with keyboard sat to Huvane’s left, and a multi-buttoned large office telephone sat to his right. In front of Huvane on the desk was a pile of four scripts. Huvane was watching Jake who seemed to be lost in the haze outside the large floor-to-ceiling window that surrounded Huvane’s corner office. (more…)
« newer posts /
previous posts »
Stumble it!