Kim Novak: “Everybody’s Laughing At Me”

Kim Novak walked swiftly into my Hollywood apartment, nearly slamming the front door behind her. She tossed her tailored camel’s hair coat onto a chair, sat down on the couch, slipped her shoes off and then leaned back against the large beige cushions. She didn’t speak for a moment, then slowly her drawn, tense expression faded and her face began to relax.

“I’m so tired I could just about die,” she began suddenly. “I haven’t been sleeping well. Last night I woke up crying and . . .” she hesitated, “. . . that’s the way it’s been so many nights ever since those rumors about me started. You know, I so much want people to know the truth about me but I don’t know how to get it through to them.” And then, in a tone strange to her, she said, “I’m up to here with all this! I’m just fed up.”

In public, Kim seems to weather distorted headline. gossip item, rumor, and untruth very well indeed. But out of the spotlight, it becomes a much different story.

“How can they keep printing those things?” she suddenly asked. “I try to tell myself I don’t care and that I’m not going to get upset any more, but . . .” she broke off wearily.

It was quite clear she was still upset from the little things she did. “l cant sleep and when I do I even dream about it now. Like last night. It was such an awful thing . . . I dreamt I was allowed to use a stadium to talk to people. It was a big place, an arena like those in the Roman days where they’d let loose lions on an unprotected man—that kind of place. Huge . . . tremendous . . . like the Colosseum.

“In my dream I was led into the center of the stadium and I shouted so as to be heard, ‘Listen, everybody, I want to tell you something. Everybody, please, I want you to understand the truth about me.’ I started to explain—and all of a sudden there were rocks being thrown at me! From all those seats up above, people were throwing rocks. I kept shouting just the same, trying to make them hear. . . .

“Then, suddenly, they stopped throwing the rocks. It was very quiet and I thought, ‘They know I have something important to say. They’re giving me a chance!’ But when I looked up,” and unhappiness filled her eyes as if all this had been more real than a dream, “everybody was gone. They’d just thrown their rocks and left. . . .

“When I woke, I had to turn the light on to convince myself I was in my own room—that I had only been asleep. Without thinking, I put my hand up to my eyes and my cheeks were wet. I was still crying.”

Kim’s voice was heavy as she went on. “In a way, it wasn’t a dream, though, and I can’t wake up because this is just the kind of thing that’s been happening to me in real life. I felt exactly that way a few days ago, for example, when I was looking at the newspapers. It was in the evening, and I thought I’d read a while before I went to bed. So I poured a glass of milk and curled up in a chair and began glancing at the news, when all of a sudden my own name jumped out at me. It was in a gossip column—an item about an actor who’d just gotten divorced. It said he was my latest boyfriend. The whole thing was sort of jeering, and I could imagine hundreds of people sitting home in their living rooms, just the way I was, and reading the item.

“It gave me the most awful helpless feeling. It was just like the dream. I wanted to say, ‘But it’s so foolish! I’ve only met that man once—and that was for a picture-story in a magazine.’ But there I was, by myself. I couldn’t make any of those people hear me.

“And when I talk to the press,” Kim said wearily, “whatever I say gets all twisted around by the time it comes out in the papers. Or else the reporters refuse to really listen to me—like the one who called up a few weeks ago. I was dressing, I was in a hurry because I was going to have dinner with my agents at Romanoff’s. The phone rang, and when I answered it I heard this cheerful voice: ‘Miss Novak, are you going to marry So-and-So after his divorce comes through?’ He was talking about a director I’ve known ever since I came to Hollywood. A story in that day’s paper had said I was ‘interested’ in him.

“As politely as I could, I answered, ‘No, I’m not. I don’t know him that well.’

“The reporter said, ‘Do you mean you don’t even know him?’

“ ‘No, I don’t mean that,’ I answered. ‘He’s an old friend.’

“The reporter just said, ‘Oh. Thank you, Miss Novak.’ You know how you can sense somebody is smiling, just from the sound of their voice? Well, it was like that—I could hear him grinning. And it hurt, because this director’s friendship means a lot to me. He did the very first picture I was in. I was so frightened then, with no acting experience. I’ll always be grateful to him, because I don’t think anybody would have noticed me if he hadn’t done such a fine job on the picture. He directed my latest movie, too—‘Bell, Book and Candle’—and I’m happier about that performance than anything I’ve ever done. All along he’s given me advice and encouragement. A real friend, one I could trust. Now this. . . .”

“Do you think perhaps you’re taking it all too seriously?” I asked.

Kim smiled wistfully. “I guess that’s what my agents thought. They could tell I was upset, and they tried to cheer me up. The director was at Romanoff’s that night, and he stopped by our table to say hello. I tried to look amused when I asked him, ‘Did you read about us?’

“He laughed and said, ‘I certainly did. Why don’t you tell me these things are going on?’ Everybody else laughed—in a kind way, not ugly like the dream—and I tried to join in. But it wasn’t funny to me. There’ve been so many stories—I no longer can take it all as a joke.

“And the worst part of it . . . I think my fans believe it.” She got up and began pacing the room almost distractedly. “How could they know what the truth is? I can’t talk to them—I can’t get through to them. You see, I know what some of them are thinking, because I’ve had letters. There was one from a girl in Kansas City, a really nice girl. That is—I’ve never met her, but I feel as if I know her, because she began writing me when I was brand-new in movies.

“You know what? In her last letter she said she’d been terribly disappointed to read this about me.” Kim stood still, and her voice was grave as she repeated the unpleasant words. “That I’d been seen around town at little out-of-the-way places with different movie executives—all of them married men. She’d never thought I was that kind of woman, but since I hadn’t denied the story . . .”

Kim spread her hands hopelessly. “I had told the studio people but they just said that I shouldn’t say anything, because rumors and gossip die faster if you just ignore them. But you see what happens? I’d hurt a good friend of mine by keeping quiet. Well, I wrote to her, of course. I told her the truth: that it was a case of mistaken identity. The girl who’d been going around with these men was new in town; she wanted to be an actress; it just happened that her hair was about the same color as mine, cut the same way.

“And yet when I sent the letter I had the same helpless feeling. It’s not possible for me to answer every single letter I get—and what about the people who don’t write—who just feel I’ve let them down? I owe these people so much. They’ve given me their support from the very start. Most of all, I owe them the truth. But how can I give it to them?” The words were a question, but as Kim spoke them her voice sank to a note of utter hopelessness, pathetically expressing her belief that nobody could answer the question she’d asked.

“The newspapermen don’t want to hear the truth from me—it isn’t funny enough. They want headlines that will make people laugh. Like ‘Kim Novak Gets $8,500 Trinket.’ Do you remember that? That was General Trujillo’s Mercedes-Benz. I can still see a certain reporter’s face after he asked me about the car. We’d been having what I thought was a perfectly friendly interview, so I answered him honestly. I explained that the general had ordered the ear while he was at the Army Command and General Staff School at Fort Leavenworth. I was just keeping it for him.

“The reporter got the most cynical look, and sort of chuckled. ‘Come on now, Kim,’ he said. ‘You’re a grown-up, glamorous movie star. What’s with the starry-eyed, trusting act? You know that car’s yours—a straight-out gift.’

“At that point, the reporter opened an envelope he was carrying and pulled out what looked like a photograph. I just had a chance to see it was a copy of some sort of paper—document, I mean—when he pointed to the signature at the bottom and asked, ‘Is that your writing?’

“ ‘It looks like it,’ I said. ‘Yes, I guess so.’

“And he grinned and said, ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’ The next morning, the picture was on the front page—a copy of the bill of sale for the car—with my signature.” Kim sank down on the couch again and was silent, as if she still felt the shock.

“Was it really your signature?” I asked. She nodded. “But how did that happen?”

Lifting her head, Kim said softly, “Thank you for asking me. Nobody did then. Nobody wanted to know the truth. The afternoon the general’s car came, I was home. I had just started to shampoo my hair. And as I was rinsing it, the doorbell rang. The housekeeper answered it and came and told me, “They’ve brought the general’s car. They say you’ll have to sign for it. I went to the door with my hair a mess and wringing wet. Somebody stuck a paper in my hand, and I scribbled my name. I thought it was just a receipt, to show that the car had been delivered. If I’d thought it was an official paper, I never would have written ‘Kim Novak.’ I sign all official papers with my real name, Marilyn Kim Novak.

“But I never got a chance to explain!” she said despairingly. “And when the news came out that the general was married . . . when I saw that headline in the paper . . . ‘Kim’s Ramfis—Father of Six.’

“Nobody would believe I hadn’t known about it all along,” she murmured softly. “But I didn’t. There is proof—a little incident I’d almost forgotten, until a friend reminded me about it the other day. She remembered spending an afternoon at my house once, when the general dropped in. Well, she was talking about some mischief her children had gotten into, and I laughed and turned to him and said, ‘Of course, you don’t understand these things, General. Since you’ve never been married, you’ve never had a taste of it.’ He just smiled—didn’t say anything . . .”

Still bewildered, Kim shook her head slowly. “But I don’t believe he would have even asked me to go out with him if he hadn’t already had his interlocutory divorce decree.

“That’s all over with but there’s something else they do talk about,” she said. “Little sly remarks here and there. That story was the most terrible hurt of all,” she added. “Because my family was dragged in on it—my mother, my father, my sister. It started with blind items, about a ‘famous entertainer’ and me.

“ ‘If Kim Novak marries the guy she’s been romancing, she’ll make even greater news than Sputnik,’ one news item said Another said, ‘All of Kim’s reported boyfriends of the past months have been window-dressing and a cover-up for this one, whose name would rock Hollywood on its very foundation!’

“I know how the story began.” Her voice strengthened. “And why! It was during the holidays a year ago. I’d gone to Chicago, to be with my family, and a columnist invited me to a New Year’s Eve party. ‘I’d love to come,’ I said. ‘May I bring my sister and brother-in-law?’ We’d spent Christmastime very quietly, and I knew Arlene and her husband would enjoy the party.

“The columnist said that would be all right. It was later that he mentioned his television show. ‘By the way,’ he said to me, ‘you can stop off and say hello to my television audience on the way to the party.’

“ ‘I’m sorry,’ I told him. ‘I can’t do it. The studio doesn’t allow me to go on television without their permission. You know that.’ But he was furious!

“The entertainer has offices in Chicago. He flew into town briefly and called me about a script that was in the wind—a possible part that he wanted to discuss with me. I was staying at my sister’s, in a suburb, and he came out to talk to me. Arlene’s family and our parents were there, too, and Mother asked him to have lunch with us. Later on, I remember Mother—so sad, so puzzled—saying, ‘Is it a sin to ask a fellow human being to break bread with you?’ ”

Kim was pacing the room again, her body tense with indignation. “The items began coming out in the columns—not mentioning the entertainer’s name. Then there was one that did mention it—about the entertainer discussing a script with me. The papers began to link all these nothings together, but to me it was too ridiculous to take seriously. I went ahead and took the train back to Hollywood to begin ‘Bell, Book and Candle.’ I didn’t know . . .”

In her restless pacing, she had stopped beside a chair, and now she gripped the back of it. It was an entirely unconscious gesture, for Kim was concentrating deeply on each word she said, reliving a scene that she hadn’t even witnessed. “I didn’t know what I was leaving my family to face. My mother told me about it. She didn’t want to at first, but I made her tell me. And now I can’t forget it. I can see it, every moment . . .

“It must have been a little after midnight, they figured out later. The doorbell of our house on Sayre Street rang. Mother was half asleep, and she said, ‘Who could that be? A telegram, maybe . . .?’ Dad was just getting ready for bed, so he went down to answer the door.

“Mother sat up and listened, and she could hear a man’s voice. But she didn’t recognize it, and she couldn’t make out any of the words. Finally, Dad called up the stairs, ‘Blanche! Can you come down? There are a couple of men here from the newspaper.’

“Her heart started to thump, Mother says. All sorts of wild ideas went through her mind while she was hurrying to put on her robe and her slippers. An accident? She knew I was on the train. Had something happened to the train? She found two strangers in her living room—one of them with a camera. It was the other one who spoke up, and she was so relieved to see the cheerful look on his face that at first she hardly took in what he was saying. It started out something like: ‘Sorry to get you up, Mrs. Novak, but this is kind of a special occasion, isn’t it? We hear Kim’s getting married.’

“Mother did get that, and she must have looked absolutely amazed, because the reporter said, ‘Well, the train she’s on goes through Las Vegas, doesn’t it?’ He said it as if it was a most reasonable explanation.

“The reporter finished by saying, ‘If you don’t mind, we’ll just wait here until you get the news.’

“Meantime, while Mother had been trying to take all this in, she’d noticed the photographer kind of circling around the telephone. Before she could open her mouth, he pointed to the chair beside the phone, and he said, ‘Oh, Mrs. Novak—we’’ll want to get a picture of you right here when Kim’s call comes through.’

“Then Mother burst out, ‘This is ridiculous!’ She knew I wouldn’t wake her up in the middle of the night unless it was a real emergency. She was expecting to hear from me in the morning, because I always call up when I get out here, just to let them know what kind of a trip I had.

“But they wouldn’t leave right away. There was my mother in her robe. And my dad was tired. And it was getting later and later. Finally, the reporter and the photographer did go, and Mother and Dad went on up to bed. Of course, they were upset. and they had to talk it over, and it was a while before they got to sleep. They’d just about drifted off when the phone rang.”

Kim’s hands had been pressed against her cheeks. Now they slid to cover her ears. It was the same gesture she had used to shut out the remembered laughter of her nightmare. “They made it all sound as if it was a game. A joke. And that wasn’t the last phone call. They kept checking, hour after hour. Mother and Dad gave up any idea of sleeping. They got dressed. By six o’clock in the morning Mother was so nervous that she put in a call to Norma—Norma Kasell, that is, my personal manager. It was only four o’clock out here, so Norma was waked out of a sound sleep. And then she got up, too, so she could meet the train and tell me.”

Kim drew a long breath and slowly crossed the room to sit down on the sofa again. She was shaken, but obviously she had finished what was for her the most painful aspect of her story. “You see, while all that was happening I was on the train. I didn’t know a thing about what my family was going through. When I got off, the newspaper people were all around me before Norma could reach me. I just didn’t believe they meant what they were saying. There was one wire-service man that I’d respected for a long time. I said to him, ‘You’re always making jokes. What do you really want to know?’ Then I turned to the group of friends around me and said, ‘Isn’t this the funniest thing you ever heard?’ But nobody was smiling. . . .”

Kim’s head was bowed; her voice was hushed. “The days after that . . . The nights . . . Oh yes, I know what my dream meant, because in those weeks I was in a nightmare while I was awake. I couldn’t sleep. The gossip kept snowballing. I discovered my phone was tapped. When I went out, I was shadowed. And the lie kept growing. There was no way to stop it.”

She lifted her head and clenched her hands together in her lap. “When such things happen, you feel you’ve got to do something about it. Your family is hurt. Your friends are hurt. And you’re advised to say nothing. But I want people to know the truth about me. I want to tell them myself. It’s just like in the dream. I’m so anxious to explain—I get all excited—and then I’m stopped. How can I get through to them?”

“You just have,” I said. “Photoplay will print it.”

And here it is.

THE END

—BY MAXINE ARNOLD

KIM’S IN COLUMBIA’S “BELL, BOOK AND CANDLE.”

 

It is a quote. PHOTOPLAY MAGAZINE FEBRUARY 1959