THEY SCHEDULED the press conference a few days after Arnie received confirmation and written documents proving the authenticity of Marilyn’s thumbprints and signature.
Because speculation had fueled such widespread buzz, Del and Arnie expected an enormous crowd. To accommodate such interest—and to project an image of power—Del booked a conference room in a four-star hotel. He had sought a room large enough to contain plenty of media players, yet limited enough to give the impression that one room couldn’t contain this once-in-a-lifetime event. At first, the hotel staff balked at such short notice, but when Del mentioned the subject matter and the ensuing publicity the hotel would receive, they changed their tune. Amazing, the influence you could wield when power was in your hand.
He and Arnie wore suits and ties—a power red tie for Arnie, while Del opted for royal blue.
Del observed from behind a curtain as the room filled to capacity, attendees donning credentials. Reporters from national and local news sources filled the seats, pens, paper and mobile devices in hand, while a slew of videographers set up shop along the sidelines. Photographers lingered near the podium, ready to duck and shoot once the action started. As Del had hoped, the rumors had attracted an overflow crowd. Many reporters, unable to find a seat, assembled toward the rear of the room, while late arrivals spilled into the hotel corridor and elbowed each other for a peek inside the room. A cacophony of chatter filled the conference room.
Del’s energy surged. Soon he and Arnie would become the center of attention. He’d received precious little media hype since the year of his Oscar nomination, and today’s ambience fired him up. As far as Del knew, Arnie hadn’t received this much attention in his whole career.
When the press conference commenced, he and Arnie made their way to the podium. Per their earlier agreement, Arnie would do the talking, while Del, as possessor of the rights, would project an image of authority by standing silent until a reporter directed a question to his attention.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the press.” Arnie cleared his throat. “My name is Arnie Clemmons. As you are aware, rumors have circulated regarding the existence of an original screenplay written by the late Marilyn Monroe.”
Arnie gave his remarks a dramatic pause.
Del watched the crowd, which sat rapt under his agent’s spell. Cameras flashed. Videographers zoomed in.
Arms crossed at the wrists in front of his waist like an executive in waiting, Del savored his command of the moment, inhaled the scent of hot lights upon him. The fragrance of fame. A sweat began to break upon his brow.
A glorious occasion! Relevance felt so good.
“This morning,” Arnie continued, “I stand before you to confirm that this information is not a rumor. It is true.”
A gasp among the press. More flashes popped. The top of Arnie’s head gleamed amid the lights.
“In a letter dated March 12, 1962—five months before her passing—Ms. Monroe, of her own free will and volition, placed the screenplay in the possession of her close friend, Mr. Delbert Corwyn, and conferred upon him full rights. I will now read Ms. Monroe’s letter, the text of which we will also make publicly available.” Without further ado, Arnie removed an envelope from the breast pocket of his suit, unfolded the letter, and read its text, including Marilyn’s explanation of her thumbprints on the script pages.
In truth, the letter Arnie held was a photocopy of his photocopy, which Arnie had folded and stuffed into a blank envelope, then creased twice for good measure. The original still sat in Del’s safe deposit box at an unnamed bank in Beverly Hills.
When Arnie reached the end of the letter, he added, “We will consider all interested parties and offers worthy of the project at hand. As you might imagine, we anticipate a deluge of interest in turning Ms. Monroe’s vision into reality, so we will only be able to consider studios and production partners of a minimum caliber, the standard of which Mr. Corwyn will apply at his discretion. As the agent who represents Mr. Corwyn, appointments will be arranged through my office. We have provided that contact information in your press packets, which we will also provide to parties we deem strong contenders for this opportunity.” Arnie paused, scanning the crowd. “At this time, we will take a few questions.”
A flurry of activity ensued, hands shooting into the air and reporters calling Arnie’s name. Arnie acknowledged a brunette female in the second row, who rose to her feet.
“Mr. Clemmons, does the script have a title?”
“Yes, Ms. Monroe named it, Beautiful Mess.”
“And how will you distribute copies of the script to interested parties?”
“Excellent question. The script is on complete lockdown. No copies will be provided at any time prior to signing a deal. Interested parties must schedule an appointment with my office and view the script in person.” Arnie maintained a confident, no-nonsense demeanor. “Next question?”
More shouts and raising of hands as the first reporter sat down. Arnie called upon another.
“You mentioned the script is on lockdown. What measures have you taken ensure control?”
“We have discussed the matter with our attorneys. All parties will be required to sign a confidentiality agreement prior to viewing Ms. Monroe’s screenplay. No photocopies or photographs of any portion of the script will be allowed, nor will parties be allowed to take notes. All writing utensils and electronic devices must be stored away during the duration of the read. I will be present the entire time to ensure the integrity of our needs are honored.”
“Isn’t that rather unusual?”
“Given the circumstances, I think we can agree extra security is warranted. If we discover an individual has violated our trust, they will be removed from our list of contenders. No exceptions.”
“Can you reveal the premise of the script?”
“Absolutely not.” Arnie raised an eyebrow. “What I can tell you is that the screenplay reveals a side to Ms. Monroe that will challenge the public’s assumptions about her and finally establish, albeit postmortem, the full respect Ms. Monroe sought as an artist. Next question?”
A man with graying temples asked, “Can you provide concrete proof that this screenplay and its accompanying letter belonged to Marilyn Monroe?”
“The letter and thumbprints provide her identification.”
“Yes, but assuming the print on the letter matches the prints on the screenplay, can you prove their authenticity?
Del smirked. Let the reporters think the question was their idea.
“Yes, the fingerprints were verified as those of Marilyn Monroe. Her prints are on file as a result of her autopsy in 1962. A match was confirmed by experts in the field. In addition, we acquired the services of handwriting experts, who verified her signature is not a forgery. The analyses were conducted by three independent contractors each. The analysts documented their procedures, findings, cases and conclusions in writing, which are also included in the press packets.”
More bulbs flashed. And with that, Arnie wrapped up the press conference, dramatic tension hanging in the air, reporters still waving and begging for attention. If Arnie allowed it to continue, the press would ask questions until sunset. But as he and Del had agreed prior to the event, they planned to leave most questions unanswered so speculation would continue to swirl.
Del salivated at the future. His hunger to return to prominence in the industry had gone unfed for so long.