Documentary photographer George Zimbel was in the
right place at the right time the night a subway vent and a white dress
conspired to immortalize Marilyn Monroe’s considerable physical
charms.
By Dean Brierly
.
When Marilyn Monroe stood atop a New York City subway
grating—her white dress billowing above her waist as co-star Tom Ewell looked on
with lecherous intent in director Billy Wilder’s The Seven Year
Itch—she was already established as the era’s most potent sex
symbol. But the film, and the subway imagery in particular, forever enshrined
her as the screen’s quintessential love
goddess.The scene was originally filmed during the early morning
hours of September 15, 1954, at the corner of Lexington Avenue and 52nd Street.
Heavily publicized beforehand, it attracted a thousand or more spectators like
iron filings to a magnet. Also on hand were Monroe’s husband, Joe Dimaggio,
scores of photographers, and a sizeable contingent of New York’s finest called
in to maintain order. Under Wilder’s relaxed but firm direction, the lead actors
undertook repeated takes exiting the famous Trans-Lux Theater and exchanging
flirtatious banter until the magic moment when Monroe’s dress is blown
heavenward, revealing her million dollar legs and—scandalously for the era—white
underpants.The scene’s repercussions were immediate and enduring. The
combination of Monroe’s exhibitionism and the crowd’s loudly libidinous response
resulted in reams of publicity for the film, helping to make it the biggest box
office hit of 1955. But it also spelled the end of Monroe’s brief marriage to
Dimaggio, who was more than unhappy at what he perceived as a public
transgression of the bounds of decency and decorum. The scene was eventually
re-shot under controlled studio conditions (ostensibly because crowd noise
rendered the location footage unusable) and toned down, with Monroe’s dress
never rising much above her knees. However, the overtly sexual nature of the
original shoot lived on in the film’s promotional ads and in photos reproduced
around the world.
Among the photographers gathered to record the
history-making scene was a 25-year-old stringer for the PIX photo agency named
George Zimbel. Although not a particular fan of Monroe, Wilder or the ensuing
film, he jumped at the chance to cover the event. His memories of that night
remain undimmed by the intervening decades. Zimbel was especially struck by the
charged atmosphere generated by the crowd’s anticipation, even though he was
under no illusions about the underlying reason for the shoot. “I hate the term
‘photo-op,’ but this was certainly the most important photo-op ever staged,
notwithstanding George W. Bush landing on a battleship,” he says.
But such considerations vanished when Monroe arrived
round about midnight in that famous white dress. (A dress that Zimbel says did
“wondrous things as she moved.”) Initially, Wilder ran Monroe through a number
of warm-up poses over the grating until he was satisfied she had the physical
aspects of the scene nailed. It was during these warm-ups that the 20 or so
photographers (among them Garry Winogrand and Elliott Erwitt) were allowed to
take pictures. Monroe played to the onlookers as much as the cameras, and Zimbel
recalls their shocked delight each time her dress flew up and revealed more of
her than the public was used to seeing.
.
Though they came early in his career, Zimbel’s images
of the event already demonstrated his hallmark combination of cinematic flair
and emotional depth. Referring to these dual (but not incompatible) impulses,
Zimbel says, “It is the way I see. I have the greatest respect for filmmakers.
They are magical image-makers. I am not magic. I try to be real.”
Zimbel’s photographs (particularly the sequence on page 85)
graphically celebrate Monroe’s indelible physical charms while also revealing
additional contextual layers—her joy in performance, her awareness of being
sexually commodified, and her complicity in and control of that process. Even
after getting kicked off the set for photographing during a take, Zimbel
continued to make evocative images from behind the police line. His astute use
of a silhouetted foreground figure in “Serious Marilyn” subverts the actress’
public image by suggesting the vulnerability and isolation that often dominated
her off-screen life.
Born in Woburn, Massachusetts in 1929, Zimbel began
his photographic career at 14, was published in Life
magazine at 19, and joined PIX at 20. He also studied that year at the New York
Photo League with John Ebstel, who proved to be a pivotal early influence.
“Ebstel let the honest man out of me photographically, and that man is
compassionate and respectful of his subjects, a hallmark of the Photo League
philosophy,” Zimbel says. “Respect is not a valuable commodity these days,
exploitation is more popular, but that is who I am.”
The Monroe series represents but one chapter in a
career inclusive of numerous photo essays for major publications and
corporations; solo exhibitions in the United States, Canada and Spain; life
membership in ASMP; and induction into the Royal Canadian Academy of Art. Now
79, Zimbel and his wife Elaine live in Montreal, Quebec. He still feels a
connection to the images he made on Lexington Avenue back in 1954, and has no
regrets about not trying to capitalize on them at the time. “They are now in
nine major museum collections and have been in many exhibitions as well as
private collections,” he says. “That makes me
happy.”
Note:
This article previously appeared in the September 2008 issue of
Black and White magazine. For purchase information on
Zimbel’s Monroe pictures, contact John Cleary Gallery, Houston, TX. Phone:
713-524-5070; email: info@johnclearygallery.com
