| The
Price of Celebrity By
Barbara Anton In
July of 2006, waye will celebrate
Marlon Brando’s last curtain call. He died on July 1, 2004 of pulmonary
fibrosis, after several years of poor health. Lauded
by many as America’s finest actor, he is probably best remembered for
his role as The Godfather. However, this was but one of many stellar performances.
I remember the twenty-six year old Marlon, who was Broadway's newest and
brightest star in the 1950s, getting rave reviews for his performance
in Tennessee William's A Streetcar Named Desire. In
that era, with his career on the ascent, his sense of humor reflecting
a sharp intellect, and his body honed to perfection, Marlon was the object
of many women’s fantasies, but he was obviously in love with my attractive
Cherokee friend, Doe. I couldn't understand why she steadfastly refused
his repeated proposals of marriage. Since
I had just married, Marlon knew that I wanted my friend to enjoy that
same happiness. He enlisted my support in convincing Doe to marry him,
but Doe was firm in her conviction. "That's not the life I want,"
she insisted. "You
don't want a life of luxury with a super star who adores you? You could
have everything you want. You could go anywhere or do anything."
Doe
was adamant. She knew what she wanted, and Marlon couldn't give it to
her. "What
do you want?" I asked, puzzled. I knew she loved Marlon, and it was
obvious he loved her. She
answered with the quiet dignity of her Native American heritage. "I
want a marriage that will last until the day I die. I want a husband who
will be there when the children and I need him. I want companionship.
I want to live in one house, in one place, my whole life. I want a husband
who comes home at six o'clock, eats the dinner that I've prepared for
him, and spends the evening with me, not on a Broadway stage. I can't
have the life I want with Marlon." Doe
knew what she wanted, and she was right, Marlon couldn't give it to her.
I never broached the subject again. A
few weeks later, Doe, Marlon and my husband Al and I were in our car on
Eighth Avenue in front of Madison Square Garden, deciding how to spend
the time between Marlon's matinee and his evening performance. When Madison
Square Garden disgorged its matinee crowd, a woman spotted Marlon in our
car. "It's
Marlon Brando! There's Marlon Brando!" she screamed, pointing at
him. Marlon
leaped to lock the doors before any of the rest of us reacted. He put
his arms around Doe, protecting her, as the mob swarmed over the car,
trying to wrench open the locked doors. They crawled on the hood and the
trunk to peer in the windows. The car rocked and seemed about to be overturned. "Marlon
Brando! It's Marlon Brando!" the crowd chanted, crushing each other
in their frenzy to touch him. We
were trapped in the car, cowing in fear, no escape possible. I had never
before experienced the terror of celebrity. The intensity of the crowd’s
excitement was horrifying. Not
only were we in danger, but cars around us were damaged and pedestrians
were trampled. The crowd clawing to reach Marlon was one cohesive mass
of humanity, blindly injuring itself. Whistles
and sirens joined the cacophony. Soon police on horseback rode into the
crowd, swinging nightsticks, forcing the crowd back. They opened a lane
so we could drive forward. Marlon
relaxed his hold on Doe, laughed shakily, and attempted a feeble joke.
"Ah, yes, such is the price of celebrity." I
glanced at Doe. Tears glistened in her beautiful brown eyes. She loved
Marlon, but she would never share his life. When
Doe wriggled free of Marlon's protective arms, he looked down at her and
smiled sadly. This was what his life would be. He was set on his course.
In that instant I think he realized that Doe would not walk beside him. We
saw Marlon less frequently after that. He looked at Doe differently now.
The hope, the happiness, the expectancy, was replaced by a sad, calm acceptance. When
Marlon was in The Polyclinic Hospital, Doe and I helped him pass the long
hours while he recovered. When he got out, the four of us went to his
favorite restaurant in Chinatown for dinner. We joined him occasionally
between performances for a snack at Sam's on Broadway, but it was obvious
to all of us that the Eighth Avenue crowd had wrecked more than our car. Doe
and Marlon drifted apart gradually, and Doe found solace with a man who
wanted the same things she did. Marlon began dating others. Soon,
Marlon was replaced in our foursome by Doe's new date, a tall, angular,
quiet man, who grew to love Doe for her dignity, her compassion, and her
generosity. They married and settled into a quiet suburban lifestyle.
Shortly after their first anniversary a baby arrived. Marlon,
who was always eager for news of Doe, smiled resignedly when I told him
about the baby. It was obvious that his thoughts were drifting to what
might have been. He sent flowers to Doe, and a layette that would have
been appropriate for a royal heir apparent. Some thought this was out
of character for Marlon, but I thought it quite characteristic of the
small town boy, new to celebrity, who had loved and lost the finest woman
any of us had ever known. Marlon
stopped asking about Doe and began accepting room keys that were tossed
on the stage at every performance. Few knew the reason for Marlon's change
of personality. Some attributed it to his sudden rise to stardom, but
Doe and Al and I understood the reason for his madness. The
years have proven my beautiful Cherokee friend right. She was the only
one of us who foresaw just how prohibitive the price of celebrity would
be for Marlon Brando, an icon who no longer walks among us. (Barbara Anton, writer & playwright, lives in
Sarasota, FL). |
