Seven Year Itch, The (1955)

Of all the iconic Hollywood images embedded in our collective psyches- Bogart in a trench coat and fedora, Chaplin’s tramp twirling his cane, or Julie Andrews spinning atop an Alpine vista- none more quintessentially captures the adoration, seduction, and myth of stardom than Marilyn Monroe standing over a subway grate with her white halter-top dress blowing freely upward in the breeze.

That image is courtesy of The Seven Year Itch (1955), a farcical male fantasy picture made classic by the genius of Billy Wilder, the hilarious performance of Tom Ewell and the enigma of Marilyn.

It is a story of marital infidelity or, at least, the urge to partake in it. Like all things that make life bearable- narcotics, football, gambling, vodka, pornography- extramarital sex is frowned upon by the church, the prudish, family advocates, reactionaries and perhaps most unfortunately, my wife. But try as they may, these killjoys can never squelch the desire for such pleasures.

Based on George Axelrod’s hit play of the same name, The Seven Year Itch became a bit of a nightmare for director Wilder and the playwright to adapt, due to the existing mores of 1950’s America and Hollywood’s own self-imposed crusaders of morality, the Hays Office.

Particularly relating to this film was the tenet of the “Production Code” concerning adultery:

“The sanctity of the institution of marriage and the home shall be upheld. Pictures shall not infer that low forms of sex relationship are the accepted or common thing. Adultery, sometimes necessary plot material, must not be explicitly treated, or justified, or presented attractively.”

This, from the people who also brought you:

“Miscegenation (sex relationships between the white and black races) is forbidden.”

And:

“Excessive and lustful kissing, lustful embraces, suggestive postures and gestures, are not to be shown.”

Or this one:

“White slavery shall not be treated.”

Their idea of a fun weekend differs somewhat from mine.

Such was the uphill struggle that plagued Wilder and Axelrod. The Hays Office continued to censor and deny them any leeway regarding the comedic portrayal of an affair on screen. Their problem was how to make the lead male character (who commits adultery in the play) feel any sense of guilt and regret in a screenplay where he really hasn’t done anything wrong. They decided to play up the character’s neuroses and have his thoughts and imagination haunt his conscience. There was, of course, Monroe herself, whose mere proximity could conjure up the most shameful desires in men. The results are a clever fusion of double entendre, knowing winks to the audience, good wardrobe choices, and genuinely funny comic turns by Ewell and Monroe.

Ewell plays Richard Sherman, a 38-year-old editor for a publishing firm who markets classic literature and psych journals as lurid, dime store pulp novels. Little Women becomes Secrets of a Girls’ Dormitory and a psychology manuscript entitled Man and the Unconscious is published as Of Sex and Violence. Richard has been married for seven years, the onset of the “itch” which the manuscript describes. His wife and young son are off to Maine for the summer while he remains in Manhattan for his work. No sooner has he dropped them off at the train station and finished the day’s work when “The Girl” (Monroe) appears in his apartment building, letting him know she has sublet the room upstairs for the entire summer. He is immediately and understandably smitten. Her dress is very tight.

Here is where Ewell’s continual nervous monologue takes over. He paces about the apartment, nerves jangled, thinking aloud, stumbling into things, cutting deals with himself over cigarettes and whiskey, contemplating infidelity, imagining the same of his wife, entertaining prurient desires, fantasizing about his “animal thing” (a self-delusional magnetism he believes he possesses), rationalizing his transgressions and occasionally returning to reality and chastising himself. He either enjoys hearing himself talk or he is on the verge of a nervous breakdown - probably a little of both.

This constant nervous prattling and Ewell’s bumbling physicality is what transforms the picture from what could have been a male sexual retardation piece into fun, farcical, yet heady comedy. Bob Hope had the same jittery humor toward women in his films. Woody Allen would later employ these tactics with his nerdy, nebbish character in Play it Again Sam and Bananas.

As our protagonist’s steady stream of inner monologue continues to flow outward, a flower pot from the upstairs ledge comes crashing down on his patio, barely missing him. The Girl has accidentally knocked it over, creating an opportunity (meet-cute) for Richard to invite her down for a drink. His psyche now shifts into overdrive. He contemplates his seduction technique (Rachmaninoff “Comes on like gangbusters” he insists) and then hilariously begins his emotional seesaw of bargaining between his lust and guilt. While lasciviously anticipating her arrival, he temporarily turns on her and the whole idea.

“She could have been down here, had her lousy drink and gone home already”, he impatiently barks.

The buzzer rings. It’s the building’s super, who has come to pick up the rugs. Assuredly, none of this will go smoothly for our inexperienced lothario.

Monroe is dazzling in her part. She has the curvaceous figure and breathy, baby doll voice in full swing here. Her naivety and coquettish manner are like catnip to Richard, who would be eaten alive by any real seductress. She allows him the freedom to imagine, without the stress of actually having to go through with the infidelity. Their relationship becomes quite charming and beneficial to both parties. They share champagne (with potato chips?), martinis, cigarettes, music, dinner, a movie (Creature from the Black Lagoon), his air-conditioning and lighthearted conversation. His ego is stroked and she can have fun without the danger of being pawed by a brute at every turn.

On the set, Monroe was not quite so endearing. Wilder and crew suffered upwards of forty takes per scene (sometimes per line of dialogue) as Monroe consistently flubbed lines, seemed dazed, drugged or depressed, showed up late and annoyingly consulted her acting coach on every detail of her performance. Wilder tolerated it due to her star quality and undeniable screen presence. One such story, typifying the difficulty of working with Monroe, has Wilder taking her aside after numerous retakes and calmly assuring her, “Don’t worry, Marilyn”.

“Don’t worry about what?” she innocently replied.

Wilder later would rationalize the difficulty with the thought, “My Aunt Minnie would always be punctual and never hold up production, but who would pay to see my Aunt Minnie?”

Monroe was the drawing card. She was at the pinnacle of her career. When the cast and crew went out into the streets of Manhattan to film the famous subway grate sequence, thousands of people showed up to catch a glimpse of the starlet. Due to crowd noise, the footage was unusable and later had to be recreated on the studio lot. One thing did come of the shoot however. It became the catalyst for divorce proceedings of Monroe’s marriage to baseball great Joe DiMaggio. So incensed was “Joltin’ Joe” by the public ogling of his wife and her brazen exhibitionism, that he flew back to Los Angeles alone. Their marriage ended one month later.

Despite all of the controversy surrounding the production, The Seven Year Itch remains a fine comedy and a slice of film history. Tom Ewell’s career would forever be defined by it. His only other famous movie role was as a very similar character a year later in The Girl Can’t Help It (1956) with another buxom blond bombshell named Jayne Mansfield. Monroe, of course, would continue her rise to international stardom with Bus Stop (1956), Some Like it Hot (1959), and The Misfits (1961), ultimately meeting her notorious end in 1962 from an overdose of pills.

Both Ewell's and Monroe's careers, levels of stardom and resulting fanfare from this picture can be metaphorically glimpsed in the film’s seduction sequence. As Tom leans over to kiss Marilyn on a piano bench, he clumsily causes them both to fall to the floor. The awkwardness is tangible.

“I’m terribly sorry”, he says, “Nothing like this ever happened to me before in all my life.”

“Honest?” she replies. “It happens to me all the time.”