There can hardly have been many film productions more journalistically saturated than The Misfits, and they were the latest of a score of Magnum photographers who had been spelling one another over the months of shooting. Marilyn had liked her at once, appreciating her considerate kindness and the absence—remarkable in a photographer—of all aggression. She doted a little on the pictures Inge Morath had taken of her, sensing real affection in them. I walked into the Mapes bar and found John Huston at a table laughing his head off with a photographer, a slender, noble-looking young woman with bobbed hair and a European accent, who seemed both shy and strong at the same time. I noticed the bob, her transparently blue eyes, and a conflicted sensitivity in her, but I was preoccupied by endings then, everything had gone out of control, and what words were spoken at the table I could never more than vaguely recall. That Inge and I have been married for twenty-five years as I write this sentence is not something I would have been able to believe that day.
