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In the 1950s, once Hollywood had figured out the secret to her bankability, she played so many sex-symbol roles that it’s tempting to lump them together: in addition to Sugar Kane, there’s the sweet upstairs-neighbor temptress in The Seven-Year Itch (1955) and two back-to-back gold-diggers, in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and How to Marry a Millionaire (both from 1953). It’s those fine-grained tonal shifts that make Marilyn’s performances so compelling, and so enchanting. “Story of my life!” she says, her face brightening, alight at the idea of being the butt of the joke, before her features settle into a subtle tragicomic frown: “I always get the fuzzy end of the lollipop.”
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The movie is set in the prohibition years, but Sugar likes to have liquor nearby at all times-she keeps a small flask tucked in her garter, and laments that while she’s not the only girl in the band who drinks, she’s the only one who ever gets caught. What does it take to give a comic performance as subtly textured as the one Marilyn gives in Billy Wilder’s 1959 Some Like It Hot? As Sugar Kane Kowalczyk, the lead singer of an all-girl band infiltrated by two male musicians in drag, Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis, Marilyn at times seems to be riffing on her own vulnerabilities, only to edge away from them nimbly-there’s always something in her that’s pushing toward joy. Her performances are a major component of her story, and the one that’s most often neglected. Actors are always more than the sum of their parts, and Marilyn Monroe especially, as both a performer and a persona, is too complex to be reduced to parts in the first place. And while both Dominik and Oates would probably claim that that’s by design-again, this is a work of fiction, not a straightforward biography- Blonde allows no room for the real-life Marilyn’s multidimensionality, her capacity for delight as well as her deep depressions. We love Marilyn so much- as a face, as a symbol, as a bottomless well that will take as much pity as we can pour into it-that collectively we seem to have lost sight of one of the central truths of her being: she was a phenomenally intelligent and gifted actor, a woman whose natural charm and devotion to her craft resulted in work so delightful, and sometimes so emotionally raw, that it’s worthy of any modern actor’s envy.īlonde is a joyless movie about joylessness rather than a film about Marilyn Monroe. The outcry was immediate and widespread-a dress isn’t just a dress when it was worn by Marilyn. Very recently a woman who’s famous mostly for being famous, however that works, insisted on wearing one of Marilyn’s dresses, among the most precious and recognizable in the world, to a glamorous, high-profile party, reportedly straining its fragile fabric irreparably.
Her death in 1962 is still a magnet for conspiracy enthusiasts, particularly given her involvement at the time-or even just mere friendship, if that’s what you want to believe- with John F. And so she has become our doll, a naked form to dress as we please: We know all about the sadness of her life, to the extent that her name has become a synonym for emotional fragility, a vessel we can fill with our own fears about loneliness and self-doubt. Even though we’ve had 60 years to figure out how we feel about Marilyn Monroe, no one really knows what to do with her.
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