Blonde (2022)

At a Glance

Metadata	Details
Publication Date	2024-01-01
Journal	The Arthur Miller Journal
Authors	Vincent Bohlinger
Institutions	Rhode Island College

Abstract

The above rumination on Marilyn Monroe comes from Molly Haskell’s landmark From Reverence to Rape: The Treatment of Women in the Movies, first published just a dozen years after Monroe’s death. Haskell draws upon her encyclopedic knowledge of Hollywood cinema to describe how female character types have evolved on-screen over the decades. Monroe is the epitome of what Haskell has labeled “the mammary idols of the forties and fifties” (95), yet there is much more than derision in her insights to the characters Monroe plays. Haskell recognizes the conjoining of stardom and abuse when it comes to Monroe, just as Andy Warhol keenly understood—and reveled—in his famous depictions of her, created just weeks after her death. The fascination with Monroe’s perceived luminosity and irresistibility is inseparable from the fascination with her perceived victimhood and trauma. It is a challenge to recognize the former and the latter as constructs within the cultural imaginary, in which the full details of actual personhood and lived experience have apparently proven far less relevant or interesting. Haskell contends that the only way that we can make sense of her is by claiming some kind of lesson for us. This notion of the tortured female celebrity that is forced to serve as a sacrificial lamb necessary for the greater social good is cleverly acknowledged in Molly Marino’s reference to the Britney Spears episode of South Park in her review of Blonde in the Spring 2023 issue of this journal (116-17).Many critics have not been kind to Blonde, Andrew Dominik’s 2022 adaptation of Joyce Carol Oates’s 2000 novel, and these critics are not wrong. (A tidy and entertaining summary of critical and audience abuse of the film can be found in Zack Sharf’s article in Variety, published the day after the film was released on Netflix. Stefani Koorey’s review in this journal’s Spring 2023 issue is a noteworthy and enlightening exception.) The film secured Ana de Armas her first Academy Award nomination for Best Actress while at the same time earning two Golden Raspberries—for Worst Picture and Worst Screenplay—at the 43rd Annual Razzie Awards. Despite Blonde serving as an easy target and punch line, I must concede that the film does improve with repeated/closer viewings. I am fairly certain that the film is not redeemable, however, and what I seek to do in this review is elaborate on the nature of the disappointment and ickiness that I feel when watching.In her introduction to the twentieth anniversary edition of Joyce Carol Oates’s Blonde, literary scholar Elaine Showalter writes that Monroe’s “death at the age of thirty-six … has become part of her legend” (xix). Showalter adheres to Haskell’s conception of intertwined stardom and abuse but adds Blonde’s relevance to the #MeToo movement. The scene in the novel in which Monroe is raped by the film producer Mr. Z (representing Darryl F. Zanuck) is a precursor to—and given more immediacy by—the systematic abuses of Harvey Weinstein. Showalter claims that whereas the novel just a few years ago “could be read as sensationalizing the story of Monroe. Now it must be seen as a passionate and prophetic defense” (xix). Thus are framed our expectations for the film.Film scholar Maureen Turim begins her essay on the Monroe musical comedy Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (Howard Hawks, 1953) by arguing, “The line which separates celebration from satire in American culture is perniciously thin” (370). The film gives us a knowing, winking Monroe heroine who understands the rules of the game—women’s bodies are commodities—and plays the game to her great advantage—exchanging her body, or the promise of her body, for material goods (e.g., diamonds). Turim warns us that the film’s seemingly satirical stance on the commodification of the female body does nothing more than reinforce and indeed celebrate such commodification. The film’s perniciousness arises from its exuberant and wide-eyed embrace of the very tenet it supposedly seeks to undermine. To apply such reasoning to Blonde, perniciously thin, too, is the line separating exploitation from exposé. Is the rape scene of Monroe by Mr. Z in the film—made well after the public airing of the monstrousness of Harvey Weinstein—just mere perverse titillation? If not, then why is the framing of Monroe’s face in this supposedly horrific scene—positioned laterally on its left side facing the camera in a tight medium close-up—strikingly similar to what we will soon see later in a joyful Monroe sex scene?Feminist film theory from the 1970s on has detailed the manner in which Hollywood cinema routinely situates female characters as passive and on display in front of the camera—what theorist Laura Mulvey calls “to-be-looked-at-ness” (715). Male characters are the ones who look at the female characters and think about and assess them. Because we spectators are also looking at the female characters and thinking about and assessing them, we identify with the male characters—regardless of our own gender identity. Even though Blonde has a singular protagonist—the title female character—this imbalance is pervasive throughout and is particularly evident in the scenes featuring the Playwright (Adrian Brody as Arthur Miller).The Playwright shows up about an hour and a half into the film. Notably, the section on Monroe’s life with Arthur Miller begins abruptly with an introduction to Miller—a switch to color after a fade to black shows him on the street trying to catch papers as they blow about in the wind. We see him snatch up a small photograph of Magda, dated 1930. As we hear him mumbling “my Magda” over and over, he is shown walking, now in black-and-white, with little indication of how much time has passed since he was catching those papers and saw Magda’s photo. He enters a room where we see Monroe among a seated crowd. He does not seem to notice her, but she is clearly looking at him. There is a cut to a medium close-up of Monroe looking at him off-screen right. The camera tracks in to a close-up as she continues looking (see fig. 1), but then we get an intertitle of place and time: New York City, 1955. The moment we get the female character—the star of the film—looking, there is a cut to something else—no confirmation of what she sees, from her point of view, and no hint of what she is thinking. This setup reveals how Dominik aligns himself—and aligns us—with Miller. Monroe is presented as a mystery that Miller/Dominik/we must try to figure out, decidedly not the other way around.The audition that follows has Miller and Monroe seemingly looking at each other in the crowded room. The camera has both characters positioned frontally and centered in the frame looking directly at the camera. There are cuts back and forth between the two, and the camera playfully tracks back with each, then tracks forward and still forward again, the framing slowly getting tighter with each shot. Miller appears skeptical (fig. 2). Monroe appears nervous, with tears in her eyes. By the time it is Monroe’s turn to speak, we hear her breathe as the image suddenly freezes, now in tight medium close-up, her mouth agape just before she was to begin to speak. Stuck in freeze-frame, she does not speak and does not move (fig. 3). There is a cut to Miller, the camera tracking in to a distant medium close-up, as he declares before she ever says a word, “Not my Magda.” The scene gives us no access to Monroe’s thoughts, her process, her motivations. Everyone suddenly is clapping—though we never got to see her read any of her dialogue or give any evidence of what it is that is making everyone stand and applaud, and that has Miller now framed in close-up and moved to tears.The entire scene has been constructed as Miller’s assessment of her, his conversion from certain doubt to baffled belief. He rises to rush away, not speaking to her as she stands there. He adjusts his glasses, and through his point of view we see Monroe come into focus—confirming that we are seeing her through his (myopic) eyes—but he turns and leaves the room. How might she feel about this evident slight? We will never know because we have followed Miller onto the street, where he turns the corner only to suddenly stand before an eight-story-tall cutout of Monroe promoting The Seven Year Itch (Billy Wilder, 1955), her iconic white dress billowing up in front from the supposed subway train rushing by down below (see fig. 4). She is a literal colossus, and he is dwarfed by this image of her exuberant sensuality. In denying us her performance and so quickly reverting to a gargantuan publicity image, Dominik denies us any proof of her talent and instead implies that it is her stardom that is overwhelming and all-encompassing, all from Miller’s perspective.Immediately after, Miller is being guarded and patronizing as he meets with Monroe one-on-one to discuss his play. Monroe references Chekhov and then suggests that Magda’s character is illiterate. Her insight is a breakthrough for Miller, and he tearfully mutters a thank-you. They next coyly discuss what he should call her, and the film abruptly cuts to a newsreel intertitle proclaiming that the two of them will marry. This rare moment of seeing Monroe think and interpret is all presented as how Miller came to be infatuated with her—how she won him over, as opposed to considering what exactly was his appeal to her. How is the film not simply playing out an adolescent fantasy of the drama club geek getting the hottest girl in school? In the montage of their early marriage, many shots are from Miller’s point of view: Monroe running giddy in her wedding dress looking back directly at us, Monroe frolicking on the beach looking directly at us, beckoning us to join her, Monroe standing wet from the ocean air looking directly at us telling us that she loves us as she presses our hand to her womb. The sequence is entirely about Miller; we constantly see her through his eyes. Granted, Miller makes out extremely well comparatively—his segment sandwiched between the physically abusive Ex-Athlete (Bobby Cannavale as Joe DiMaggio) and the sexually abusive President (Caspar Phillipson as John F. Kennedy)—but I insist that this is still exploitation, even more pernicious. When Monroe is being explicitly, even gratuitously, assaulted by DiMaggio and then by Kennedy, we at least have immediate access to her mental and emotional state (we even get an internal monologue from Monroe as she fellates!). But by constructing the entire story of Monroe and Miller around Miller—starting from the outset with Miller and positioning almost everything as his view of her—Dominik reinforces that Monroe is nothing more than what he makes of her.A comparison to My Week with Marilyn (Simon Curtis, 2011) helps demonstrate how well trodden this terrain is. Both films portray scenes from Monroe’s relationship to Miller. In My Week with Marilyn, Arthur Miller (Dougray Scott) comes to England to visit his wife for a few days while she is filming on the set of The Prince and the Showgirl (Laurence Olivier, 1957). Both films begin with gauzy impressionistic shots of Monroe in performance/star mode—confirming right up front that she is there to be looked at. Both films gleefully objectify her. In My Week with Marilyn, we get such choice assessments as “There won’t be a film unless Miss Monroe gets her splendid posterior out of bed” (Kenneth Branagh as Laurence Olivier) and “She’s the greatest piece of ass on Earth. With tits like that you make allowances” (Toby Jones as film producer Arthur P. Jacobs). In Blonde we get, “Sweet Jesus, look at the ass on that one girl” (Garret Dillahunt as a random movie producer or director).Both films show Monroe discovering that Miller has written about her. In Blonde we see her find their conversation in his typewriter. The camera tracks in closer and closer to the text on the page as we hear each of them reciting these lines of what had been a casual, private conversation. Monroe’s face is blank, in shock, but nothing more comes of it. In My Week with Marilyn, she has chanced upon a notebook with his writing and is distraught and inconsolable. Miller brings up this incident in conversation with Olivier: “I can’t help her. She wants me to protect her, but I can’t. She thought I could smash all her insecurities, that I could make her a new person. She read some notes I made. They were nothing, just a few ideas… . She took them the wrong way.” We never hear Monroe express these feelings, only Miller’s account of them. To Olivier’s question of whether he loves his new bride, Miller responds, “I can’t work. I can’t think. She’s devouring me.” When Monroe later says that he had written that he wished he had not married her, we are confident that she is not making this up.The principal difference between these two films is that My Week with Marilyn actively explores the nature and mystery of Monroe’s stardom. Various characters describe their fascination with her: photographer and producer Milton H. Greene (Dominic Cooper) states, “When Marilyn gets it right, you just don’t want to look at anyone else.” Vivien Leigh (Julia Ormond) confesses, with tears streaming down her face, “I didn’t think she could be so beautiful. She shines on that screen.” Olivier offers a lengthy one-sided account: “I thought that working with Marilyn would make me feel young again, but I look dead in rushes—dead behind these eyes. I wanted to renew myself, but all I see reflected in that magnificent face is my own inadequacy.” Through Olivier we approach those aspects of abuse that are linked to Monroe’s stardom. “I admire Marilyn,” he declares, “I really do, despite her behavior. She’s taken everything Hollywood can throw at her and she’s triumphed. That takes some bloody guts. I think she has to be pretty tough to get even a tenth as far as she has… . She doesn’t need to be rescued. Not really.” He praises her profusely, “She’s quite wonderful. No training, no craft to speak of, no guile, just pure instinct. She’s astonishing.” When asked whether he will actually relay any of this to her, he claims that he will but she will not believe him: “It’s probably what makes her great. It’s almost certainly what makes her so profoundly unhappy… . I tried my best to change her, but she remains brilliant despite me.” In Blonde, there simply is no curiosity or interest in the inexplicable magic of Monroe’s stardom. Whereas the abuse aspect is lightly touched upon in My Week in Marilyn, it is the overwhelming preponderance of Blonde. Perhaps Blonde could be more sufferable if there were some tacit acknowledgment of the extraordinariness and indescribability of Monroe—more stardom and less abuse.Both films often seem far more focused on those in our titular celestial body’s orbit, many themselves celestial bodies in their own right. We constantly get acquainted with their impressions and assessments of Monroe, yet rarely do we ever get Monroe’s impressions and assessments of them in turn. The stylistic flair of Blonde is certainly engaging in its frequent demand of our attention, but so often this look-at-me aesthetic is independent of our heroine—presented more as detached and bravura authorial statement rather than as character subjectivity. With such flourishes, it feels as though the director is calling attention to his own creative genius instead of trying to locate the creative genius of Monroe. That further removes us from any sense of genuine concern, care, or even respect for our subject, which all feels like exploitation and abuse.”No play is the playwright’s life, as no book is a writer’s life.” Such is a realization had by the Playwright in Joyce Carol Oates’s Blonde (493). By extension, one assumes, no film is the actress’s life. But that should not be an excuse not to try.

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Original Source

DOI: https://doi.org/10.5325/arthmillj.19.1.0043

References

1987 - From Reverence to Rape: The Treatment of Women in the Movies
2023 - Review of Blonde
2023 - Review of Blonde
2009 - Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings
2020 - Blonde
2020 - Blonde
1985 - Movies and Methods