Blonde, 2022.
Written and Directed by Andrew Dominik.
Starring Ana de Armas, Bobby Cannavale, Adrien Brody, Julianne Nicholson, Xavier Samuel, and Evan Williams.
SYNOPSIS:
Blonde boldly reimagines the life of one of Hollywood’s most enduring icons, Marilyn Monroe. From her volatile childhood as Norma Jeane, through her rise to stardom and romantic entanglements, Blonde blurs the lines of fact and fiction to explore the widening split between her public and private selves
Andrew Dominik’s Blonde is exploitative. There is absolutely no denying that parading the corpse of a real human being in fictional form is problematic to its very core. A transaction of blame can be made as this is adapted from 1999’s novel of the same name by Joyce Carol Oates but obviously Marilyn Monroe existed. She was a real, breathing human being. Yet… Blonde may have earned a glowing recommendation from the blonde bombshell herself as this exceptionally directed, miserabilist movie showcases Hollywood – and its men – to be at the centre of a villainously violent spider-web of toxicity.
It’s the 1930s, and young Norma Jeane -aka Marilyn- (Lily Fisher) is lying on a strange new bed, observing a photo on the wall. It’s a shot of a man, a Humphrey Bogart ala Casablanca type, with long overcoat and tipped hat shrouded in a cloud of smoke. So very 40’s Hollywood. Her mother Gladys (Julianne Nicholson) tells Norma that this is a secret, that she can’t tell anyone but that this man is her father, and he is coming back for them. She is deluded, obscured by the notion that this man loved her. He had once loved her, as she says, and would have given her every role on the planet.
We’ve heard this before – the classic Hollywood story of “making it” but alas, Gladys got pregnant, sending her scattering back to the bottom like the dollar bills he flings at her. She tells Norma, with a fiery misery, about the mistreatment that befell her at his hands while remaining blindingly adamant he will one day return – forever imprinting on Norma the trauma of paternal failure.
It’s a succinct summation of how men treat women, in Hollywood and in life, as the disposable meat to their ravenous fingers. It’s the very crux of Dominik’s intention here. Men in Norma/Marilyn’s life appear and disappear, like they are in their very own puffs of smoke, like figments of memory only half remembered after a drunken night out. The only constant for Marilyn is those greasy fingers, grabbing and gawking at her in black and white photography.
After the alcoholic Gladys attempts to murder her – and is committed to an asylum, further adding to her lack of parentage – Norma is deposited into an orphanage. We then flash forward, with bright intimate recreations of Marilyn’s actual modelling, into the life of Norma as she becomes the Marilyn Monroe, the darling of the golden age of Hollywood, portrayed by an immensely evocative Ana de Armas.
As Blonde progresses, showcasing the violent sexual trauma inflicted onto Norma in graphic detail, we are presented with a single idea. Marilyn Monroe is a trauma construct. Marilyn is Norma’s way of protecting herself, securing the trauma away as she disassociates into the confident persona that the press are presented with. It’s what amounts to Dissociative Identity Disorder: The blackouts, the time lost to nothing, the fragmented storytelling, the fuzzy faces and of that disorientating feeling of being powerless.
De Armas transforms how she portray Norma, often in varying degrees of how she presents herself. Sometimes, it’s a snap. Depicted by a changing aspect ratio, sometimes by switching camera angles to a now make-up less Norma. Sometimes, it’s gradual shown by her bouncing dutifully along with the men in her life, care-free and innocent as she utilises a baby voice, calling them daddy. It feels like careful consideration into what aspects of Marilyn needs to be let out at what time, all designed to keep Norma herself safe. At one point in this brutally despondent story, we see Norma herself yelling for Marilyn to come out. Marilyn is, after all, the mask that women need to wear to survive.
But Blonde isn’t just about Hollywood and its perverts nor is it just about Norma’s identity as Marilyn. In this chaotic, voyeuristic depiction of an American sweetheart lies a deconstruction of America. None more apparent than by using the very epitome of the American people to assault her in a harrowing close-up that combines images of American people on telly – more voyeurism – as they forcibly ejaculate into her mouth.
The distinct lack of agency Marilyn has in her life is shown by every man’s distrust in her intellect, citing that she must be taking these ideas from some other man, consistently forcing the notion that she herself is just a puppet. It’s what these men believe. A gruesome scene shows Marilyn being restrained and her baby forcibly aborted by a studio who wants her to perform in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. It’s akin to how America, in 2022, are still allowing for women’s reproductive rights to be handled by white men who have their own self-serving interests in mind.
Dominik’s direction, along with Adam Robinson’s kinetic editing, is at times deliberately frustrating, creating a film that is not for the faint of heart. Ana de Armas’ phenomenal, emotive performance is transcendent. She is able to hold herself against a cast of fantastic actors like Adrien Brody and Bobby Cannavale, but they, much like the trauma-inducing men in Marilyn’s life, aren’t around for long if they no longer feel like their sleazy hands possess Norma.
Ana de Armas is front and centre though, always in the public eye just as Marilyn was. This harrowing film, that veers more towards Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem For a Dream than any conventional biopic, is a dense, chimeric, ever so indulgent fever dream that leaves an impression that will last as long as Marilyn Monroe’s legacy: forever.
Flickering Myth Rating – Film: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ / Movie: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Connor Lightbody – Follow me on Twitter.
