TMS Movie Review: Blonde

(Netflix)

Andrew Dominik’s new historical drama, Blonde, has to be one of the most hateful films I’ve ever seen. I can somewhat understand, although ridiculous in theory, a historian going out of their way to write a whole book on why they don’t like an artist or celebrity; since it’s not too complicated to write by yourself. But to actually take the time to cast and hire a whole team of people to make a full length movie on a real person you irrationally don’t have respect for is mind-boggling to me, and that’s very much what Blonde feels like. I use ‘historical drama,’ since biopic is really not accurate enough, even with the usual liberties. Blonde is directly based on Joyce Carol Oates’ 2000 novel of the same name, which is a heavily fictionalized account of Marilyn Monroe’s life and career, and has always been marketed as such. Why Oates went through the effort to re-write Marilyn’s story rather than make up her own fictional movie star to critique toxic fame is a question that still hasn’t been answered, as far as I can tell.

Here, in Dominik’s Blonde, Marilyn (Ana de Armas) isn’t a success story despite her short life. She’s the tragic victim of life long abuse and depression until the bitter end. Those interesting stories of her living in foster homes, working at a factory and getting married during her teen years as Norma Jeane Baker? Nowhere to be found. The two classics she made with director John Huston, The Asphalt Jungle (1950) and The Misfits (1961)—the latter of which was her final film? Nowhere in sight. Where is Marilyn’s equally successful and hilarious former roommate and close friend Shelley Winters? Couldn’t tell you myself. When we see Marilyn studying with legendary acting coach Lee Strasberg or auditioning for movies like Roy Ward Baker’s Don’t Bother to Knock (1952), she is portrayed as out of her element and insecure. Anytime Marilyn or Norma Jeane is rewarded or acknowledged, it’s for her looks or sexuality; not her intelligence and great sense of humor, as people in her real life later confirmed existed and debunked her as the bubbly bimbo she was typecast as.

Instead, Dominik and Oates focus on fabrications like a ménage-à-trois between the starlet, Charlie Chaplin’s son, Cass (Xavier Samuel) and Edward G. Robinson, Jr. (Evan Williams). The real Norma Jeane spent the latter half of her childhood as an orphan because her mother, Gladys was institutionalized following a mental breakdown. But Gladys (played by Julianne Nicholson in Blonde) didn’t attempt to drown her own child during a psychotic break as seen on film. Marilyn never met her real father, but I have a feeling she wasn’t obsessively haunted by his absence to the point of hysteria, as shown in Blonde. Ana de Armas—who actually does well occasionally with the limited material, despite her Cuban accent slipping when she has to raise her voice—is apparently given direction for only three emotions: sad, perplexed and orgasmic.

(Netflix)

De Armas as Marilyn is in tears or on the verge of tears in every other scene, crinkles her brow when asked any question, and is topless for almost 10 combined minutes of this tedious, miserable 165 runtime. No doubt, Marilyn Monroe had her hardships, especially regarding the men in her life. But to actually replace her real tragedies—such as her inability to successfully carry through a pregnancy because of endometrioses—with three rape scenes and an abortion, all that definitely did not happen, is distasteful and grotesque. Even if you don’t care much about the Kennedys, you would still be offended by JFK’s (Caspar Phillipson) brief cameo near the end of the film.

People have consistently praised Chayse Irvin’s B&W and color cinematography, and Nick Cave & Warren Ellis’ score for Blonde, which I can agree with; although I felt the latter resembled the theme music from Mark Frost & David Lynch’s “Twin Peaks” (1990-91) a bit too much at times. I also thought Bobby Cannavale and Adrien Brody as two of Marilyn’s husbands, baseball star Joe DiMaggio and respected author Arthur Miller, would have been great casting with a different filmmaker. But what sinks Blonde as a film the most is that Dominik clearly has no respect or interest in Marilyn the person. If you have read his polarizing interviews this past month [particularly with BFI’s Sight & Sound], he talks about how much he put into recreating famous photos of Marilyn on screen, but doesn’t care much for her acting or even really her movies. He truly has a hard time believing people think of Marilyn Monroe/Norma Jeane Baker as smart or talented. Which asks the question…why does this movie even exist? Again, if Dominik wanted to make an allegory to how abusive Hollywood is, he could have easily created a fictional actress loosely inspired by Marilyn or Jayne Mansfield or Jean Harlow.

Back in June, I went into detail on why Baz Luhrmann’s Elvis didn’t work for me because of the paint-by-numbers script clashing with Luhrmann’s flamboyant directing style. But at least you can tell Luhrmann legitimately enjoys Elvis Presley’s music and respects him as an artist. Dominik reportedly spending over a decade fighting to make a whole movie on a woman he appears to hold a grudge against for no good reason is truly baffling. I can’t claim Dominik is a bad director, since The Assassination of Jesse James (2007) is now a classic and his music documentaries on Nick Cave are well received, so clearly viewers appreciate his efforts. But for his sake, and more importantly the audience’s, I hope he doesn’t make another movie with a female protagonist, real, fictional or both. If you want an appropriate depiction of the real Marilyn Monroe, look up some of her interviews and archival footage uploaded on YouTube, or listen to stories told by her old co-stars and friends. Revisit or introduce yourself to her best features, like Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s All About Eve (1950), Howard Hawks’ Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953), Jean Negulesco’s How to Marry a Millionaire (1953) and Billy Wilder’s Some Like It Hot (1959). Because Blonde as a cinematic experience, ain’t it.