A Pseudo Review of the movie: Blonde
She died a few months before I was born. It took till the late 70s before I saw one of her movies–on a black & white TV. As the 80s came and went and worst-writer started taking down all those pin-up posters of scantly clad #Americant womanhood from my boyhood room, which may or mayn’t be because of Monroe’s iconic pin-up status that started with the first Playboy magazine cover, Monroe wasn’t all that titillating anymore. For one thing, she was long dead. For another thing, her sex-symbol image had been surpassed, if not suppressed by the likes of Farrah Fawcett, Cheryl Ladd, etc. For worst-moi, the myth of Marilyn Monroe started (at best) in the mid 80s when Madonna usurped her iconic platinum blonde bombshell image in the music video Material Girl. Does that mean Madonna should be accredited with the revival of Marilyn Monroe and all-things platinum blonde? Sure. Why not. What else could have revived her?
The thing is, dear worst-reader, I watched Blonde the other night on Netflix. And I can’t get it out of my head. My better-half quit the movie after the first rape scene, which is at about twenty minutes. She says she’s never gonna watch it. Although the scene made me stand up and turn away from the screen, I found my bearings a few minutes later due to Ana de Armas. In fact, she’s the only reason I stayed in the almost three hour $hitshow of peeling the onion that is/was nineteen fifties Hollywood, even though some of the scenes with Adrian Brody as Arthur Miller were pretty good. The thing is. This movie is Ana de Armas. She’s f’n amazing and that says a lot considering I’ve never been a Marilyn Monroe fan.
What a meat grinder Hollywood must have been (still is). Is there a better example of how the meat grinder started other than Marilyn Monroe? Which makes worst-writer wonder: is this movie about the world as a grinder of human meat embodied in beauty and abuse? Whether it’s the first rape scene, the second or third, the drugs or the blowjob she gives JFK, after which he rapes her…. Holly krapp, dear worst-reader. What the hell is this film about? Even though de Armas is brilliant, this film isn’t about Marilyn Monroe. Which brings worst-writer to other worst-thoughts.
Having grown up in the suburban hell madness that is #Americant, where everything is a commodity–especially all-things love and sex–it’s no wonder that so many depend on conspiracy theory to deal with (their) circumstance(s). If a list could be made of conspiracy theories from beginning to end that determined where my beloved & missed united mistakes of #Americant would be today (post former prez pee-pee-hair), high on that list would have to be the affair between Monroe and JFK. I’ve never believed it. And the only reason so many prude, sexually repressed #Americants believe it is because of the pure, unadulterated sex Monroe exudes while singing happy birthday that one night to the soon to be dead president. She was hated for that. She was hated for her sexuality. For she was the first to be raw with it–don’t you know. People forget that. There is a whole swath of #Americant that couldn’t stand her because she took sex and sexy to new heights–and she did it all without crossing the lines of explicit sex. Also. Let’s not forget. It was an insult to those who thought JFK and his wife could be #Americants first chance at a new fangled form of royalty. Any idear, dear worst-reader, how many #Americants hate (are confused by) royalty as much as they hate (are confused by) sex? We all know what happened to the Kennedys. Or?
This movie has reawakened worst-moi to the myth of Marilyn Monroe. I’m considering reading the book it is loosely based on. But don’t hold your breath for that worst-review. Like this film, the book is a work of fiction. Fiction means, first and foremost, its makers make it up. They pull $hit out of thin air. The do it because, well, it’s sellable. Make money. Then again. I’m not sure reviving Monroe in worst-writer’s brain is a good thing. And I kinda mean that in a positive way. For. Dear worst-reader. I always preferred Jane Mansfield (as a brunette not as a blonde). Or what about Jane Russell? But worst-writer’s ultimate pin-up is and will always be Raquel Welch. And at eighty she’s still worth a look! But now. In this world of FREEDOM TO BE STUPID, was Marilyn Monroe the first to open the flood gates of a world full of ditzy blondes? Bimbos? Chicks selling IT! Indeed. She was/is a girl who found a way to make a living by churning the loins of sexually repressed movie goers, male or female? Bless her and bless all sex-symbol hearts. Just don’t forget the part where educating people enough so they can tell the difference between conspiracy theory and, well, a really nice girl just trying to make a living… Blah, blah, blah.
This film has given worst-moi a chance to appreciate Marilyn Monroe from another perspective. In a world where it’s taken till now to bring down at least some of the abusers and gatekeepers, aka Harvey Weinstein, Jeffrey Eppstein, Bill Cosby, this film should be heeded and seen by all. It’s that good at portraying the pain of the female. The eternal and unnecessary pain.