“Another time, silently, trembling in gratitude, the Blond Actress stood on tiptoe to kiss the Playwright on his lips.” – Blonde, Joyce Carol Oates.
On tiptoes, reaching up to the next rung of a ladder climbed out of duty not passion, Marilyn Monroe is depicted as a strained and scared star ripped of her individuality in Blonde. Silently and trembling with the fear of those that came before her relationship with playwright Arthur Miller, Ana de Armas embodies a star that burnt out through the abuse of power of those around her. They did not believe in her abilities but believed in her body, and that is the central piece of publicly acknowledged, yet surprisingly shocking disgust, found in this Andrew Dominik-directed biopic. Mired by controversy and deeply set in an establishment-friendly depiction of one of its most legendary stars, the comparisons between this Netflix nostalgia binge and that of Mank are a little too close for comfort.
Because that is what Blonde is. As Mank was. As Babylon will be. As Hollywood so excruciatingly obviously wanted to be. Tiptoe through the distant stench of the movies that made legends out of fear and abuse. Blonde covers that well, better than Mank did, its love letter lost to the realities of Monroe’s life and times as one of the most popular, controversial figures. Her image as the blonde bombshell and her real experiences as Norma Jean are so distant from one another, yet they crash head-on in that agonising lifestyle experience so many are aware of but so few are paying attention to. It does not appear Dominik pays that much attention either, as his art-school vanity project wilts at times to the disjoint blend of aspect ratios, colour gradients and slow zooms. Nick Cave features on the soundtrack. A nod to their former collaborations together, or just a nod to good music that applies to a time that did not have it?
It is very arthouse, very ropey at times and even detracts from the story, but it is an exploration of Monroe’s life in just as accurate a detail as to be expected. It is no small feat to cut down the tome that is Blonde from Joyce Carol Oates. Whittling that down to the experiences of youth, the fluttering affairs and disgusting, rumoured details of John F. Kennedy and the advantages taken by studio producers is stunning. Armas takes on these scenes with great strength, and despite the parts around her falling away at times, she comes out strong with a piece that will define her career no matter how long she continues her work. It is a legacy piece not just because the performance is so strong, but because the two names, Armas and Monroe, hold weight. One more than the other, but the former is representing the latter, and that line will be blurred on the big screen for good.
What a blur it is, too. Blonde is a showering of great displays of courage and vulgar riposte to the hard-working Jeane and the stardom and power, or perception of power fused into the public image that Monroe scrambled for. What occurs is a great one-woman show, a powerhouse performance from Armas will be more than enough to keep Blonde afloat, while some questionable bits and pieces flutter on and off the screen. Dominik never feels all that comfortable with the task at hand but occasionally has a burst of intensity or unique charm to his work that captures such technical and visual beauty. Adrien Brody is an inspired casting choice for playwright Arthur Miller, because it is there that we see Jeane, not Monroe. There is difference between the two, just Blonde never untangles it all that well.
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