I wish I’d seen the magic of Marilyn before, that I hadn’t
spent so many years shrugging her off as that pretty face from that picture of
her white dress floating. I wasn’t fussed, simply didn’t care, rejecting the
mainstream and turning down all the arguments that Marilyn was a real woman,
the true image of femininity. I didn’t want to go down that path, the 50s bubble-gum
image of aspiration and dizzy ditziness; I wanted my women exciting and real
and wild. Give me Edie, give me Audrey, give me Patti or Stevie or Francoise,
leave the goddess behind.
The last place I expected to find her was in my dissertation
research, reading about 1960s America’s alternative scene. But there she was;
undressed and frantic, counting pills in a ripped dress. America’s sweetheart
was there in the underbelly playing with death with the junkies and failing to
hid it with her signature smile in the mirror held up by none other but her
husband, who directed the scene. I came to her defence before I even knew her.
How dare he. The man that was supposed to know this woman better than anyone.
How dare he create a caricature of her memory, put a woman on stage in a
blonde wig and shapewear and get her to play the role of the dumb blonde once
again, this time with a death wish that he admits he helped grant. A husband
creating entertainment from his wife’s death, cashing in on every possible
stereotype and putting it in front of an audience, less than 2 years after her
passing. I didn’t know her, didn’t even know how false the stereotypes were,
but the lack of care upset me; seeing a talented female character broken down
and calling out for his man who was her god, that wouldn’t help her up but said
‘I wish you knew how to take care of yourself’. When she tries to tell him more
about her life, he says ‘I know enough’.
I wish I’d known more sooner, that I hadn’t echoed that
sentiment along with most others, leaving my knowledge of the star at stardom,
at the beauty, at a hollow laugh. I wish I’d attempted to find the human there
behind that image, because maybe I’d have seen stars as more attainable, less
fictional than the wildly rich and reckless Edie, or the Nazi-fighting Audrey.
Because Marilyn was dirt poor but clever. I bet you didn’t know that she was a
child of the foster care system, bouncing from home to home from abuse to abuse
until she learned how she could control men. She married age 16 to get herself
out of the system. She started modeling to earn her own money. She dyed her
own hair blonde to cash in on the image of beauty being thrown in her face. And
mostly, she created Marilyn. Norma Jean from the back end of nowhere created
the greatest character in American history; the goddess, the world’s mistress, to cash in on the expectations the world threw at her. In her private life, she
loved to garden and learn about philosophy, she had an extensive home library
powering through some of the most difficult books known to man, she wrote
poetry and capped off each day with a hot fudge sundae. She craved monogamy and
motherhood. She made millions and married for love. The Marilyn we know; the
gold-digging baby doll that’s too dumb for her own good, becomes a role of pure
comedy the more you learn about her history. In the face of her self-made story
and simply wants, her male co-stars become the butt of her jokes as she
harnesses the stereotypes the male execs of Hollywood would love to put on her.
Behind the scenes, she’d argue with directors for better pay and more
representative female characters, refused to diet for roles, fought against her
constant typecasting, but then would get in front of the camera, hypersexualise
these ridiculous female characters until they were funny, cash in on making men’s
tongues roll out of their mouth, then sit and read Ulysses in-between takes. An
icon, not because of her curves or her face, but because she played the game
and beat them at it because no one ever suspected she was acting all along.
It’s a sad kind of amazement, no one gave her credit for her acting but no one
cared to consider the actress under it. Arthur Miller’s issue with the marriage
was that he wanted to marry Marilyn Monroe but he married Norma Jean; he wrote
of the dumb blonde drinking and naively flirting, failing to see the natural
brunette being smothered underneath. I think that’s what killed her; method
acting with no escape, no one cared for the self. (Or maybe the American
government if you’ve read the conspiracy theories, but that’s another story…)
I found my love for her there, in that gap between Marilyn
and Norma as all their inside jokes seemed to come out. When you know her
history and how clever you have to be to turn society against itself, her
characters become hilarious. You start to see how her character always comes
out on top, always so self-assured and certain that she’d end up there, never
doubting her power. You start to notice all the times she switches in and out
of the role, revealing little moments of her wisdom and intelligence as the
supposedly dumb, gold-digging Lorelei Lee carries out a fool-proof plan to
recover incriminating images of herself, outsmarts a lawyer with her best
friend, gets herself a gig in Paris to earn money and still manages to get the
man to marry her by point out the double standards in gender expectations; why
shouldn’t she seek out a rich man when men are allowed to only seek out
beautiful women? As the opening bars of Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend ring
out and she appears in that signature pink dress in one of the most expensive
scenes ever created in cinematic history, I sing along giggling. It’s hilarious
watching her batting her eyelids, harnessing all the stereotypes of the dizzy
helpless woman that everyone wanted her to be, the humour comes from knowing that Norma Jean hated diamonds, she much
preferred pearls... or pay-checks equal to her male co-stars.
I came to her defence before knowing all that though, partly
because I saw myself there, in this breakdown scene as she tries desperately to
cling to anyone who will see her and pull her out. In a selfish way, there’s a
comfort in seeing the worlds brightest starlet broken down, knowing she
struggled with mental health but still achieved such huge things. I read her
diaries and found myself there too, as she wrote herself affirmations and
comforts; ‘life starts from now’, ‘I will be as sensitive as I am- without
being ashamed’, ‘my body is my body, every part of it’. Her thoughts feel so
close to me, a feeling I never expected when I started looking into Marilyn
Monroe, the world’s dream woman. Nothing in that famed Seven Year Itch picture
would’ve suggested I’d find a sense of solidarity there. But I did, peeling
away layers as I learned and finding new things to share, noticing new ways that
she began to inform my attitude and my performances as I merged more of Marilyn
into Sunday Girl. The biggest thing; I noticed a change with my body image. In
past shows, I’d wanted to make myself look tall and long and slim. The last
show, I wore a suspender belt that hugged my hips and smoothed round the
curves, I wore a vintage bra and didn’t try to look small. As I watched more
films, I realised I hadn’t really noticed her body, something so rare for
someone that struggles with body image. Normally, I stare with envy at the
starlet, obsessive over their long legs and slim arms and pixie features, spend
the following day wanting to emulate their outfits but feeling locked out
because my body simply can’t copy it, these hips won’t let me. But I didn’t
with Marilyn, I just knew she looked beautiful, then I realised she looked like
me; hips and thighs and arms, her jawline soft, her face round and rosy-cheeked. I could emulate that, feeling good as I pulled on high waisted
trousers and sweetheart necklines. I started buying more tight-fitting things,
no longer so scared of the curves, no longer feeling so off balance with my
tiny top half, excepting that my body was more of a 50s classic than a 60s
alternative. When I’d always gravitated towards the latter, wanting the
excitement and rejecting the presumed squeaky-clean goodness of the earlier
era, learning about Marilyn suddenly made the 50s seem a little bolder. I don’t
feel scared of glamour now as I pull on my pencil skirt and heels at every
given opportunity and begin carrying out a red lipstick as an essential.
I guess I found a kind of representation here; physically, mentally and spiritually, finding a sister in every part of her that I never would’ve expected to find. America’s sweetheart sat in the underbelly, laughing at everyone with her cards to her chest, only showing you if you take the time to ask.
I guess I found a kind of representation here; physically, mentally and spiritually, finding a sister in every part of her that I never would’ve expected to find. America’s sweetheart sat in the underbelly, laughing at everyone with her cards to her chest, only showing you if you take the time to ask.
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