Emergency Issue: Reflections on Andrew Dominik's BLONDE.

Not to worry, we will be returning to Dirk Bogarde very shortly... but first, I'd like to share my sentiments regarding the soon-to-be released Netflix Original.

It is almost comedic to me the amount of attention and discussion Andrew Dominik’s Blonde has garnered over this year, which will only increase following its wide release on 28 September via Netflix. Because not even a morsel of that conversation is deserved in this entirely vacuous excuse of a film — which no amount of aspect ratio shifts, bouncing back from color to black & white, and shrieking from Ana de Armas can make me believe Dominik in the slightest understands either basic psychoanalysis or the human condition under a patriarchy in any respect.

Ana de Armas in Blonde.

Before I continue, I’d like to clarify that I do not believe Blonde is at all interested in the real Marilyn Monroe. Or Norma Jean, which she is also called throughout. Dominik’s imagining is solely a fragmented image, a simulacra of unmeetable standards forced on a woman who simply needed genuine love. She embodies what the world expects of anyone who is not a man, one defined wholly by patriarchal sexualization that only pleasures the subject and not those objectified in the process. Monroe’s fate is a repercussion of the cruel male-oriented world around her, who was “watched by all, seen by none”. Yet, this film does not even try to see its protagonist. Dominik, in a vapid attempt to criticize the objectification of Monroe does that very thing himself, elevating her pain to the point where it is crafted to do nothing but illicit surprise. She is an object unto which an unrestrained Dominik can project practically every horror and misdeed by men in our culture without ever allowing a space for her to make sense of it. The anempathetic sound only worsens this feature: the dissonance between sound and image produces the effect that the film itself does not care about the suffering depicted, brushing it off as though it is only a product of its time when in reality its assumed exposure of the abuse is actually inherent within the film’s entire conception.

Blonde states that it is her lack of a good man, a “daddy” to raise her properly, that even puts her in that position to begin with. Dominik makes it very clear in his fictionalized (but notably, never clarified that this is actually so) picture of Monroe that the woman suffered, immensely: rooted within the father-sized hole of an absence in her childhood. She is constantly calling out into the abyss for this “daddy”, one that only literally manifests in the multiple men she’s romantically involved with but never finds solace in. These lovers include Joe DiMaggio and Arthur Miller, who when referred to as “daddy” is only in the most childish and purposely excessive way possible. Its rancid unsubtly evokes sexualization from infantilization, reminiscent of both Jungian and Freudian theories of familial possession without any of the nuance those initial thinkers contained in their own writings.

I cannot help but wonder who exactly this film was made for. I am not here to answer that question, but I will say it certainly was not for me. It is immensely difficult to imagine it was made for anyone aligned with womanhood, either. Women are fully aware of the conditions they face based on their femininity, and it’s frankly offensive that Dominik believes he’s in the position to speak on these lesions as though they’re his own or that he in any way can comprehend it. And if one believes it so necessary to portray Monroe’s psychological complexities on film, it would help if it came from a mind who could personally grasp and identify with this significant turmoil. Trauma gone unchecked is a soul-eater, it rips away at any sense of being one may have for themselves. And when much of that aching is rooted in simple misogyny, someone who has actually experienced it could allow the story to endure in a far more authentic mode.

Blonde is not provocative nor intelligent like it so adamantly begs the spectator to believe. It does not take into consideration that young women like myself are not interested in seeing a highly-stylized “just for the fun of it” abuse of a long-dead woman, by far the most egregious of this being through a sequence of Monroe engaged in oral sex with President John F. Kennedy, with Earth VS. The Flying Saucers (1956) in sync with the latter’s orgasm. It is designed entirely to agitate, but what exactly is the reason that women need to be shocked by the suffering we ourselves have endured throughout our own lives and nothing further?

I have truly so much to say about this film. However I do not even think it is worth the energy to sit down and talk through. I’d much rather dedicate my time to explore illustrations of feminine introspection and/or trauma in projects like Red Road (Arnold, 2006), Jane B. by Agnès V (1988), Celine Sciamma’s Girlhood (2014), The Watermelon Woman (Dunye, 1996), One Sings, The Other Doesn’t (Varda, 1977), The Night Porter (Cavani, 1974), or Certain Women (Reichardt, 2016). If there is one takeaway I have about Blonde, it is this: if you’d like to review an actual exploration of Marilyn Monroe’s loneliness with a wonderful performance to back it up, check out John Huston’s The Misfits (1961). Not only was it written for her (by Arthur Miller), but also features her final onscreen performance. If you want a film that genuinely cares about its women, check out any of my recommendations above. Otherwise, Blonde will be ready to stream in the weeks to come.

Ever,

SophiaOnFilm.

Marilyn Monroe in The Misfits.