Blonde (2022)

Carrion, Marilyn ("What Business of Yours is My Life?")

or

"Isn't Love Always Based on Delusion?" 

 

The controversies surrounding Blonde, the new Netflix film about Marilyn Monroe*—with the "about" tending towards the "somewhat surrounding" meaning—have been many and manifold.

 

There's the casting of Ana de Armas, the Cuban born actress of Knives Out, Deep Water, and Balderunner 2049 as Norma Jeane Mortenson that generated many a plucked eyebrow to raise in a reverse of the usual "black-on-white" kvetch-mishegoss. And when the film was completed, it was smacked with an NC-17 rating, which promised some salacious material—to which those looking for it will be disappointed—that limited what venues could advertise the film. The fact that its subject is Monroe, one of the most recognizable (and marketable) icons to come out of Hollywood shouldn't slow down the anticipation or the rush to judgment that such a film would engender.

 

But, we already know the story. Or, at least, we think we know the story—as far as anything gleaned from the entertainment press can be informative. And that is of Norma Jeane, the poor waif from questionable circumstances, rising to fame to achieve ultimate Hollywood stardom—men want her, women want to be her—only to find that happiness in the stratospheric air up there is just as illusive to find as down among the mortals who crave it. But, it's also a story of Hollywood as meat-grinder. Of exploitation as a never-ending cycle. Of the predatory nature of the patriarchy. And of never being able to fight back against "The Wisdom of the Tribe."

Blonde is based on Joyce Carol Oates' "fictionalization" (the author's word) of the accepted and/or whispered Monroe story. Which, in itself, is one more craven attempt to exploit the person. Oates took stories, legends, and gossip and created a creative narrative to make it neat and tidy. But, she was making things up as she went along, only hewing to the facts that have been seen in newsreels and in Cinemascope.

Dominick begins with the harsh glare of klieg lights and flash-bulbs, the one harsh and blinding and strong, the other fast, temporary, and with the aftermath of corruption; it is the scene of Marilyn Monroe filming the "subway grate" scene of The Seven Year Itch and she pirouettes incandescently in slow motion in the glare. The main title pops on, the title filled with embers and waves. And we're in Los Angeles 1933, where 7 year old Norma Jeane (Lily Fisher) lives with her mother (Julianne Nicholson), a "studio employee" who blames the child for the absence of the child's father (another more well-known "studio employee') in her life. On Norma Jeane's birthday, her present is to be allowed to see a photograph of her father—a studio "head-shot"—but whether this is the father or not is a matter of question. Her mother will soon be diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia to spend the rest of her days in an asylum, and Norma Jeane's in an orphanage.

"The press" has been saying that folks turn off Blonde after a few minutes, and one can see why, as these scenes are raw, deal with an unprettified version of mental illness, and involve child endangerment—there is much verbal abuse and when a wild-fire breaks out nearby, the mother is determined to escape to the absent father's house "in the hills" attempting to drive through the flames before being stopped by police. Returning to their boarding room, she kicks the child out, leaving her to fend on her own. Of course, people want to turn away at this point—this is tough stuff—the same way that they want to turn away from the homeless on the street. Why should they watch this to feel bad? Well, sadly, that's the story.

And it's not the story, either. The opening sets up a "Daddy Myth" for movie-Marilyn, that she will seek throughout the entire run-time of Dominik's film. The marriages—the ones portrayed, anyway (the first one's missing)—she constantly addresses her husbands as "Daddy." Is this true? I don't know, I wasn't there. But, Oates and Dominick use it as a through-line for Marilyn's entire life, in ways that she seeks father-figures (which could be true, but there may be something else to it?) and in a life-long hope that she might meet her actual father some day; letters from him are concocted to sustain that story arc, but it ultimately proves to be the cruelest part of this exercise. It is psychological speculation of the most specious, coming to conclusions from mere impressions and another example of "Fake News" from over-active imaginations.

The story then leaps from Norma Jeane's childhood to her career in modeling- seeking-acting-roles, and it is at this point that Ana de Armas enters the movie. Whatever one thinks of the movie itself, its best asset is de Armas. At 34, she still evokes the waif-like qualities that become the Marilyn persona, and her physical resemblance is uncanny enough to deflect "Monroe-memory," something extremely capable past performers have been unable to do. The voice-work is well-done without being a parody and even includes the variations between her "breathy" stage-voice and her still-vocal-coached but more natural tones.

De Armas also has a quality that helps—the camera loves her, which is that undefinable fairy-dust that shows an actor to their best advantage, but also allows the audience to read any emotional shift in their face—a quality she shares with Monroe. And Dominik has such faith in the actress and her resemblance—but, more importantly, her performance—that he risks the most brutal close-ups in emotional scenes. And they are frequent. De Armas is in such full command that she allows her face to crumple into ugliness at extreme moments—her humiliating exit from a an office meeting with a studio head (a "Mr. Z" because "lawyers"**) that is more of a pretense for rape, for example. It's one of the most brutal performances—while under scrutinized control—of any actress I've seen. De Armas has the best luck (prominent movies where she's singled out) but also the worst luck (being heavily cut out of movies) that, hopefully, casting types will see her amazing range.

If only it was in service to something better. Oates posits the newly re-christened Marilyn meeting up with fellow acting students, who also have a "Daddy" complex, but 180° opposed to hers, as they're only too well-associated with their fathers. They are Charles Chaplin Jr. (Xavier Samuel) and Edward G. Robinson Jr. (Evan Williams). The namesakes involve her in an extended ménage à trois in which they ply her with booze, sweet nothings of devotion, all the while sexually using her. They're the true villains of the piece, narcissistic, privileged Hollywood kids who can't be successful on their own but only by making a living parasitically. Later, the two will use nude pictures they've taken of her to blackmail "The Athlete" (Bobby Cannavale) who marries Monroe, and...as mentioned...have a direct correlation to Monroe's fatal overdose. Indications in the real world are that Monroe may have encountered them in her career, but whether there was a threesome relationship or that it resulted in a pregnancy (as the film depicts) is just conjecture. I don't know, I wasn't there. Neither was Oates, or Dominik.

At least, the director-screenwriter eliminated Oates' scenario that Monroe was killed by assassins at the order of the then-Attorney-General. As it is, they merely suggest an assignation with the President (Caspar Phillipson)—that might have resulted in a pregnancy and a forced abortion which is played out like a "horrible dream." What he's replaced it with isn't much better, even if it hues closer to the actual autopsy report, although even then its casting for a reason for "why" centers on manipulation and cruelty, which seem to be the mainstays in this sensationalistic re-imagining of her life.

The pacing seems off as well. There is short-shrift given to her marriages to "The Ex-Athlete" (the issue seems to be she's too much a celebrity) and "The Playwright" (their attempt to create a simple life is hampered by her difficulties carrying a child to term and his writerly penchant to betray confidences) and her dependence on drugs and alcohol to maintain her schedule. It was probably more complicated than that. By this time, Monroe had her own production company and was wrangling creative control with her former bosses and potential new ones. Dominik has her throwing tantrums, but as far as being a tough businesswoman in a male-dominated town? Nothing.

Two opposing views: Monroe filming The Seven Year Itch; 

"The Ex-Athlete" witnessing in disgust.

Enough. The script, the attitude, the promiscuous, indiscriminate character assassination, the utter cruel tone of the entire project can be parsed for a week of posts. One could get sick of it. But, aside from de Armas' gutsy and (one would even go so far as to say) heroic performance, is there anything else to recommend even a casual glance at this?

Sure. Blonde is a marvel, visually. Dominik moves through formats, aspect ratios, gradations of color and and depths of black and white all to the service of making it look authentic to the period and our cultural memory, despite the lack of any matching veracity in the script. Complementing de Armas' "you'd-swear-it-was-reality" performance, the creative team endeavored (and you can compare their efforts to real pictures above***) to reproduce the appearances of one of the most photographed women from the Hollywood era. It's chilling, really, how much they get the visual right while the story has so much wrong. When the movie jack-knifes into surrealism towards the end, you're willing to believe it.

I will applaud the dedication to detail to recreate those touchstones that any schlub off the street would recognize. Poster images, movie recreations, photo recreations are done meticulously to pass muster. But, one could also see it as an attempt to give all the rampant speculation some legitimacy.

The ultimate tragedy of Marilyn Monroe is that, even after her death in 1962, people are still taking advantage of her, making a buck off her, and dragging her through the mud, just as much as they were doing while she was alive. Usually after a passing, there can be some perspective where one "never speaks ill of the dead", or a charitable view will become the one agreed upon. Not so with Marilyn, evidently. Her afterlife is one composed of the same exploitation foisted upon her while she was alive, a Hell of our own making...and marketing...for all eternity.

It all feels like dancing on her grave...if not outright pissing on it. That's a fate best served to mass-murderers, serial killers and autocrats.

 

But, what did she ever do to us, except entertain us?

Traditionally, movie reviews end with the ranking of stars—5 stars, 4 stars, whatever—and I usually don't do that. But, Blonde made me want to say three Hail Mary's and make a good Act of Contrition. 

 

And, maybe, light a candle.

* Up to a few weeks ago there was a www.marilynmonroe.com web-site that seems to have disappeared into the ether, and now re-directs to an Instagram account. Seems apt.

 

** The studio head is never named but given that Monroe's career was mostly for 20th Century Fox (run by Darryl F. Zanuck) the implication is clear without spelling it out. This "supposedly" didn't happen with Zanuck (according to the always trustworthy entertainment press) but Zanuck was known for having (what was once known as ) "proteges" who were usually beautiful young women, but also usually from Europe. Still, the production did have to get its clips (to reproduce) from 20th Century Fox, didn't they?

 

 *** Oh. The ones on the LEFT are the real Marilyn, while the ones on the right are from Blonde.

She's scary-good.

I, Tonya

The Bull in the China Shop
or
Tonya Harding Accepts Your Damn Apology

"I hear they're making a sequel to I ,Tonya called I, Nancy: it's about a nice lady who gets her knee bashed in by some trailer-park assassin and then 25 years later has to see a great award-winning movie about how she's NOT the victim..."

John Mullaney

I, Tonya (like The Post) was on the 2016 Annual "Black List" of interesting un-produced film scripts. But, it's the description—also used in the film's introduction—that grabs you: "Based on the irony free, wildly contradictory, totally true interviews with Tonya Harding and Jeff Gillooly." 

And thereby hangs the tale. The way the movie sets itself up is as a series of filmed interviews—with Harding (Margot Robbie), Gillooly (Sebastian Stan), Harding's mother Levon Golden (Allison Janney), Harding's "bodyguard" and Gillooly friend Shawn Eckhardt (Paul Walter Hauser), and an anonymous producer from "Hard Copy" the tabloid news syndicated show ("that everybody else has become," the guy snarks) that gives "the bigger picture" on the story—soon settles into a wide-screen narrative of Harding's ascent as an athletic tom-boy in the pristine princess world of figure skating. It quickly establishes that Tonya, growing up (played by Maizie Smith at 3 1/2 and the amazing McKenna Grace at 8) in Portland, Oregon, is a "daddy's girl" who wants nothing more than to ice-skate and do the things she sees the girls on TV do. Her mother strong-arms a skating coach (Julianne Nicholson) to take on the kid—but she has to take on the mother (now divorced again), too, who will not back down from any instinct to correct.

That relationship is abusive, too. But, Tonya ends up, at 9, winning skating competitions over older and more practiced skaters. This is explained by Tonya's tenaciousness (and the occasional bribe by Mom to a heckler—who, in the "totally true interviews," admitted that?). By age 16, Tonya is dating Gillooly (whom she meets—with Eckhardt at his side—at the rink), then after a particularly sticky argument with her mother, she's moving in with him, but after a certain period of adjustment, that relationship turns abusive, too...abusive enough that they get married.  

In the mean time, Tonya wins competition after competition. She is just so doggedly determined that she easily blows everybody off the ice. But, when it comes to national competitions, she can be as good as she can get, but the scores will not reflect it...because Tonya is an athlete rather than a performer, a fighter not a dancer, and compromise does not come easily to her. She plays the game, but harbors a deep suspicion that she will lose to any pixie with no muscles and a cute costume. This might be paranoid if it weren't absolutely true.

But, she still has the talent that pushes her beyond complacency and she begins to push through the prejudices with more and more ambitious programs, culminating in her doing a triple axle in competition (only six women in the world have done it and it's such a tough move that no one even attempted it for the movie—it's accomplished by special effects and some judicial editing). Once Harding is on the map, the pressures of fame and her antic private life combine to lead to what everybody in the movie calls "The Incident."

"The Incident" ("the part you really want to know") is well known on a surface level, but the devil of these things is always in the details and that's where the repetition of half-truths and a tsunami of comedy wash-back has conspired to make it seem as if Tonya took a bat and beat up Nancy Kerrigan herself, instead of the confederacy of dunces that pulled off the attack (clumsily but effectively). All of a sudden, that isolating field of ice started to get very crowded with the weight of coverage, overshadowing any competition being conducted, and turning it into a carnival atmosphere—how could it be anything else with an unprovoked attack making news. Instead of increasing security at these events, it became a circus that the media controlled.

At this point, it's more blood-sport than sport, as anything "sporting" becomes suffused with tabloid trash. It's an industry now, even football games are given a "fairy story" for the viewing public to consume along with their beer and nacho's but it has as much to do with the game as it does with popularity contests at High School. But, the industry will tell you, it "pegs the ol' meter." Blame ABC Sports Producer Roone Arledge's "Up Close and Personal" approach to sports coverage, so that now we can't have a singing contest on TV without the little "personal" film filled with the longings and desires and epiphanies of every single contestant on the show, whether it's pertinent or not. You gotta build the fairy tale...and in competitive figure-skating that applies to every tinker-bell gliding across the frosted ice arena and the starry-eyed judges who don't see it as a competition, but an art...a show, complete with music, costumes, and choreography—thank God, sprinters don't have to be concerned with such nonsense; their only judge is the clock not the prejudiced eye of the beholder. Or the audience.

As entertaining as I, Tonya—in its "irony-free" cloaking—may be, it is not unjudgmental. In fact, it seems to wallow in a cruelty to the subjects that reminded me of the nasty tinge with which Midnight Cowboy presented its characters (and bear in mind, these are human beings who are, for the most part, still alive). The movie likes to point fingers and accuse us, the audience, of continuing the cycle of abuse that Tonya Harding grew up in, and stepped in, her entire life. But, the movie is complicit, too, escalating the carnage and being clever in its choice of music to underscore scenes for the sake of "entertainment" and, yes, irony. It is its own "hit-piece" with the cooperation of of the very people it is undermining. There is something very sick and twisted going on there.

But, it didn't actually make me mad until the end-narration where the movie Tonya Harding sums it all up:

I was the second most known person behind Bill Clinton in the world. That meant something. People still wanted to see me. So I became a lady boxer. I mean, why not? Violence was always what I knew anyway.

America, you know. They want someone to love but they want someone to hate. And they want it easy.

But what’s easy? The haters always say, Tonya just tell the truth. But there’s no such thing as truth. It’s bullshit.

Everyone has their own truth. And life just does whatever the fuck it wants.

No. People who don't face facts say that "everyone has their own truth." Because, there is truth; anything else is just perception. And that's not truth, it's opinion. Now, opinion is always easier than truth because truth is complicated with details and timing and motivation, and so it's not something covered in 5 minute segments in a 24/7 news cycle. Truth comes with perspective and objectivity. And it doesn't come easy, so it's often overlooked by the Wisdom of the Tribe, which is easier and comfortable and often 180 degrees wrong in the details. And, whatever, everybody's too busy to really care about the truth...and, whenever a contradiction to their opinion of truth comes along, they'll just forget it. Or deny it. Or discount it. And stick with their own truth.

Which isn't truth. It's opinion. 

So I, Tonya—my opinion (or "my truth" by the twisted parameters of the movie). It's well-done. It's entertaining. I didn't like it, but I am willing to concede that it is the perfect movie for what America stands for right now.

God help us.

Pure Tonya Harding, without controversy, without irony...just talent

Black Mass (2015)

Alliance
or
The Flea-Bitten Bulger Instigation

The old saying goes that if you lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas. Black Mass tells the story of how misguided loyalty can make a hash of good intentions when combined with vicious ambition and the manipulations of psychopathy.

It tells the mostly true story of a "Southie" law enforcement officer, John Connolly (Joel Edgerton) in the Boston racketeering unit of the FBI. The focus of their investigation was La Cosa Nostra—the Mafia—but there was a rival Irish mob called the Winter Hill gang, that was composed of a second-generation gang of street toughs who supplanted their bosses after they were convicted of gambling and bookmaking. This group expanded into drugs and money-laundering by expanding their reach out of state, while concentrating on eliminating any rivals in the local area. They weren't that "much," until Connolly used them to break up the Italians, protecting them from prosecution or investigation, leaving the Irish to fill the void left by the Mob and increase their influence and profits.

One of them stood out—Jimmy "Whitey" Bulger (played here by Johnny Depp) had done a stretch in Atlanta Penitentiary and Alcatraz and came back to Boston with an increased ruthlessness that was indiscriminate in who it targeted. It didn't matter if you a rival or part of the gang, if you looked at Bulger funny it was a death sentence. One of the ironic things about the story is that Bulger's older brother William (played in the film by Benedict Cumberbatch) was a fixture in Boston politics, a state Senator who would become Senator Majority Leader and President of the State Senate while his brother was essentially the power behind the most ruthless organized crime mob in his district. It is through William that Connolly reaches out to Jimmy agreeing to what semantically they agree to call "an alliance"—Whitey will give them pertinent information about the Angiulo mob, while Connolly provides interference with the feds' finding out about Bulger's activities. It's not being an informant, it's not "snitching," it's doing each other turns that will be mutually beneficial and helping a fellow local advance in their respective fields. One hand washes the other. But one of them is soaked in blood.

The film is told in chronological order in the form of deposition interviews with captured members of the Winter Hill Gang, presumably in an ongoing investigation into the whereabouts of Bulger who skipped town just as he was about to be arrested by the Bureau. Although the crimes and "hits" are the most inflammatory of the incidents in the movie, it runs a parallel path of telling Bulger's story of how he increased his stranglehold on crime and the Boston area to the point where he thought he was untouchable.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely...but if you're corrupt to begin with?

So, how's the film?  Not bad, actually. It may remind one of Martin Scorsese's The Departed (a film I didn't particularly like, but it did give Scorsese his first Oscar for directing so that's significant) which was a remake of the Japanese Infernal Affairs (and actually the series of Infernal Affairs movies, which, in turn, was inspired by Scorsese's gangster films) but incorporated the Irish mob of Bulger (with Jack Nicholson's Frank Costello inspired by the erratic Bulger) as the center of the gang activities. The Departed told the story of two informants—one for the police, one for the mob—that did a deadly dance around each other, trying to keep their identities hidden. There are no such complications in Black Mass. There's the mob and the FBI and they have "an understanding" to cooperate as long as they stay out of each others' way. Bulger can reveal Connolly's "deal" at any time; Connolly can merely choose to renege on his deal and let the FBI do its job. But, for neighborhood loyalty, and a chance to advance each other's careers, the "alliance" is allowed to proceed.

Connolly's immediate boss (David Harbour) goes along with the idea, but the division head (Kevin Bacon) has several degrees of misgivings about it and wants to keep Connolly—and Bulger—on a very short leash. With Connolly's co-workers running interference, the FBI manages to take down the Angiulo mob in what is seen as a triumph, which only cements the unholy deal between Bulger and law enforcement. Even though the Angiulo ledger gets erased, Bulger's Winter Hill gang starts to rise in power, with a sharp spike in protection...by murder. Bulger's grab for power isn't subtle, and pretty soon the body count rises precipitously, with no regard to any consideration other than "you shouldn't've crossed Whitey." Only until a new broom Boston prosecutor (Corey Stoll) comes to town does the tangled web start to unravel and the truth comes out.

The strength of the film comes from the script (by Mark Mallouk and Jez Butterworth) which manages to keep a very complicated story simple and on-the-rails and in several key performances, the most prominent of them being Johnny Depp's. For fans of Depp, it may not be an entirely enjoyable experience. The chiseled pretty boy, that always seems to be below the surface no matter how elaborate his make-up, is gone. The high cheekbones and shaved hair gives it the appearance of a skull, and every time Depp shows off his teeth, there's an elaborate dental prosthetic that completely deglamorizes Depp, something he rarely does—even his John Dillinger in Public Enemies didn't mess with his looks. 

It's a steel controlled performance, that in its quieter more threatening moments, has more than a suggestion of older, restrained Jack Nicholson to it. It's in marked contrast to most of the other actors'—chief among them Cumberbatch and Edgerton—whose performances are a bit too "brahd" due to their florid "Bahston" accents that seem to travel all over Massachusettes. But Harbour, Stoll and especially Peter Sarsgaard, manage to seal the truth of their performances without worrying about whether they sound like townies. 

There's one scene in particular that works like gangbusters in showing the creepy malevolence of the situation, especially when dealing with a manipulator like Bulger. At one point, Harbour and Edgerton's agents are having a sit-down dinner with Bulger and his lieutenant, a little meet-and-greet among collaborators. The conversation (which is the basis of the preview clip below) turns to the meal and there's a palpable malevolence to the performances that turns casual conversation into threat—a little demonstration of what the consequences might be if Bulger decides that his "good buddies" might have any doubts about their conspiracy of silence. It's in small moments like it where Black Mass rises above its cops-and-robbers roots.