Ana de Armas’ transformation into Monroe is uncanny, radiating the same star power while also capturing the fragile human being underneath the glamorous facade. Her performance taps into the full range of the emotional spectrum, from euphoric elation to the deepest depths of depression and everything in between. Blonde’s arthouse sensibility and flagrant historical inaccuracy might prevent it from becoming an Oscar contender, but de Armas gives one of the strongest performances of the year.
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While Netflix undoubtedly hoped Dominik would churn out Marilyn’s Bohemian Rhapsody in time for awards season, Blonde is more of a portrait than a straightforward biopic. Monroe’s life is presented as a series of vignettes jumbled out of chronological order by editor Adam Robinson. With its nonlinear structure and surreal David Lynchian imagery, Blonde plays like a dream (or a nightmare). Monroe’s short-lived stardom and untimely passing would easily lend themselves to a clichéd, conventional biopic deifying its subject and romanticizing the Golden Age of Hollywood, but that kind of surface-level portrayal wouldn’t reach anywhere near as much depth as the raw, intense storytelling of Blonde. Instead, Dominik offers an uncompromising, unsettling portrayal of the seedy side of the film industry, with perverse producers, abusive directors, and the insurmountable pressures of fame.
Every sequence is as visually creative as possible. The aspect ratio is always changing to reflect the emotions of the story. When a young Norma Jeane feels trapped by her violent, mentally unstable single mother, the black bars on the sides of the screen get narrower. When Marilyn sets her sights on becoming a movie star and conquering Tinseltown, the frame expands to glorious widescreen. Not only does the aspect ratio keep changing; the film also constantly switches between color and black-and-white. The glitzy Hollywood scenes are bright and saturated, while the somber personal scenes have a washed-out palette. Even the scene transitions are inventive: a bed rocking with the sexual energy of a threesome dissolves into a tumbling waterfall in the trailer for Niagara; stars spread out across the night sky turn into sperm seeking an egg to fertilize.
Chayse Irvin’s stunning cinematography is as much the star of Blonde as de Armas. Every shot choice pairs perfectly with the mood of a given scene. When an enraged Joe DiMaggio returns home and storms up the stairs to confront his wife with the negatives from a nude photo shoot, the camera is locked onto his face from an intimidating low angle. When Marilyn’s substance abuse issues worsen, Irvin uses a disorienting fisheye lens with soft edges. Irvin utilizes every available source of light, from flashing cameras to the blinding glow of an abortionist’s surgical lighthead, to its full cinematic potential. Blonde is full of recurring symbolic motifs. The recurring image of a fetus in utero symbolizes Marilyn’s ultimate goal to become a mother. Fire is used as a powerful visual metaphor to symbolize overwhelming emotional pain. Whether she’s being beaten by her mother or forced to undergo an abortion, Marilyn returns to her burning childhood home.
While de Armas takes center stage with her usual effortless blend of charisma and pathos, she’s surrounded by fantastic supporting players, from Bobby Cannavale’s startling warts-and-all portrayal of DiMaggio’s jealous rage to sitcom staple Toby Huss’ turn as Marilyn’s personal make-up artist and supportive confidant Whitey Snyder. Adrien Brody gets a sizable role as Marilyn’s third husband, playwright Arthur Miller, and does a great job of slowly removing the rose-tinted glasses as a starry-eyed Miller grows increasingly frustrated with his movie star wife.
Blonde’s storytelling and visual style are all over the place, but it’s tied together by de Armas’ outstanding performance, Dominik’s unwavering directorial vision, and Nick Cave and Warren Ellis’ mesmerizing musical score. The soundtrack is largely comprised of synthesizers, which create a wall of sound over Marilyn’s heartbreaking psychological descent. Cave and Ellis use the occasional ominous brass sound to punctuate a surprising twist, like when Marilyn returns to her hotel room and expects to find the absent father she’s wanted to meet since she was a toddler but instead finds DiMaggio waiting in the shadows with a marriage proposal.
Blonde’s taxing runtime of 166 minutes might be off-putting to some idle Netflix browsers. But, thanks to Irvin’s active camera and Robinson’s dream-like cutting, there’s never a lull in the narrative momentum. There’s something captivating in every frame and the movie’s nonlinear editing and fast-and-loose relationship with historical events keep it refreshingly unpredictable. Dominik’s approach to the subject matter has been labeled as exploitative or demeaning, but de Armas’ deeply sympathetic performance ensures there’s a poignant element of humanity every step of the way. In a moviegoing landscape full of stale, clichéd, romanticized celebrity biopics, Blonde is nothing if not unique.
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