Written and Directed by Andrew Dominik
Based on the novel by Joyce Carol Oates
Starring Ana de Armas, Adrien Brody, Bobby Canavale
Rated NC-17 for some sexual content
Runtime: 2 hours, 46 minutes
In theaters September 23, streaming on Netflix September 28

by Ryan Silbestein, Managing Editor, Red Herring

Every now and then a movie comes along where the only way to react to it is: “this is either genius or absolute shit” with no middle ground. These are the kinds of works that end up being cult favorites, as their defenders proclaim that they were misunderstood or unfairly rejected at the time of release. Blonde certainly falls into this category, and at times it feels like it could be a masterwork. But by the end of its substantial runtime, any redeeming qualities have been ground down to a handful of fleeting moments. 

The entire viewing experience–from the opening sequence showing the childhood of Norma Jeane Mortenson (Lily Fisher) with her mother (Julianne Nicholson), all the way through the end of its subject’s life–is an unpleasant one. The intention is clear, to emphasize how different the life of Norma Jeane Mortenson was from the onscreen life of Marilyn Monroe. But the result doesn’t offer much more than that previous sentence. Knowing that Norma Jeane had a rough life with multiple marriages, drug abuse problems, and other challenges of being a woman in Hollywood in the mid-20th century are common knowledge. It’s not that Blonde should sugarcoat or try to be evenhanded in its portrayal of her life, but little of what’s here is revelatory about the interior life of Norma Jeane/Marilyn (Ana de Armas).

I have not read Joyce Carol Oates’ novel that this film uses as its source material, but this screen adaptation has sympathy for its central figure, but far too little empathy. We are made to feel sorry for Norma Jeane, but those with even a passing awareness of her personal life already understand that. There are a lot of thematic similarities to Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me and Rob Zombie’s Halloween II and a lot of visual inspiration for them as well. Those are some of the most impactful and stressful watching experiences I’ve ever had, in part because those films put Laura Palmer and Laurie Strode at the center of their narratives. Lynch’s exploration of Palmer’s last days especially shows a wide range of moods, from joy to anxiety to fear. While Norma Jean occasionally has agency, it is often lost in between the scenes Dominik chooses to include. 

Much of the filmmaking choices throughout also keep Norma Jean at arm’s length. The sound design is downright aggressive, as smaller sounds like a fly or the placing of an object almost overpower the dialogue. At one point, Norma Jean unwrapping a cardboard box sounds like she is trying to open the Ark of the Covenant. Just as off-putting are the frequent shifts in photography (between monochrome and color) as well as aspect ratios. If there is a larger purpose to those shifts, they are lost within the undulating tones and stuttering pace. Add several interludes of CGI fetuses who talk to the audience/Norma Jeane, and you have a baffling series of choices that feel purposeful, but actively work against mooring the viewer to any aspect of Blonde.

For all of its ambition, Blonde stumbles every time it is about to settle into a period in Norma Jeane’s life. It regurgitates her misery and her iconography in order to make modern day audiences complicit in her suffering at the hands of an Ex-Athlete (Bobby Canavale), a President (Caspar Phillipson), and Hollywood scions (Xavier Samuel and Evan Williams) but offers her no additional humanity, reducing her to “Daddy issues.” She deserves better.