It can seem as if writing about Marilyn Monroe on 1 June is some kind of odd by-law of the classic film world.While I rarely do anything for the flimsy reason that is is expected of me--I am,frankly,wont to do the exact opposite in such situations--it is too difficult to pass up such an obvious excuse to muse on this most-famous of muses.I will not delve into the great and murky depths of criticism here (that is for another time, forum,state of mind).One of the truly appealing aspects of Marilyn--and she is one of the few stars to inspire first-name informality in fans and commentators alike--is the very personal nature of her attractions.To love Marilyn is to love her passionately,in an almost familial way.(To hate her or,worse yet, to be impervious to her charms, is to simply be baffled.)I will approach her in the words of this wee monograph not as a critic or a fanatic but as a regular woman touched,to a temperate degree,by her imperfect yet dazzling charisma.
As a young teen, I had a Marilyn poster on my wall:one of the stunning Milton Greene shots, all glamorous smoke and mirrors.At about the time I thumb-tacked that poster to my wall, I received my first Monroe calendar.The 12 images inside were something of a wake-up call to my nascent,un-trained senses:Marilyn was not always blonde,larger-than-life,unobtainable.All I had ever seen of her,to that point, was the Divine-MM-in-full-blown-Goddess mode, armored with platinum coif and lame and red-red lips.It had not occurred to me that there was so much more hidden behind that mask.
The photos that gripped me the most were those of the young Norma Jeane, taken when she was a few years older than I was then.The contrast to shellacked, movie-star Marilyn is,at first, a bit shocking but it is a shock that is easy to get over.The exuberance and hopefulness is sweet, especially given the pitted path she was about to set off on.A few years later, she was frolicking on a New York beach.Her kinky-curled brown hair had given way to long,straightened blonde tresses.Clad in a picture-perfect late '40's bathing suit,she was white-on-white for the first time.On the cusp of big things,she looked happy and determined,almost plucky.And still there was a hope so palpable that it jumped off the page.
From there it was on into her glory years:all curves and bedroom eyes for nearly a decade,with the notable exceptions of Milton Greene's subtler work and every photo ever snapped by the incomparable Sam Shaw.His lens caught her,often in private moments,during her New York period,when she was married to Arthur Miller.They capture a healthy,numinous,natural Marilyn.She is pensive,quiet,joyous,serious and,in that most elusive of moods for celebrities,relaxed.She trusted Shaw,who was a personal friend:his work has the feeling of private family snap-shots.Then,there was Marilyn at the end:riveting in her glorious,complex maturity.She was as lovely as ever but in new,richly textured ways,fully human at last.
Those images, taken by a variety of photographers over the entire span of her career,showed not just sides to Marilyn that I did not know existed :they held more incarnations than I thought it possible for any one woman to contain.The possibilities opened to me by mere publicity and glamour shots of a long-gone star were limitless,unfathomable, and lasting.
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