Gentlemen prefer dead blondes

The Independent, Saturday 4 August 2012

Marilyn: The Passion and the Paradox, by Lois Banner (Bloomsbury £20)

In the 50 years since Marilyn Monroe’s death, an industry has grown up around her. She is one of the most instantly recognisable celebrities of the 20th century, endlessly reproduced on posters, t-shirts and even handbags. Clearly Monroe means something to a great number of people but what that might be isn’t so easy to define. The anniversary of the night in August 1962 when she was found dead in bed offers an irresistible opportunity for fresh readings, informed by the pre-occupations of our time.

One of them is the meaning of celebrity. In her weighty volume published to coincide  with the anniversary, Lois Banner remarks that Monroe was happier with still photographs of herself than her films. It’s an interesting aside, speaking to an aspect of the star’s character which feels incredibly modern: in an age when narcissism no longer carries a stigma, Monroe is the precursor of a stream of celebrities whose most obvious talent is self-promotion. Working with just a photographer she was in control, unlike a  film studio where she clashed with directors and producers.

Banner is conscious of Monroe’s skill in projecting herself, describing it as a ‘rare genius’. It isn’t so rare these days but Banner’s purpose lies elsewhere, offering a new interpretation of the star’s life which draws on feminism and the history of gender (she is a professor of history and the co-founder of a conference of women historians in the US). It’s certainly the case that Monroe’s story has been handled in the past by numerous biographers and critics who don’t share that perspective, including the novelist Norman Mailer and her ex-husband Arthur Miller. Mailer’s book on Monroe is a drooling rehearsal of a particular species of male fantasy, while Miller’s play After The Fall presents her as a monster.

Mailer’s book, published 25 years after her death, is a warning to any woman who aspires (as many have) to be ‘the new Monroe’. The problem with Mailer’s interpretation is not that it’s wrong but that it cuts off feminist re-readings at the knees. Monroe was almost certainly sexually abused as a child, and her vulnerability and eagerness to please were central to her success. For Mailer, she was the embodiment of easy sex, the woman who promised that it ‘might be difficult and dangerous with others, but ice cream with her’.

Banner’s book provides the most detailed account yet of Monroe’s fractured childhood, identifying eleven families who provided homes for her. Born in1926 – she would be the same age as the Queen if she were alive today – Marilyn grew up as Norma Jeane Mortensen. Her mother Gladys gave her the name of her second husband, a meter reader called Edward Mortensen, but Monroe always believed her father was Stanley Gifford, a supervisor at the Hollywood film studio where Gladys worked. Neither man played a role in her upbringing, and Norma Jeane moved from one step-family to another as her mother suffered a series of breakdowns. Gladys spent time in mental institutions, leaving Norma Jeane with a lifelong fear that she had inherited her mother’s instability.

She spent seven years in California with Ida and Wayne Bolender, evangelical Christians who took in foster children. Banner thinks that the significance of religion has  been overlooked in previous accounts of Monroe’s formative years; the Bolenders believed in sin and redemption, organised nightly Bible readings and took Norma Jeane, aged six, to a dawn service for children at the Hollywood Bowl. A later foster mother, Ana Lower, introduced her to Christian Science, a mystical religion founded in 1879 by Mary Baker Eddy. Monroe would later convert to Judaism when she married Miller, but the religious fervour she encountered as a child infused her nightmares with witches and demons. Nor did it help with the guilt she was made to feel when Ida Bolender caught her in childish sex experimentation, possibly masturbation, and whipped her for touching the ‘bad part’ of her body.

The sexual abuse happened when she was eight years old, after she left the Bolenders, and was carried out by an elderly man in a dark suit who has never been firmly identified. Banner sees this episode as a key moment in Norma Jeane’s life, producing ‘dissociation’ and her ‘major alter ego’ Marilyn Monroe, an alternative self who was ‘sexual and self-confident’. Obviously ‘Marilyn Monroe’ was an invention, but Banner’s own account of Monroe’s relationships with men reads like a catalogue of exploitation and abuse. Early in her film career, after she was signed by Twentieth Century-Fox in 1946, she became a ‘party girl’ – one of the aspiring actresses who were expected to entertain visiting executives. Banner says that one of the things Monroe learned in this period was to be adept at sex, including fellatio. She would later call Hollywood ‘an overcrowded brothel.’

Her film career was chequered, turning into a constant struggle with studio bosses who wanted to keep her in the ‘dumb blonde’ role. Her marriages suggest a powerful need for male affirmation; her first husband was a high-school athlete, her second the sporting hero Joe DiMaggio, and her third (Miller) the country’s pre-eminent intellectual. It’s hard to imagine anyone as damaged as Monroe forming stable relationships but there’s also a hint of something which has become common in the 21st century, namely short-lived alliances between very famous people who look good together in public.

Banner isn’t the first feminist to write about Monroe; she was beaten to it by Gloria Steinem, whose 1986 biography is a lovingly-crafted rescue fantasy. But Banner’s purpose seems to be two-fold: to claim Monroe as a kind of pre-feminist icon and to establish herself as the foremost scholar in this crowded field. Her Marilyn is difficult, ironic, insecure and bisexual; she’s also clever, which is far from being an original claim. The impulse to rehabilitate Monroe is widespread and tends to rely on lists of books she read, ignoring the fact that the habit of reading is drummed into Christian Scientists at an early age.

Banner’s biography dispels some myths about Monroe’s childhood but the sheer quantity of detail is daunting, and her prose is sometimes excruciating to read: ‘There were many Marilyns, not just one. Revealing and analyzing her multiple personas is a major contribution of mine to Marilyn scholarship’. I’m not convinced there is such a category, or that Monroe’s life has a positive message for women. As I once observed in another context, her enduring appeal actually suggests that (some) gentlemen prefer dead blondes.

All material on this site (c) Joan Smith 2010-2012

 

Judges ought to get even bad jokes on Twitter

Independent on Sunday, 29 July 2012

I was once having a drink with a Turkish author at the Edinburgh book festival when he announced that he was worried about freedom of expression in the UK. I assumed he’d heard about some crackpot piece of proposed legislation, but he insisted he’d read about a famous British novelist actually being sent to prison. Should he make a public protest? It took me a minute to realise it was a wind-up, and my friend knew perfectly well that Jeffrey Archer hadn’t been jailed for anything he’d written.

We don’t do things like that in this country, do we? But we do have a worrying tendency to prosecute people for making bad jokes or offensive remarks on social-networking sites. On Friday, good sense finally prevailed in the case of Paul Chambers, who has been trying to clear his name for more than two years after being found guilty of sending a menacing message on Twitter. Chambers was fined £1,000 for what he admits was a silly joke” and it has taken three court hearings to overturn his conviction.

I can’t see how anyone could read the Chambers tweet as anything other than an outburst of frustration. He was infuriated when his local airport was closed due to snow and tweeted: “Crap! Robin Hood airport is closed. You’ve got a week and a bit to get your shit together otherwise I’m blowing the airport sky high!!”

It would be unusual for a genuine terrorist to give quite so much notice, or to use his real name, so I can imagine his shock when four cops visited his office in Doncaster and arrested him. They turned up a week after he posted the message, which was hardly a swift response if Chambers really posed a threat to national security.

The key point in this case is intention. Many people use Twitter in the same way as they talk to friends in a pub or bar, exaggerating for effect. When someone exclaims “I could have killed him!”, the audience doesn’t think for one moment that they mean it. Messages on social-networking sites have more in common with speech than books or articles, which are the product of time and effort. Alarmingly, the Crown Prosecution Service seems to have trouble making this distinction, defending the decision to prosecute Chambers even after his conviction was quashed at the High Court.

I wish people wouldn’t rush on to sites and abuse strangers, politicians and random celebrities. I loathe the misogyny and racism on Twitter, and I have no sympathy with people who break the law by naming rape victims. But if the 2003 Communications Act were to be strictly applied, the courts would be clogged up with people who’ve posted material that’s “grossly offensive” or “of an indecent, obscene or menacing character”.

Clearly the law is struggling with developments in technology, which give wide circulation to what amounts to no more than an emotional spasm. But using it in such trivial cases is a serious threat to free expression.