In a development that has sent seismologists scrambling to recalibrate their instruments, the British Film Institute has announced an exhibition to mark the centenary of Marilyn Monroe’s birth. And lo, from the misty precincts of suburban Surrey to the rain-slicked pavements of Soho, a plague of peroxided doppelgängers has descended upon the capital. They teeter on vertiginous heels, their scarlet lips frozen in a perpetual pout, their skirts billowing over tube grates that have been specially cordoned off by Transport for London’s newly formed ‘Marilyn Safety Unit.’
One cannot move for the sheer volume of bottled blonde. The BFI’s ‘Some Like It Hot’ screenings have become a fire hazard, not from any celluloid conflagration, but from the collective body heat of 2,000 women with the same haircut. ‘We’ve had to install extra fire extinguishers,’ a flustered usher confided to your correspondent, gesturing at a sea of white halterneck dresses. ‘Last week, a gentleman mistook the cloakroom for the ladies’ loos. He hasn’t been seen since.’
But why this enduring obsession with a woman who died before the moon landing? Is it the tragedy? The glamour? The whispered rumours of presidential dalliances? ‘She’s a blank canvas,’ declared one lookalike, adjusting her prosthetic mole. ‘Plus, the eyebrows take forever to get right.’
Meanwhile, the exhibition itself is a masterclass in cultural necromancy. Here, behind glass, lies the original ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President’ gown. Its sequins glint like the eyes of a thousand paparazzi flashes. A nearby plaque informs us that the dress is so delicate it can only be viewed in 10-second intervals, lest the light fade its lurid shimmer. ‘We’ve had three cases of spontaneous combustion already,’ a BFI curator whispered, not entirely joking.
The highlight, however, is a 4DX immersive experience where visitors can stand over a grate while a fan blows her dress up. It is, as a fellow journalist (evidently from a rival organ) pointed out, the closest most men will ever get to seeing a woman’s underwear in public without being arrested.
But let us not be churlish. There is something profoundly moving about this collective act of remembrance. These women, from a bus driver from Doncaster to a retired librarian from Cheltenham, have transformed themselves into a living monument. They are not here to be ogled; they are here to reclaim a narrative. ‘Marilyn was more than a body,’ one told me, her voice cracking under the weight of her foundation. ‘She was a survivor. And an icon. And she knew how to accessorise.’
Accessories, indeed. The gift shop has done a roaring trade in replica ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’ necklaces, which, upon closer inspection, turn out to be not diamonds but advanced polycarbonate. ‘They’ll last longer than most marriages,’ the cashier quipped, her own blonde bob quivering with mirth.
As this correspondent waded through the throng, gin flask pressed to his lips (medicinal purposes only), he was struck by a sobering thought. In a world of disposable fame, of influencers and TikTok ephemera, Monroe endures not because of her talent, not because of her tragedy, but because she represents a purity of artifice that we can no longer achieve. We have become too knowing, too ironic. But these lookalikes, with their careful wigs and their rehearsed pouts, are a testament to the power of sheer, unadulterated fakery.
The BFI exhibition runs until the 31st of Never, or until the sequin supply runs out. Admission is £20, or free if you can prove you were born in 1926. Or if you’re blonde. Or if you look really, really sad.
Your correspondent shall now repair to a darkened screening room to watch ‘The Misfits’ and weep quietly into his gin.
