A pack of peroxide-blond apparitions descended upon Leicester Square yesterday, their collective foundation thick enough to fill the potholes of Post-Brexit Britain. They were, of course, Marilyn Monroe lookalikes celebrating the centenary of Norma Jeane Mortenson’s birth. The event was a bizarre carnival of prosthetic curves and simulated breathiness, a ghostly chorus of “Happy Birthday, Mr.
President” that would have terrified JFK himself. Meanwhile, the British Film Institute announced the restoration of lost Monroe footage, a reel of celluloid that had been gathering dust in a vault since the days when Churchill was still clutching a cigar. The footage shows Monroe giggling at a typewriter, presumably composing a haiku about the existential dread of fame.
The juxtaposition: living imitations of a dead icon celebrating her birth, while the real ghost flickers back to life on a screen. It’s enough to make one reach for a triple gin. Why do we do this?
Why do we mummify our stars in plastic surgery and nostalgia? Because it’s easier than confronting the terrifying truth that they were just as lost as we are. Monroe was a woman who drowned in her own reflection, and now we parade around in her image, as if that might teach us how to breathe.
The BFI’s restoration is a noble gesture, but it’s like polishing a coffin. The footage is silent, but I swear I can hear her laugh, a sound that cuts through the decades like a shattered martini glass. So here’s to Marilyn: the woman, the myth, the eternal blonde joke.
And here’s to those brave souls who don a white dress and a mole, because deep down, we all want to be remembered for something, even if it’s just a wig and a breathless voice.
