On a sun-drenched Los Angeles morning, hundreds of women in platinum wigs and white dresses gathered at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery to mark what would have been Marilyn Monroe’s 100th birthday. The scene was a surreal blend of nostalgia and spectacle as ‘lookalikes’ posed for photos, some affecting Monroe’s breathy whisper, others perfecting the iconic skirt billow over a subway grate. But beyond the costumes and the click of cameras, this gathering revealed something deeper about our enduring fascination with a woman who died at 36.
Monroe, born Norma Jeane Mortenson on 1 June 1926, remains a cultural touchstone for generations who never saw her films in the cinema. For many of the participants, she represents a paradox: the ultimate sex symbol who was also a victim of the Hollywood machine. Among the crowd was Linda, a 34-year-old waitress from Bakersfield who had driven four hours to pay homage. ‘She was more than a bombshell,’ Linda told me, adjusting her wig. ‘She was a survivor who never got the respect she deserved.’ That sentiment was echoed by others who saw in Monroe’s life a cautionary tale about fame, labour and exploitation.
Sociologically, the event tapped into a broader cultural shift. In an era of deconstructed femininity and body positivity, Monroe’s hyper-stylised silhouette feels both dated and oddly comforting. Her image has been appropriated and debated: is she a feminist icon or a tragic symbol of male gaze? The answer, it seems, depends on who you ask. One participant, a trans woman named Jess, noted that Monroe’s struggle for identity resonates with her own journey. ‘She was always performing,’ Jess said. ‘I know what that’s like.’
There was also an undercurrent of class dynamics at play. Monroe was the product of a fractured upbringing, and many of her lookalikes came from modest backgrounds. The tribute became a form of aspirational performance, a chance to embody glamour for a day. Yet the reality was less celluloid dream than sweaty polyester and wilting hairspray. The heat was oppressive, and the lipstick melted. But the collective spirit held.
Key to this gathering was the sense of community among strangers unified by admiration. They swapped restoration tips, recommended biographies and debated the best Monroe film (Some Like It Hot won hands down). The organisers, a local fan club, had arranged a moment of silence at 12:30 pm, the time of Monroe’s birth. For a few minutes, the chatter stopped, and the only sound was the rustle of wind in the palm trees.
Critics might dismiss this as kitsch, but to do so misses the point. Monroe’s centenary is not just about a dead star; it is about how we remember the fallen, how we project our own desires onto the famous and how a community of strangers can find connection in a shared icon. As the afternoon sun began to drop, the lookalikes peeled off their wigs and shaded their eyes, heading home to lives far removed from the Hollywood Hills. But for a few hours, they had been Marilyn. And that, perhaps, is the most powerful tribute of all.
