As Marilyn Monroe's iconic gowns and makeup hit the auction block to mark what would have been her 100th birthday, the glittering event feels a world away from the grim reality facing many of her fans in the north of England. The star who rose from poverty to become a symbol of glamour now serves as a stark reminder of the wealth gap that still divides us.
Monroe's legendary 'Happy Birthday, Mr. President' dress, a sheer, flesh-coloured gown covered in rhinestones, is expected to sell for millions. It is the same dress she wore to serenade John F. Kennedy in 1962, a year before her untimely death. But for the working families who revered Monroe as one of their own, this auction is not a celebration but a painful display of inequality.
In cities like Manchester and Sheffield, where mills and factories once hummed, the cost of living crisis has stripped away any remaining glimmer of hope. Bread prices have soared by 15 per cent in the past year, and energy bills have doubled. Meanwhile, the trade unions, once the backbone of working-class power, are fighting to keep heads above water. 'Marilyn was a working-class girl who made it big,' said Linda Booth, a 62-year-old retired machinist from Leeds. 'But her legacy is now owned by the rich. It feels like she belongs to them, not us.'
Monroe's estate has been a battleground for decades, with memorabilia selling for astronomical sums. This auction, held at Christie's in London, features over 200 lots, including Jean Louis gowns, makeup cases, and personal letters. The proceeds will go to various charities, a move that has done little to assuage critics who see the auction as yet another example of corporate exploitation.
'It's a circus,' said Tom Marsh, a 45-year-old steelworker from Rotherham. 'While bankers and celebrities bid on her dress, my wife and I are choosing between heating and eating. Monroe would be turning in her grave.'
Monroe's story is one of resilience. Born Norma Jeane Mortimer in Los Angeles, she endured a childhood of foster homes and poverty before becoming Hollywood's most famous blonde. She was also a union supporter, having spoken out against the studio system and unfair contracts. In 1955, she famously broke her contract with 20th Century Fox to win better terms, a move that inspired many in the labour movement.
Yet today, her image has been sanitised and commodified. The auction house boasts of 'a once-in-a-lifetime collection', but for many, the only connection to Monroe is through the cinema screen or a cheap print from a charity shop. 'She was a rebel, a fighter,' said Sarah Jenkins, a labour historian at the University of Manchester. 'But the industry that exploited her in life continues to milk her memory for profit.'
The timing of the auction is particularly bitter. With inflation at a 40-year high and the government's austerity policies squeezing public services, many workers are struggling to make ends meet. The auction's prices – some lots starting at £500,000 – mock the everyday fight for survival.
'We're not against celebrating her life,' said Booth. 'But the way it's done – it's so out of touch. It's like they're throwing a party while our houses are crumbling.'
As the gavel falls and the rich snatch up pieces of Monroe's legacy, the working class is left to wonder what happened to the voice that once spoke for them. The real economy, the one that pays for groceries and rent, has never felt further from the golden glow of Hollywood.
For now, Monroe's ghost haunts the gap between the haves and have-nots. And on her 100th birthday, it is clear that the dream she sold to millions remains out of reach for those who bought it most.
