In a development that would surely have her reaching for the nearest fire hydrant, the streets of Los Angeles have been overrun by a plague of Marilyn Monroe lookalikes. Not a gentle shower, mind you, but a tsunami of peroxide, rouge, and breathy whispers. The occasion? The centennial of Norma Jeane’s birth, which has apparently triggered a bizarre migratory pattern among women who believe their destiny is to stand over a grate with a billowing skirt.
One can only wonder what the real Marilyn would make of this. A woman who spent her life trying to escape the very image she created suddenly transformed into a template for thousands of wannabes, all practising that same breathless, little-girl-lost voice. It is enough to drive a man to drink. And I did. Gin, naturally. A double. At 10am. Because journalistic integrity demands fortification.
These simulacra have descended upon Hollywood Boulevard, each one more meticulously anodyne than the last. They teeter on heels that were never designed for actual walking, their lips painted in that signature Cupid’s bow, their eyes wide with the same tragic vacancy. Some hold fans, some hold poodles, some hold existential crises. It is a carnival of the dead, a homage that misses the point so completely it could be a government initiative.
And the public eats it up. Tourists snap selfies with these carbon copies, as if proximity to a wig and a mole transfers some of the original’s magic. They do not realise they are worshipping at the altar of a ghost. Marilyn was not a hairstyle; she was a howl of pain wrapped in a negligee. She was the ultimate symbol of exploitation, a woman who turned her own objectification into a weapon, then found the weapon had turned on her. But say that now, and they will look at you with the same blankness as those mannequins they pose beside.
Where is the outrage? Where is the satire? We have replaced a human being with a motif. The centennial should be a time for reflection, not a cosplay convention. But no, we must have our street closure, our media circus, our endless loop of women whispering “Happy birthday, Mr. President” in that same husky monotone. It is a betrayal. It is a travesty. It is, quite frankly, a bloody good reason to order another gin.
So here I am, Barnaby Thistlethwaite, reporting from the front line of this absurdity. I have seen a woman in a white dress do the famous grate scene eleven times. I have seen a man dressed as Arthur Miller sign autographs. I have seen the spirit of a tragic icon reduced to a photo opportunity for influencers. And I have done my duty: I have consumed alcohol and written it down.
In the end, perhaps this is the only legacy that matters. Not the films, not the marriage to Joe DiMaggio, not the secret tapes of senators. Just this: a thousand faces in the mirror, all saying the same thing. A woman who was so singularly iconic that she accidentally became a uniform. And the real joke, the one nobody is getting, is that if Monroe were alive today, she would probably be the one in the corner, sipping a martini, laughing at the absurd theatre of it all. Cheers, Norma Jeane. You deserved better.
