Reviewed
by Lamar Kukuk
12/26/11
I just
don’t get the Britney Spears thing. No, I get that she’s smokin’
hot, that an army of producers and songwriters have buried some computer-altered
thing that’s supposed to be her voice in some catchy tunes and that she’d
generally be a perfect disposable pop star for our era if not for one simple
thing. Courts have determined her just a little polite step up from
completely insane and she “sings” and dances and throws herself at the
world under the court appointed conservatorship of her father, who’s found
a way to live the dream of every showbiz parent, having as much control
over his child’s career choices as an adult as when she was on the Mickey
Mouse Club. Yet no one seems to bat an eye about the fact that their
ultimate sex symbol (or, in the case of many young girls, role model) has
been legally determined to be bonkers, most likely because of the pressures
applied by that very burden of being everyone’s fantasy since a time when
she was so young that the fantasy in question was, technically, illegal.
Which brings me to Marilyn Monroe, the first celebrity to sell the notion
that the character she was playing (by which I mean “Marilyn Monroe” as
opposed to any of her film characters) would like to have sex with you
as much if not more than you’d like to have sex with her, leading to a
revolution in the way the feminine mystique is packaged and sold for movie
audiences. I wasn’t there at the time, so I don’t know if audience
of the 50’s and early 60’s had any sense of how damaged Norma Jean Mortensen
really was, but today we have an abundantly clear sense that behind that
image was a mountain of insecurity that made her almost impossible to work
with and deeply miserable on a personal level. And yet, what should
be a cautionary tale doesn’t seem to sell one single fewer pieces of authorized
merchandise. My Week with Marilyn takes Colin Clark’s memoir
of his time on the set of the 1957 movie The Prince and the Showgirl
to give us a snapshot of that troubled life and also how her method
acting style clashed with the acting fraternity’s most noted opponent of
it, Sir Laurence Olivier. Michelle Williams and Kenneth Branagh shine
as the two showbiz legends and when the movie sticks to them and their
story, Week is an engrossing insider story about the business and
craft of acting circa 1957. But it doesn’t really know what to do
with the Britney Conundrum, both condemning and celebrating Monroe’s lot
through the utterly unlikable character of Clark (played by Eddie Rathmayne).
Marilyn is one of those Oscar bait movies that contains just enough great
stuff for movie lovers to keep its head above water but ultimately can’t
decide on a reason to exist. Other than shiny gold statues, of course.
Colin
Clark (Eddie Redmayne) comes from money but is looking to make his own
way in the movie business. Because he does come from money, he had
a chance meeting with Sir Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh) at one of
his father’s parties and received an offhanded promise of a job should
he ever stop by one of the Greatest Shakespearian Actor Of His Time’s movie
sets. Knowing that his new film is gearing up for production, Colin
heads for Olivier’s offices and refuses to leave until the star’s wife
Vivien Leigh (Julia Ormand) persuades him to make the kid a third assistant
director; in other words, a glorified gopher. While going about his
gophing duties, her falls for Lucy (Emma Watson), a girl in the costume
department with whom he has a few chaste, fun dates. And then… She
arrives. Olivier is starring in what will become The Princess
and the Showgirl opposite Marilyn Monroe (Michelle Williams), and Colin
gets to meet her in passing a few times while arranging a place for her
and her entourage to stay. That group of curdled enablers includes
agent Arthur Jacobs (Toby Jones), manager Milton Greene, acting coach Paula
Strasberg (Zoe Wanamaker) and her distant, overshadowed husband Arthur
Miller (Dougray Scott). Monroe is a mess, showing up late for work,
always medicated, terrified of every single shot. Olivier has no
patience for any of it and can’t grasp why the Method actress can’t simply
“pretend”. As she grows more and more distant, it seems only one
thing is capable of keeping her spirits up and giving her any chance of
showing up on the set: Colin, to whom she’s taken a fancy.
And he… well, she IS Marilyn Monroe.
Writer
Adrian Hodges has provided a single quality throughline for My Week
with Marilyn, and it belongs to Olivier, so splendidly played by Branagh,
the acclaimed British theater wunderkind who’s spent his entire career
in Sir Larry’s shadow. By the movie’s account, Olivier sees
that celebrity is the Coming Thing and wants to be loved by audiences rather
than merely respected, seeing The Prince and the Showgirl as his
big chance to become a Movie Star. And then, of course, he learns
what celebrity is really all about from perhaps the greatest one of them
all and her sickening circle of sycophants. Were this the primarily
storyline at play, this might very well be a great movie, but as it is,
it’s this subplot that keeps the proceedings going. Olivier’s hatred
of Method acting was, of course, legend, most famously on the set of Marathon
Man where he clashed with Dustin Hoffman (maybe Branagh can do a sequel
about that one in a couple decades), and it’s interesting to watch that
play out, though it would be even better if the movie could convince me
that Monroe really were the actress it believes she was. A great
Movie Star perhaps, but Method acting your way through song and dance numbers…
well, color me a skeptic.
For
her part, Williams is tremendous as the iconic sex symbol. She not
only looks the part, but nails the character as well, throwing the switch
brilliantly between the emotional wreck she was in private and the carefully
projected persona even she calls “Her”. Scott is all in on the enthusiasm
with which the script throws Miller, the celebrated playwright who was
one of several short-lived celebrity husbands in Monroe’s life, under the
bus. Having realized a few moments after saying “I Do” that he’ll
always be in her shadow and that forever tending to her needs leaves no
time for him to bask in the adulation of others, the movie’s Miller is
self-important to the point of exhaustion while barely saying a word.
Ormand is great in a couple scenes as Leigh, struggling to accept the inevitable
decline that greeted the leading ladies of the past as they approached
middle age with charm and good humor. And Judi Dench has a great
supporting role as Prince supporting player Dame Sybil Thordike who works
as hard as anyone not trying to get into her pants could be expect to to
make Monroe feel welcome and supported on-set.
And
then there’s Colin Clark. Despite the credits' attempts to assure
us he’s a celebrated something-or-other, the fact is that this is a guy
we only know because he wrote a book about what he overheard famous people
saying while he was standing next to them. And as such, the touching
story of how he once became another in a long line of people to take advantage
of Marilyn Monroe’s instability for their own enrichment doesn’t really
play. Granted, even the movie doesn’t seem to know what to make of
it all, with the subplot about how he throws sweet little Lucy over for
A Superstar (Watson doesn’t have much to do here but get jilted, I’m sure
she’ll soon appreciate just how well she had it while doing the eight Harry
Potter movies) seeming to share my lack of appreciation for Colin’s position,
but the closing scenes still pretty much approving of his cluelessness
about all he’d just witnessed. It’s a quicksand role, and it’s hard
for me to say much about how Redmayne plays it because I so don’t care
for the character on paper, but if there was any shading to be found in
the role that might have helped, he’s not able to locate it.
So,
to summarize, if you’re a fan of Hollywood history and the science of acting
as I am, you’ll find a lot to like in My Week with Marilyn in between
bouts of asking yourself “Who is that irksome lead character and when will
he go away?” Of course, since he’s really just the sort not to care
whether he’s watching a train wreck as long as it’s sexy, perhaps he’ll
find more sympathetic ears than mine in the audience. |
