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faustyyyy's review against another edition
challenging
dark
emotional
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? It's complicated
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
2.0
Here's my fun little review of the Andrew Dominik film based off this book https://boxd.it/9AG0
pretty much mirrors exactly what I like and dislike about this book, stick around for my thoughts though!
In theory, this is a book that I should absolutely love. A character study of someone who doesn't know who they are or what they want, coming to learn that they believe they're worth is intrinsically tied to pleasing others and making everyone love you, dealing with catastrophic loss and being forces into a cruel and unforgiving industry that would just as easily accept you with open arms as stab you in the back, and dealing with this stress and pressure and pain with drugs and sex and the vices of the world that ultimately ends up being your downfall?
Yeah, that's my shit. I'm all for the physical and literal exploration of ego death, the psychological exploration of the self through yourself and others, it's awesome! And I have to commend the writing for that because it does an amazing job conveying this, especially in the last 100 pages of the book. The way sentences are structured and paced, how each run-on sentence feels just the right length and how it's all utilized together is really awesome. I also love this exploration, specifically, of Old Hollywood and how fucking bad it was, and what people did and ended up doing in this wild west climate.
The problem just always, always boils down to the fact that the Blonde Actress is not an anonymous amalgamation if Hollywood stars, it is not a metaphor for Marilyn Monroe even. It *is* Marilyn Monroe, it *is* Norma Jeane Baker, and Joyce Carol Oates seems to relish in this (in her own words) "radically distilled form of life." Blonde is fiction, and it treats its "characters" as caricatures of their very real counterparts, going as far as to slip in her own idea of what improbably happened, labeling figures as abusers and rapists, nymphomaniacs and junkies, all under the guise of barely disguising their names (The Ex-Athlete, The Playwright, hell she doesn't even try to hide Cass Chaplin and Eddy Robinson Jr, which is a whole other sort of rabbit hole).
I won't pretend to know a lot about the tumultuous life of Marilyn Monroe (this book made me more interested in learning what's actually true, so thank you Oates!), so I can't speak of how much Joyce Carol Oates wrote is accurate or speculation (she acknowledges further that she made stuff up in her foreward) but this book feels like it equally loves Marilyn Monroe despises her with every single letter that is typed. I don't mind that point of view, of being cynical of an icon known for her sexual appeal when she was really so much more, but the fact that Blonde keeps torturing the image of Marilyn Monroe for its own benefit of being a provocative novel is absolutely disgusting, in my opinion. With each year that passes by, this book ages worse and worse, and the big question always lingers in my mind, a question that has come around every time some true crime series is released, or new biopic, or anything involving real people: When is enough enough? Why can't we let them rest?
Their secrets were their own, so why are we so obsessed with speculating about what might have happened? What's done is done, what's happened has happened. Let the dead rest; they deserve it.
pretty much mirrors exactly what I like and dislike about this book, stick around for my thoughts though!
In theory, this is a book that I should absolutely love. A character study of someone who doesn't know who they are or what they want, coming to learn that they believe they're worth is intrinsically tied to pleasing others and making everyone love you, dealing with catastrophic loss and being forces into a cruel and unforgiving industry that would just as easily accept you with open arms as stab you in the back, and dealing with this stress and pressure and pain with drugs and sex and the vices of the world that ultimately ends up being your downfall?
Yeah, that's my shit. I'm all for the physical and literal exploration of ego death, the psychological exploration of the self through yourself and others, it's awesome! And I have to commend the writing for that because it does an amazing job conveying this, especially in the last 100 pages of the book. The way sentences are structured and paced, how each run-on sentence feels just the right length and how it's all utilized together is really awesome. I also love this exploration, specifically, of Old Hollywood and how fucking bad it was, and what people did and ended up doing in this wild west climate.
The problem just always, always boils down to the fact that the Blonde Actress is not an anonymous amalgamation if Hollywood stars, it is not a metaphor for Marilyn Monroe even. It *is* Marilyn Monroe, it *is* Norma Jeane Baker, and Joyce Carol Oates seems to relish in this (in her own words) "radically distilled form of life." Blonde is fiction, and it treats its "characters" as caricatures of their very real counterparts, going as far as to slip in her own idea of what improbably happened, labeling figures as abusers and rapists, nymphomaniacs and junkies, all under the guise of barely disguising their names (The Ex-Athlete, The Playwright, hell she doesn't even try to hide Cass Chaplin and Eddy Robinson Jr, which is a whole other sort of rabbit hole).
I won't pretend to know a lot about the tumultuous life of Marilyn Monroe (this book made me more interested in learning what's actually true, so thank you Oates!), so I can't speak of how much Joyce Carol Oates wrote is accurate or speculation (she acknowledges further that she made stuff up in her foreward) but this book feels like it equally loves Marilyn Monroe despises her with every single letter that is typed. I don't mind that point of view, of being cynical of an icon known for her sexual appeal when she was really so much more, but the fact that Blonde keeps torturing the image of Marilyn Monroe for its own benefit of being a provocative novel is absolutely disgusting, in my opinion. With each year that passes by, this book ages worse and worse, and the big question always lingers in my mind, a question that has come around every time some true crime series is released, or new biopic, or anything involving real people: When is enough enough? Why can't we let them rest?
Their secrets were their own, so why are we so obsessed with speculating about what might have happened? What's done is done, what's happened has happened. Let the dead rest; they deserve it.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Rape, Sexism, Sexual assault, Sexual content, Suicidal thoughts, Abortion, and Suicide attempt
Moderate: Alcoholism, Biphobia, Drug abuse, Homophobia, Racial slurs, Racism, Antisemitism, and Alcohol