Hey, here's something to savor. A bunch of actors reading—on camera no less!—words by lots and lots of people who have written things about Marilyn Monroe. And words by Monroe herself. Fuggin' great. Just what I want. Ben Foster (yay!) doing a dramatic reading of Norman Mailer (barf); Glenn Close and Evan Rachel Wood acting out Monroe's personal papers.
What a colossal waste of time. I'm not suggesting that Monroe isn't a great star who shouldn't be admired, but, really, a one-hour and forty-eight minute documentary of people blathering on about her? I mean, ANOTHER documentary? Oh, and Lindsay Lohan? Xanax. NOW.
Ohmygodit'sstillonohmygodit'sneverendingandnowthereslilitaylorwhy? This is absurd. Profoundly absurd. Jeremy Piven being earnest. The mind collapses inward.
Enough of the vitriol for a moment, and a serious question: How can a documentary about Marilyn Monroe contain so little Marilyn Monroe? Lots of yapping. Little substance. Nothing that hasn't been discussed or gleaned before. Arthur Miller bad! Joe DiMaggio bad then good!
"The ancient Greeks have Oedipus and we have Marilyn," says someone with a Ph.d. Yeah, OK. How smug.
Smug? Like this review? Not at all. It's much, much worse. Jennifer Ehle and Uma Thurman come off particularly badly. Stay for the credits with the actors asking to do one more. Or don't.
Directed by Liz Garbus