Marilyn Monroe the American screen idol was on a television back channel in one of her early Billy Wilder extravaganza entitled “Don’t Bother To Knock“. And I like so many guys, older guys having been raised on the cusp of that era was caught the other end of the TV screen within a half-heartedly ritual of ogling the more obviously prodigious assets of her statuesque form. The younger generation might have been familiar with her legendary package of over-ample thoracic area and more than capably shaped child bearing hips through posters and infrequent references mentioned in modern news retrospectives. She didn’t fit the current stereotypical model of this day of what a woman should be. Some of us, from that former time, might have quipped from that bygone traditional male perspective her particular ‘abbondanza‘ blew the premise of the currently equivalent politically correct version of flat chested being preeminent completely out of the water. Considering the current trend towards outright aggression against competing womanly figures displayed by feminist dominated cadres, my unrepentant unsavory ‘male’ behavior of so blatantly objectifying the late star’s iconic image in a lascivious manner could not hope to score brownie points in our strangely Puritanical era. The ‘drole‘ movie’s script saw her playing an unrepentant slut for the sake of another glib fifties performer by the actor named Richard followed by the moniker of Widmark. The glaring irony of shifting mores from then to now coming in the same bizarre behavior being celebrated as the new normal by young women of this current millennial generation.
“A lot or a little“, the outdated melodramatic ‘he‘ snidely smiles at the over-poured the tea standing in for scotch. “Hold me!“, I squeak aloud in a sarcastic snarky little voice answering Marilyn’s canned Hollywood-scripted dialogue. And all the while of course on my own unrepentant subconscious channel I am thinking, “Look at those Bazoongas!” My eves over-scanning the surface of the tele-screen in an obligatory manner so as to stay in character with the current popular cliche of typical ‘male pig‘. The act of same an internal political statement on my own behalf of independence from the encroachment of the growing prison of social conventions that current media driven society has placed upon the crown of my kind. And this dialogue was just another way to avoid thinking about my own demons of too few dollars leveraging too few opportunities to find some real ‘bazoongas‘ of my own to ogle in the privacy of my own ongoing existence. Being unwillingly tagged as another useless part of that needful class of humanity who fully given to advancing age was simply no longer necessary.
“I know what you need!“, said Widmark! To which I quickly replied, “Yeah, twelve inches of my well-seasoned tube steak!” The scene of that inter cut ‘pain in the ass’ little twelve-year old girl tied up and gagged on the bed in the next room not dissuading my continued enthusiasm for the starring luxuriant blond bimbo. The ‘mixage‘ of currently acceptable modern behavior assuaging the context of the old now being irrelevant to the situation. Have your drink and pander to the over-stacked sex symbol despite the suggestion of off-screen struggles of hapless victims. Tell that old biddy typecast as the perennial professional busy body resident battle axe annoyingly playing twenty-plus questions at the front door to, “Fuck off!“. But hey, that’s Billy Wilder! Or is it Alfred Hitchcock? Let Marilyn kill the kid in the back bedroom so that the moderately chested ball-busting Jewish princess Anne Bancroft can ensnare the most available male in this saga. This, incidentally, is the same Anne who many scripts later became the incestuous formative relationship destructive Mrs. Robinson. “If only you would have given me a little more time, you would have been in love with me!”, says spooky old vacant staring Marilyn to her little female captive with murderous intent. “My God those are indeed very big jugs!“, I reply, oblivious to the intended dramatic tension of the scene. Caught in the unconscious flow of my own primordial ‘man sense’ at this particularly chaotic plot point int he drama. The exchange sort of like the unconscious Frankfurt School exposition of a ‘politically correct‘ ‘boogie (whoa)man’ that would become the primary archetype of a pre-Feminist enmity that would blossom forth in the following decade after this picture’s premiere. “Boy, they don’t make them like that anymore!”, I muse looking at the angle and the hang of main star’s cascading movie flesh. “Whadda you all looking at!” “Do you think this is a side show?“, screams Widmark. Well, actually, Richard, that’s exactly what the movie business is!