Almost everyone has an opinion on Marilyn Monroe. Many would boil it down to a few key things, notably that she was a bombshell who radiated sexiness, seducing men and wearing only the greatest of gowns. Everyone knows that grate scene from The Seven Year Itch (1955), a film where she played the fantasy of a perfect woman who was naïve, sweet, and most of all submissive. Many considered her a dumb blonde while others would note she was highly intelligent. For a figure that never quite built the flawless filmography, it’s amazing how much she’s discussed to the point of an upcoming biopic starring Ana De Armas called Blonde (2022). It is likely that The Fall is only going to have more to say about her, but for now, I may as well share my own opinion.
There was always something appealing about Monroe to me. It wasn’t necessarily that she had an amazing screen presence, but what she did with it. To me, she was the perfect actress for the 1950s, who never got the respect she deserved. At a time when Hollywood made comedies based around battle of the sexes plots, Monroe had this gift for reflecting the complicated role of women. Once believed to be the domestic housewife, Monroe reflected a more independent archetype. She was kind of flirty, but even her romances came with this obstacle that felt inherently methodical. What I dislike about the public perception of Monroe is that she was a “dumb blonde,” that maybe she wasn’t even a great actor. To me, she was one of the best because of how complicated her subtext was. Sure she played dumb to lure men in, but there was always a reason for it. She was never helpless. If anything, her betrothed was about to be suckered out of so much.
She was subversive, embodying someone who could embrace intimacy without ever giving away something personal about herself. To me, this was all a brilliant act that made me love her. A class act comedian who unfortunately was taken away right before she could prove her dramatic potential. While there were many great actresses of her generation, none had as singular of a hook as her. You knew what you were getting when you watched her onscreen as if every role was catered to her sensibility.
That may be why one of the most shocking conspiracies that have arisen in the past decade is that one of the most sexualized women in American history, who had a knack for flirting her way out of everything, was in fact asexual. Certain caveats must be made when addressing anything further. Monroe herself has never stated that she was asexual and thus this is at best speculation. There are also rumors that she was a lesbian and any general lack of interest in sex could come from a host of reasons. With that said, it’s hard not to relate to her as an asexual when she wrote in her unfinished biography “My Story” that:
“Why I was a siren, I hadn’t the faintest idea. There were no thoughts of sex in my head. I didn’t want to be kissed, and I didn’t dream of being seduced by a duke or a movie star. The truth was that with all my lipstick and mascara and precarious curves, I was unsensual as a fossil. But I seemed to affect people quite otherwise.”
Another thing to consider in the speculation is how sex is treated in society. The crass yet simple expression is “sex sells.” As a woman trying to make it in the industry, it makes sense that Monroe banked on her looks, needing to create an image that appealed to the masses. Even then, it could be a “mask” for what lay underneath. She had no interest in those lustful desires and, I’d argue, her filmography plays into that very subtly. She was always at odds with the people ogling her, objectifying her into some standard that was ironically hollow. Monroe had confidence possibly because she was playing a role, separating her private feelings from the public’s need to consume sex. Given that Marilyn Monroe wasn't even her real name, it only adds subtext to the matter. Again, it’s hard to know if Monroe was a victim of allonormativity, but given her relief around having a long-distance marriage, there’s a lot that can be predicted.
It should be noted that from here, I will not be assessing Monroe herself as asexual, but the character of Chérie in Bus Stop (1956). Certain things are to be noted, as this was based on a William Inge play and thus is not written specifically for her. She wasn’t even among the first actresses suggested. With that said, it is the one Monroe film that feels most reflective of the asexual parallels, which are inevitably there even if they’re hidden underneath the pressures of an amatanormativity world. She never uses the word, but every now and then it feels like she turns to the camera and implies her discomfort in a way that feels transparent. Like Monroe herself, she is trapped in a sexualized situation when all she wants is to be anywhere else.
To back up a little bit, Bus Stop is a film starring Don Murray as Beauregard “Bo” Decker who is traveling west. He may as well qualify as one of the most annoying characters in 1950s film history, if just because he’s a tad infantile and whose handler Virgil Blessing (Arthur O’Connell) may as well be playing babysitter to the oldest toddler. He is sexually naïve, believed to be a virgin, who early on walks down the street and almost gets hit by cars as he ogles women, saying the quiet part loud as he admits how many beautiful women there are in Phoenix, AZ. It’s interesting as a stereotype of Midwest simpleton culture if just for how underdeveloped it is. Still, he’s such a beginner in the world that he even has a quaint love song he sings. He’s the type of guy who seems to believe that everyone loves him and that the girl of his dreams will fall immediately for him. Also, he yells a lot in a downright tribal manner.
Chérie also wants to travel west, but is having difficulty getting out of Arizona. Whereas Bo is living in a dream where he’s the romantic hero, Chérie acts like the person deconstructing the romantic comedy that Bus Stop so desperately wants to be. Arizona is not necessarily a state known for grand romantic gestures, and yet here she is in the middle of nowhere. Dressed as a dancer in a dressing room, she is introduced with someone telling her to “Put your mask on.” Establishing her as insecure, the film reflects how much of this is just an easy gig to make a little money to get out of there. A bus will drive by in a few months and she will be there ready to kiss this city goodbye.
Starting here is crucial to the asexual hypothesis. Before she steps out to the public, this private glance allows the viewer to think of her as someone applying layers of defense. Nothing about her is inherently sexual outside of the outfit. At no point is there a suggestion that she wants to hook up with a random man in the crowd. All she wants is to get paid. Later on, she is seen sitting at a table with a gentleman customer. There’s an underlying sense that she’s supposed to be using her sexuality as currency, offering the man something for easy money. Instead, she is using him for free drinks, which in itself doesn’t make her any more attracted to him. She is there, humoring him, but at no point is there a suggestion that she’s doing it for kinky hookups. Even the fact that her coworkers are annoyed at her lack of ability to profit off of this exchange suggests how much the world desires sex. They are less flippant about it, believing that everyone is meant to be in love.
One of the initial examples of Chérie interacting with the public is her singing “That Old Black Magic.” It’s a song about some unseen force that draws two people together, like witchcraft, to fall in love. Whereas it appeals to someone like Bo, to her it is just a performance. Monroe looks uncomfortable performing it and the song never quite hits the seductive notes necessary. It’s unconvincing, and yet everyone enjoys it. She is stuck having to sing the song of allonormativity, that something will draw her to someone even if it’s clear that she’s not interested. Again, this is all a performance, and one that detracts others long enough to profit off of it.
Bo is driven by sex. He believes that he could throw Chérie over his shoulders and just walk away. When he prematurely announces that he’s marrying her, there’s little to suggest that it’s a mutual agreement. Chérie is uncomfortable by the whole situation, and it becomes clear as Bo breaks into her home and wakes her up later. When going to a local parade, he grows uncomfortable at the idea of Chérie seeing other women in a suggestive state. Even then, he’s so driven by the idea that he never gets her name right. To him, she is just an object that needs to be conquered, and his eventual trip to the rodeo is an excuse to flex his machismo, to suggest that because he’s a manly man Chérie will love him more.
Safe to say that it doesn’t work. As Chérie tries to find a way out of this situation, it’s clear that the world wants her to be in this romantic situation. Life Magazine arrives in time to take photos of the presumed wedding, believing that it’s beautiful. By this point, Bo has enough evidence to be the poster child for what YouTube now calls “Are the straights okay?” He is delusional and a cartoon character, never listening to others except for Virgil, who even then has advice he cherry picks.
In a moment that speaks to the complications around asexuality, an early scene between Bo and Chérie comes to the discussion of attraction. With clear-cut language, Chérie claims that she doesn’t feel romantic attraction to him. That old black magic is missing. However, she is “physically attracted” to him for his masculinity. With the split attraction model in mind, this could qualify as aesthetic attraction, which is different from sexual and romantic. Given her reaction to Bo and most men throughout the story, it makes sense that she is left confused by not having the desires she is told to have. Something is missing when it comes to intimacy. There’s an off-chance that she only forms these bonds after a connection, a’la demisexuality, but as an umbrella term it feels inherently ace.
Chérie has this impressive quality of feeling disconnected from the world around her. Part of it is literal, as she’s just a farmer girl in transition. However, it reflects how asexuals often feel in a world that tells them to find someone to love and embrace the quaint family life. They often feel forced to find that bond even if it leaves them confused and isolated from their own wants and desires. Given that Monroe grew up in the 1950s when sexuality was even more limited, being asexual could likely be even more difficult to navigate. Still, the fear of a loveless marriage is scary no matter who it involves.
It comes up again in a third act scene where Chérie meets a woman on a bus. As she tries to escape Bo, she discusses her previous marriages. On the surface, one can argue that this is evidence of her allonormative lifestyle. It’s unclear how in love she was with her cousins/husbands, but there was clearly that push to fall in love and create that picture. Whereas Bo is diving headfirst into the ideal, Chérie feels absent from even dipping a toe. She knows how empty a loveless marriage could be, where only physical attraction is there. There is a loneliness she speaks of, and it becomes clear how much difficulty she has making any connection.
The tragedy of the piece is arguably the biggest product of an asexual at odds with the world. Whereas a more reasonable story would punish Bo for being a creeper, Bus Stop treats him as a man who needs to learn to become a better person. Virgil gives him far more chances than he needs to. At one point he’s even assaulted in the snow, but even then his basic lesson of learning to listen feels so shallow and empty that it uproots any arc for Chérie. It reveals that her story and thus her asexuality doesn’t matter to a world that consumes amatanormativity. There needs to be a happy ending of two loved ones riding off in the sunset.
There’s nothing convincing about their relationship despite the film trying to convince the viewers that there is. If anything, it creates this tragic undertone that Chérie is once again in a loveless relationship with a very abusive man who wouldn’t be afraid of hijacking her from a bus stop. He doesn’t deserve Chérie, and yet that’s what the story needs. Meanwhile, she is stuck in a situation that feels insincere. It’s a cycle that may get her to the west coast, but it’s so delusional and empty that it robs the film of any redeeming quality.
At most, Monroe’s performance saves Bus Stop from being a total waste of time. Even as she’s forced to embrace her sexuality, there’s nothing that makes it feel natural, like she’s doing it for self-satisfaction. This is all a defense mechanism to survive in the world, and it feels exactly like the asexual journey. Chérie is a character that may read as one dimensional to some, but reflects Monroe’s ability to paint layers, to put on a mask, and cast a little black magic in the hopes of reflecting her own transparent loneliness in the world. In a world where she’s reasonable, it makes sense that she sees the hormonal public as caricatures of humanity, unable to properly think or even respect what she has to say. This may not be a film written for Monroe, but it feels like it was.
It should be noted that I feel like every Marilyn Monroe film is worthy of deconstructing as an asexual performance. Whether this is a reality of her or just my interpretation, it connects in such a way that makes me appreciate her as so much more than this hollow image of sexiness. She has so much more to offer, and it does feel like she took every chance to mock it throughout her career. Even “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friends” uses an attractive aesthetic surrounded by adorning men is secretly commenting on Monroe’s desire for shiny things and not men themselves. She was always transparent about what she wanted and knew how to get it. The only catch is that some took a little longer to pick up on her schemes.
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