My Week With Marilyn

Very few performers have ever projected the kind of magnetism Marilyn Monroe did. It goes beyond beauty or confidence, there’s an elusive quality to it, a way of drawing people in while still holding something back. On screen, she seems to create a sense of intimacy, as if her attention is directed at you alone, yet there remains a distance that can’t quite be crossed. It’s a presence that has been studied and imitated for decades, but never fully replicated.

Part of what complicates that image is how deliberately it was shaped. In the mid 1950s, Monroe began studying Method acting in New York under Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio, hoping to move beyond the “blonde bombshell” roles that had defined her early career and to be taken seriously as an actress. Strasberg became both a mentor and a stabilising presence in her life, encouraging her to draw on her own emotional experiences and bring a more vulnerable, psychologically grounded quality to her performances. That tension, between the constructed icon and the more searching, exposed performer, only deepens the sense of mystery surrounding her.

I recently watched "My Week with Marilyn" (2011), which now comfortably earns a place among the stronger films I’ve seen this year.

Based on Colin Clark’s memoirs, "The Prince, the Showgirl and Me" and "My Week with Marilyn", the narrative is relatively straightforward. It recounts Clark’s alleged involvement with Marilyn Monroe (Michelle Williams) during the London production of "The Prince and the Showgirl", starring Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh). At the time, Clark (Eddie Redmayne) is a junior assistant on set, an otherwise peripheral figure who finds himself drawn into Monroe’s orbit.

The film centres on Monroe’s relationship with Clark, while also tracing the charged dynamics surrounding her, including Vivien Leigh (Julia Ormond). She is adored, resented, and mythologised in equal measure, constantly surrounded by admiration, yet persistently starved of genuine intimacy. When faced with the possibility of abandoning fame for love, she ultimately chooses the stage, only to reveal almost immediately the fragility beneath the persona. “Should I be her?” she asks, before stepping fully into the role.

This duality anchors the entire film. A copy of "Ulysses" on her bedside table gestures towards an intellectual depth often denied her public image, while her vulnerability surfaces in her dependence on acting coach Paula Strasberg (Zoë Wanamaker). She oscillates continually between self possession and childlike need.

The production’s attention to detail is particularly striking. Monroe’s iconic hair, so often mishandled in screen portrayals, is convincingly realised here, avoiding the artificiality that can so easily break immersion. It is a small but significant triumph.

If there is a weakness, it lies in the physical portrayal. Monroe’s presence was famously expansive, she seemed to overflow the frame, whereas Williams is more slight, and that sense of overwhelming, almost gravitational allure is occasionally diminished. Still, she delivers a nuanced and compelling performance, and any shortcomings feel more directorial than hers.

Ultimately, the film is visually elegant and consistently well acted, capturing the complexity of Monroe’s persona without attempting to resolve it. The question of who she truly was remains unanswered, and that, perhaps, is its greatest strength.