Chris_Docker

Director Luca Guadagnino cannot be faulted for trying to bring some innovative tinsel to the story of a love triangle of tennis players. Whether it comes off is a matter of opinion. Guadagnino describes his directorial technique as that of a voyeur, and sympathising with such a position, like an onlooker, is perhaps the best way to enjoy the film.

Two young tennis players, best friends since adolescence share an obsession for Zendaya, a girl whose only obsession is tennis itself. The story jockeys between timelines, gradually filling in some of the back story. Apart from the good looks of all three, some LGB dialogue sparks up some interest for fans who are not quite so addicted to the process of hitting a ball with a racket. But tennis fan or not, we will need to pay close attention to the young men's style peculiarities if we want to make some sort of sense of the finale.

Without giving anything away, there are two Haneke-like conundrums in final tennis match. I say 'Haneke-like' in reverence to that great and very idiosyncratic film-maker. - and I'm thinking of Caché where one practically needs to be psychic to work out the ending first time round. But Guadagnino, although has turned out some reasonable movies, like the re-make of Suspira or the acclaimed gay romance Call Me By Your Name, is no Haneke. But earlier drama Melissa P fell rather short in its adaptation of a book, and Challengers similarly seems unsatisfying in its lack of substance. The confusing ending (which even experts seem unable to agree on) made me wonder what was the point of sitting through more than two hours of so-so cinema. Guadagnino claims it is not about tennis but about relationships, and the relationships in the film are immature at best. It's nice to see clever technique and hidden clues: but a film for me has to do something, such as entertain or inspire. Sadly, Challengers did neither.

Marilyn Monroe has the enduring persona that makes everyone want to know something about her. The film "Blonde" has enough glitz, once one has started to watch, to make one keep watching hoping for something pleasant, inspiring, entertaining or informative to come out if it. It doesn't.

The director claims (or defends himself by claiming) that it is "all fiction". Indeed, it was based on a work of fiction, a novel by Joyce Carol Oates of the same name. Yet it names Marilyn Monroe as its central character, the screen name used by Norma Jean and who, under whatever name, was not a work of fiction. It uses the most horrific events (or supposed events) from that person's existence more or less to suggest "this was the sum total of Marilyn Monroe's life".

There is no let up. Apart from a few brief moments of beauty in Arthur Miller's garden, it is a concatenation of misery. There is enough factual detail to make it 'authentic' - in the most tabloid-declamatory way, casually seasoned with large helpings of unerotic gratuitous nudity and constant close-ups - normally used in made-for-TV films - so that one doesn't miss expressions to which long shots would have given contextual clarity on a bigger screen - unsurprisingly as it is destined for the Netflix market.

There is one problem here. Marilyn Monroe was a superstar like no other. One of the most famous actresses of showbiz mythology. An icon that has never been replicated. The film shows only the sleaze. Even the famous and artistically beautiful shot of the white dress blowing up from Some Like it Hot, one of the most enduring images of the 20th century, is quickly reviled as it cuts to Joe DiMaggio beating her up for her 'lack of propriety'.

Most of the trauma in the personal life of Marilyn Monroe is on record. Any that isn't or not very well documented is gleefully extrapolated by director Andrew Dominik as if competing for the audience of the lowest, sleaziest tabloid. "Blonde" is akin to almost three hours of character assassination, as if it were all this great star stood for: the shameful atrocities inflicted upon her. Fortunately Marilyn Monroe is and was greater than that, and will endure longer than Andrew Dominik's shameful, 'fictional' biopic.

The audience doesn't know if Cary Grant's character is really a good guy or an evil schemer until the very last moment. A great tribute to Hitchcock's power as a director. Clear, concise storytelling, not s frame wasted, and superb performances as the two leads carry off their parts to perfection. The basic dynamic has had many copyists since, none as good.

Interesting also from a female perspective is, how male polite charm slid so easily into ordering a woman about and, what was almost as bad, how women in those days put up with it.