It was the mob, on behalf of the Kennedy clan. There: now you don’t need to see this tawdry and irredeemably awful trawl through Marilyn Monroe’s life and last moments, which rehashes various well-known conspiracy theories as if they were new. Purporting to reclaim Marilyn as a talented actress and an independent woman rather than a victim, it in fact ploughs the same prurient, necrophile furrow that countless ghouls have explored since she died aged 36 in 1962.
A pouting, posing, peroxide-helmeted Pixie Lott narrates Marilyn’s story in a parody of her breathy tones. Sharleen Cooper Cohen’s script invariably tells us things rather than shows us. If Marilyn hadn’t died of an accidental overdose (the official story) or one deliberately administered up her bum by a bulb enema (the “truth”) she’d be DOA here, from exposure to exposition.
