Lorelei Lee Still Confounds in ‘Gentlemen Prefer Blondes’

Classic but controversial, 1953’s Gentlemen Prefer Blondes reinterprets Anita Loos‘s 1925 novel of the same name to tell the story of Lorelei Lee (Marilyn Monroe) and the series of maritime hijinks and half-baked plots she masterminds in the pursuit of a wealthy husband. Embedded in the absurdity is a crystalizing message about women’s internal lives and external realities. But this is not what viewers remember the film for. 

Read any review—whether from 1953, 2023, or somewhere in between—and a common theme appears: Lorelei’s subtlety proves difficult for a largely unempathetic audience to grasp. One viewer captured this feeling in a July 29, 2023, Google review: The film was “vacuous and boring,” but it at least offered “a great show for blokes though.” A 2020 review posted to IMDB simplified the sentiment: “Two Sex Symbols Flaunt Their Stuff, and It Somehow Sticks with You.”

Loos’s original novel is unmistakably feminist. A thematic core Howard Hawks preserved in his 1953 adaptation. But, then and now, audiences just can’t seem to see the nuance tucked beneath Lorelei’s carefully arranged veneer. So what makes viewers so willing to dismiss her as nothing more than an adorable airhead or a self-serving seductress? And why, even 70 years later, does this deceptively “dumb blonde” remain so captivating and controversial? The film itself cannot answer these questions; only a thorough examination of the social milieus informing contemporary and modern opinions might shed light on them. 

For Lorelei, as for many women of her time, courtship was a clinical equation of affluence and attractiveness. For that, viewers see her as a gold digger, a seductress, and a whore. Perhaps it is easier to view her seemingly empty-headed gaze this way. But watch closer: Her behavior belies a wealth of ingrained cultural values about the commodification of female bodies and the vilification of women who refuse to be victimized by the system that constrains them.

The film visualizes the harsh double bind women face, forced to mold themselves to suit social demands while feigning ignorance about this very act that they could not afford. Empire‘s review published in January 2000 characterized this duality using the paradoxical term “innocent sensuality.” It is perhaps the sole astute observation amid a largely uncharitable review, but it captures the truth of a trait that reveals itself as early as the opening scene, in which Lorelei and her best friend, Dorothy (Jane Russell), perform a musical number before a drooling audience of slack-jawed men. 

The performance opens with a simple line: “We’re just two little girls from Little Rock.” Emanating from the vibrantly painted lips of Monroe and Russell, the lyric rings false. Clad from head to toe in silver-accented, sequined gowns of the deepest red and complete with plunging necklines, soaring thigh-high splits, and feather hair pieces to match, the pair command an enthusiastic audience who sees them as anything but “little girls.” But that’s precisely how Variety characterized the film in a June 1, 1953 review, which praised Monroe for her “little girl voice in a big girl’s body.”

It is this central division—between the innocence of their feigned girlhood and the overt physicality of their rejected womanhood—that women of Monroe and Loos’s generations learned to inhabit. To be viewed as an object of lust and desire but to pretend otherwise; to ply this physicality to their advantage but subtly and mistakably so. This unspoken compact of socially enforced female behavior appears often, yet most reviewers fail to address this vital thematic core thrumming at the film’s heart. That audiences overlook this critical element is telling and reveals viewers’ ignorance of the context influencing Lorelei’s behavior—and the fate she aims to avoid by acting as she does. In a 2008 IMDB post, one reviewer remarked:

It’s still a wild but expensive marvel to see Monroe in the “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” number, which is the epitome of glamor and striking at the ‘Gold-digger’ theme of the picture. It caps off beautifully what has been a fun, shallow, and breezy picture.

The “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” number refers to a musical sequence Lorelei performs near the film’s end. But there is nothing “shallow” or “breezy” about the number; it represents the “gold-digger theme” only in that it reveals the fundamental nature of women’s economic precarity. True, Lorelei steals the show. Garbed in a pink satin gown gathered elegantly at the waist and dripping in rhinestones at the wrist and throat, she is magnificent. 

More importantly, Lorelei draws the gaze away from the subtler elements of the scene. Her rhinestone-coated figure reflects the gentle candlelight emanating from two intricate candelabras, each decorated with garlands of Gothic black beading and supported by a cast of scantily clad women wreathed in glossy black fabric. Their bodies provide the foundation for each candelabra, creating an equally breathtaking and grotesque structure that curtails their ability to exist as anything other than scenery and decoration.

In the fore, Lorelei fends off a collection of carbon copy, lovestruck suitors with a staccato string of whimsical “no’s.” As she runs from her prospective mates, pursued and buoyed by the identical mass of desiring male bodies, she begins to sing: 

Lorelei shines not out of arrogance or selfishness but because she must. If she does not, she will inevitably lose her agency and ability to self-determine, just as the women affixed to the candelabras have. Much like her behavior throughout the film, her gown is not the frivolous choice of a silly young girl but is instead the calculated choice of a woman well-trained in the subtle art of appeasing and exploiting the male gaze. Moreover, she astutely recognizes that these charms, which grant her the mobility the women in the candelabra lack, are short-lived and will eventually fail her. 

The number is far from “shallow” and even further from “fun.” It highlights Lorelei’s precarity and, in doing so, forgives her behavior. Diamonds act as a tangible stand-in for that which Lorelei truly desires: the financial security and social mobility she would be hard-pressed to obtain through means other than an advantageous marriage. Yet, even then, her future is not secure. Inevitably, she will “grow old,” and her husband might “grow cold.” But even if men betray her, Lorelei knows that “these rocks don’t lose their shape.” By demanding diamonds from her prospective suitors, Lorelei acquires a reliable source of financial security that is not contingent on the fickle whims of a man who might ultimately cast her aside.

Call it transactional, sure, but also call it pragmatic. Lorelei is self-aware enough to see the bleak reality she exists in, which she conveys through seemingly lighthearted lyrics and a hyper-feminine stage presence. She speaks the truth in the only medium allowed to her and, in doing so, confuses not just her fictional audience but her real one as well. One 2010 IMDB post reads: “If you think about it, Monroe is a despicable whore—and makes little pretense about this! She’s a self-involved, money-hungry ‘lady’ with no real depth to her.” 

It is an unmistakably flattening, dismissive position to take, but that is not to say Lorelei is undeserving of criticism. Though the central plot and messaging remain the same, the 1953 characterization of its heroine differs significantly from her portrayal in the 1925 novel and 1928 musical. The New York Times noted this discord in a scathing review published shortly after the film’s release: “The screenplay contrived by Mr. Lederer is less the classic saga of two smart dames…than it is a silly tale of two dumb dolls.” 

There is some truth to this claim, though the difference between form—the former referring to a novel and the latter referring to a film—certainly influences this difference. Readers enjoy access to Lorelei’s internal monologue in the former, while viewers can only observe her actions and extrapolate from them in the latter. The difference between these versions of Lorelei is an unavoidable fact of form, though the answer is not quite that simple: The 1953 script falls short partly because it lacks a vital sequence that forms the foundation of Lorelei’s character and humanizes her behavior. In the preceding versions, Lorelei leaves Little Rock not because “someone broke [her] heart there” but because she faced legal troubles for shooting the man who attempted to rape her. 

The 1953 film, in all its lighthearted absurdity, elected to forego this element and, in so doing, jettisoned a critical facet of Lorelei’s character. Without this context in mind, audiences readily deem the defense mechanisms of a traumatized woman hardened to men callous and calculating. It is not the film’s sole shortcoming but is assuredly its most glaring. Though cuttingly accurate in places, the Times‘ review is disappointingly guilty of dismissing the film’s moments of subtlety. After a slew of criticism, the reviewer notes a singular saving grace: 

And yet, there is that about Miss Russell and also about Miss Monroe that keeps you looking at them even when they have little or nothing to do. Call it inherent magnetism. Call it luxurious coquetry. Call it whatever you fancy. It’s what makes this a—well, a buoyant show.

In a truly ridiculous show of vague wordplay, he dances around the obvious: His praise of Monroe and Russell ignores their acting prowess to instead focus on his enjoyment of their physical appearance. The review argues that the 1953 adaptation flattens and diminishes its heroines, then concludes by committing the same sin. By fixating on the actresses’ outward appearances, he overlooks the complexity of their performances, a theme subsequent reviewers have opined. From the same 2010 IMDB post listed earlier: “Monroe seems hard to take seriously… she is a horrible person…and not always that funny.” For Monroe and Lorelei alike, however, there is more than meets the eye. Yet, neither woman is taken seriously because of their physical appearance and strategically adopted personas. 

Perhaps her first-hand knowledge of this dismissal allows Monroe to render Lorelei with such care and accuracy. Though the film occasionally loses sight of Loos’s feminist messaging, Monroe’s delivery of Lorelei’s most triumphant monologue drives it home. After reconciling with her benefactor and on-again-off-again fiancée, Mr. Eisman Jr. (Tommy Noonan), Lorelei faces Mr. Eisman Sr., who firmly disapproves of the match. On the surface, the ensuing conversation is comically absurd. When Mr. Eisman Sr. questions why she wants to marry his son, Lorelei flippantly replies, “I want to marry him for your money!” While the older man sputters, she summarizes the core sentiment that influences her behavior:

Don’t you know that a man being rich is like a girl being pretty? You might not marry a girl just because she’s pretty, but my goodness, doesn’t it help?

She continues, questioning why she should feel shame for pursuing the sort of marriage that Mr. Eisman Sr. would wish for his daughters and wondering aloud about the gendered mechanics of contemporary relationships. When Mr. Eisman Sr. expresses shock at her intellect, she responds, “I can be smart when I need to be, but most men don’t like it.” Delivered by Monroe, a woman just as experienced with the pressure to fit the feminine mold, the lines are bitingly effective. Behind her soft laugh and the earnest widening of her eyes lies a deep knowledge of the harsh reality that Lorelei—and all contemporary women—had to learn to navigate. 

With compelling looks and few qualms about using them to her advantage, Lorelei flips the sexual script on its head. She knows her appearance is a commodity, just as Mr. Eisman’s wealth is. In her mind, the exchange is equivalent; she provides a service to him just as he does her. That is, in large part, the problem: The two aspects of this equation, affluence and attractiveness, are not given equal weight. Rarely are wealthy men condemned for seeking an attractive partner, while beautiful women seeking an affluent man nearly always are. The term “gold digger” exists, so why doesn’t a name exist for its masculine opposite? Women seeking financial security in a male partner must toe the line, ensuring that their motivating factor is money. Lorelei has no such qualms, and that makes viewers uncomfortable then and now. 

So, to those who might argue that Gentlemen Prefer Blondes “is not the film to come to if you are looking for real substance and depth,” look deeper. Lorelei has not remained a captivating and controversial figure for 70 years without reason. Modern viewers unfamiliar with the constraints of Loos and Monroe’s respective contexts should beware of conflating today’s mores with yesterday’s reality. Self-determined social mobility is possible for more women now than in the 1920s and 1950s; it was a luxury not afforded to so many of those eras, a fact Lorelei embodies in all her challenging, uncomfortable complexity. 

After 70 years of debate, it is time a singular characterization rings out from the confused chorus: Lorelei is a flawed woman undeserving of the excoriating critique she has received. Hers is a specific type of agency, borrowing the tools of her subjugation and placing them against her subjugator. She adapted to the role prescribed for her and learned to harness the social expectations that might victimize her—and has, by viewers old and new, been vilified for it. In short, she is a clever, complex character admirably played by a woman whose performance reveals glimmers of Loos’s incisive message about women’s internal reality and lived experiences. If one can avoid falling starstruck by the staggeringly glamorous Monroe and Russell or becoming embittered by the flaws in Lederer’s script, these glimmers will reveal themselves handily.