Norma Jean Mortensen, the future Marilyn Monroe, spent part of her
childhood in Los Angeles orphanages. Her days were filled with
chores and no play. At school, she kept to herself, smiled rarely, and
dreamed a lot. One day when she was thirteen, as she was dressing for
school, she noticed that the white blouse the orphanage provided for her
was torn, so she had to borrow a sweater from a younger girl in the house.
The sweater was several sizes too small. That day, suddenly, boys seemed to
gather around her wherever she went (she was extremely well-developed
for her age). She wrote in her diary, "They stared at my sweater as if it were
a gold mine."
The revelation was simple but startling. Previously ignored and even
ridiculed by the other students, Norma Jean now sensed a way to gain at-
tention, maybe even power, for she was wildly ambitious. She started to
smile more, wear makeup, dress differently. And soon she noticed some-
thing equally startling: without her having to say or do anything, boys fell
passionately in love with her. "My admirers all said the same thing in differ-
ent ways," she wrote. "It was my fault, their wanting to kiss me and hug
me. Some said it was the way I looked at them—with eyes full of passion.
Others said it was my voice that lured them on. Still others said I gave off
vibrations that floored them."
A few years later Marilyn was trying to make it in the film business.
Producers would tell her the same thing: she was attractive enough in per-
son, but her face wasn't pretty enough for the movies. She was getting
work as an extra, and when she was on-screen—even if only for a few sec-
onds—the men in the audience would go wild, and the theaters would
erupt in catcalls. But nobody saw any star quality in this. One day in 1949,
only twenty-three at the time and her career at a standstill, Monroe met
someone at a diner who told her that a producer casting a new Groucho
Marx movie, Love Happy, was looking for an actress for the part of a blond
bombshell who could walk by Groucho in a way that would, in his words,
"arouse my elderly libido and cause smoke to issue from my ears." Talking
her way into an audition, she improvised this walk. "It's Mae West, Theda
Bara, and Bo Peep all rolled into one," said Groucho after watching her
saunter by. "We shoot the scene tomorrow morning." And so Marilyn cre-
ated her infamous walk, a walk that was hardly natural but offered a strange
mix of innocence and sex.
Over the next few years, Marilyn taught herself through trial and er-
ror how to heighten the effect she had on men. Her voice had always been
attractive—it was the voice of a little girl. But on film it had limitations un-
til someone finally taught her to lower it, giving it the deep, breathy tones
that became her seductive trademark, a mix of the little girl and the vixen.
Before appearing on set, or even at a party, Marilyn would spend hours be-
fore the mirror. Most people assumed this was vanity—she was in love with
her image. The truth was that image took hours to create. Marilyn spent
years studying and practicing the art of makeup. The voice, the walk, the
face and look were all constructions, an act. At the height of her fame, she
would get a thrill by going into bars in New York City without her makeup
or glamorous clothes and passing unnoticed.
Success finally came, but with it came something deeply annoying to
her: the studios would only cast her as the blond bombshell. She wanted se-
rious roles, but no one took her seriously for those parts, no matter how
hard she downplayed the siren qualities she had built up. One day, while she
was rehearsing a scene from The Cherry Orchard, her acting instructor, Mi-
chael Chekhov, asked her, "Were you thinking of sex while we played the
scene?" When she said no, he continued, "All through our playing of the
scene I kept receiving sex vibrations from you. As if you were a woman in
the grip of passion. .. . I understand your problem with your studio now,
Marilyn. You are a woman who gives off sex vibrations—no matter what
you are doing or thinking. The whole world has already responded to those
vibrations. They come off the movie screens when you are on them."
Marilyn Monroe loved the effect her body could have on the male libido.
She tuned her physical presence like an instrument, making herself reek of
sex and gaining a glamorous, larger-than-life appearance. Other women
knew just as many tricks for heightening their sexual appeal, but what sepa-
rated Marilyn from them was an unconscious element. Her background had deprived her of something critical: affection. Her deepest need was to
feel loved and desired, which made her seem constantly vulnerable, like a
little girl craving protection. She emanated this need for love before the
camera; it was effortless, coming from somewhere real and deep inside. A
look or gesture that she did not intend to arouse desire would do so doubly
powerfully just because it was unintended—its innocence was precisely
what excited a man.
The Sex Siren has a more urgent and immediate effect than the Spec-
tacular Siren does. The incarnation of sex and desire, she does not bother
to appeal to extraneous senses, or to create a theatrical buildup. Her time
never seems to be taken up by work or chores; she gives the impression that
she lives for pleasure and is always available. What separates the Sex Siren
from the courtesan or whore is her touch of innocence and vulnerability.
The mix is perversely satisfying: it gives the male the critical illusion that he
is a protector, the father figure, although it is actually the Sex Siren who
controls the dynamic.
A woman doesn't have to be born with the attributes of a Marilyn
Monroe to fill the role of the Sex Siren. Most of the physical elements are
a construction; the key is the air of schoolgirl innocence. While one part of
you seems to scream sex, the other part is coy and naive, as if you were in-
capable of understanding the effect you are having. Your walk, your voice,
your manner are delightfully ambiguous—you are both the experienced,
desiring woman and the innocent gamine.
Your next encounter will be with the Sirens, who bewitch
every man that approaches them. . . . For with the music
of their song the Sirens cast their spell upon him, as they
sit there in a meadow piled high with the moldering skele-
tons of men, whose withered skin still hangs upon their
bones.
—CIRCE TO ODYSSEUS, THE ODYSSEY, BOOK XII