Some Have it Hot

It was a classic Marilyn moment. The sort of moment that you come upon,not with a sense of oh-there-you-are,where-have-you-been-all-these-days,but ahhhh,great,time for another go-round. I came home,dug for my favourite Marilyn movies,had a little festival of my own. The watching led me to a glowing article in a global business daily about Ms Monroe,and how she is still the source of inspiration for designers,and fashion forecasters,who never stop being faintly surprised at how she continues to do so,so many years after her death.

That tone of surprise never fails to surprise me. Take this simple test. When MM walks on to the screen,can you see anyone else? No? There you go. She wasnt a great actress,but she was a performer par excellence. And she performed herself. Every single time,whether she was in a tight tee and twin set,or a golden sheath counter-pointing scarlet lips,mouth half open,eyes half shut. Or a white dress,flying up,up,up.

I have this theory about the ladies who have the ability to ensnare us so completely. That they are the ones who can make this look hip-shot,tip-tilted,heavy-lidded,bow-lipped with just a hint of teeth an instant aphrodisiac. That they are the only ones who own it. The others are welcome to play the girl-next-door,the wholesome sister-and-bhabhi-and sacrificial best friend,the ones who will always strive for but never get to the point that incites steamy magazine covers,or purple prose.

Madhubala had it in spades. You could put her in a sack,and it wouldnt matter. Nothing about a brown bori could stop you from imagining her in a wet sari,a ladki bheegi bhaagi si. She was,in Paul Newmans words,a functioning voluptuary. No,Newman didnt say this about Madhubala. The phrase was in honour of Elizabeth Taylor,who was another of these glorious divas whose craft was hard to see because her violet eyes and the rest of her was a jaw-dropping reminder of what a woman could be. Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis had to be content being called Marilyns bosom companions in one of those movies where everyone liked it hot; the blue-eyed Newman,more beautiful than these two men,was nearly eclipsed by Taylors aura as a cat on a hot tin roof.

Madhuri had it,too. By the bushel. She first arrived on screen in clothes a cat wouldnt have brought in and terrible make-up,but then Saroj Khan got her paws on her,ek do teen8230;. And that was how this star was born. Even when she was girl,she was all woman. Shes one of the few heroines in Hindi cinema who opened movies; even when she got married and took a break from husband-and-kids to act in a lousy movie,we didnt dump on her. Word has it that she is waiting for the right role,and that is okay because in an industry filled with talentless clothes horses,there is still a Madhuri-sized hole.

But now that shes on billboards selling basmati rice,Im not so sure. We dont want to see our fantasy women,even if they have tacked on a surname post matrimony,to talk about aata and daal. Thats okay for television. But in movies we need to be seduced. Take me away from my dull life,and I will be your slave.

Its not like all selling takes away allure. Theres selling and theres selling. Look at the unstoppable Marilyn industry,which is busier than ever,grinding out stuff. Keeping her alive. Every few months theres a book: a recent volume even tried deconstructing her doodles. The big thing now is a biopic in which Marilyn Monroe is played by Michelle Williams,and already there is Oscar buzz.

Where do you go to my lovely,when you are alone in your bed? This lovely line from a lovely song,which has iconic status itself,is at the root of what makes a woman more than a woman. She makes you aware. Of yourself. And herself. Locked in tight. She makes you imagine. There she is,on the screen,on the pages of a fanzine,on a scrap blowing down a street. But there she also is,in your heart. And in your head. Making you believe.

shubhra.gupta expressindia.com