Blondes in Hollywood

“You still working on that script, you know that tragic little woman’s picture?”

“Um yeah,” I answer the guy, perched on my desk, rummaging through my stuff like he owns it.

“You should make that woman a blonde.”

“Okay.”

It’s a hesitant response, because I hear that bit about a blonde a lot.

You want her to be a knockout – make her blonde.

You want her to look fragile – make her blonde.

You want her to surprise us – make her blonde.

You want her to be a bit stupid – make her blonde.

When you are one of the favoured few women allowed to write scripts you get a lot of opinions shoved your way. Usually, to remind you that you are backroom material – not some luminous sex goddess.

“You know a classy blonde, like Bergman.”

“I see.”

“Not one of those trashy blondes – like Lana.”

“Got it.”

Cinema loves a blonde. Always has done. I get it. In black and white or colour, her hair catches the lights. It makes stars shine and sparkle. A halo.

Of course, I’m a writer. So, I’ve got dark red hair and glasses. A blonde couldn’t do my job.

I find it interesting how the men in the writing room can tell me just how all women think.

“You dress, talk, write and shoot like a man, but you think like a female. Like a green-eyed, snarling, spitting female.”

Because, hey women, we all think the same way. But there are multitudes of blondes.

There is the icy blonde. A blond who keeps her cool, but with just enough depth to show the hint of passion underneath.

There is the blonde bombshell. Platinum, luminescent, hyper-feminine, seductive. The men buckle under her power. Her frank sexuality leaving them nervous. Thank goodness she will die young.

Then the dumb blonde, bottled peroxide, but natural sexuality, bubbly, vivacious, flirtatious, but not for conversation. Strictly to be looked at.

The breezy tomboy blonde – freckled, fun, outdoorsy. She needs bending and mending. But she’ll get there in the end.

The Scandinavian goddess – foreign enough to distrust. Blonde enough to fall for. Probably a gold digger, certainly manipulative. She ruins careers. And careers belong to men.

And none of these blondes get angry. They can’t grit their teeth. Even mistreated they will remain patient and mild.

In Hollywood, blondes are exceptional, to be worshipped, but also ten-a-penny wannabees. They are all contradictions, making the men dizzy. Pure but sexual. Elegant but trashy. Needing to be looked after, but street wise.

But all blondes are there to be picked up, chewed on, spat out. There is an inevitability to the way the men (and me) talk about them. It was only a matter of time. She had it coming. That’s what you get for sleeping to the top. It’s also what you get for refusing to sleep with the boss. I repeat the victim, tragic story along with my colleagues. It makes me feel safe in my red-headed ditzy corner. I might not get noticed, but I’m going to survive.

And I feel bad about it. The way I see these women as sacrificial. And the way I intellectualise them away because, as I’m fond of saying, the Brontes always chose a dark-haired heroine. I make this point again.

“Sure,” says one of the guys. “They needed to believe you dark, clever types are attractive too.”

Don’t get me wrong. Some of the guys are swell. They love their wives. They are happy to support their wives dreams and wait for children. They stick up for the secretary who doesn’t like having her ass slapped as she walks by. The other guys drop hints that those swell guys – their marriages must be lavender.

It’ll take me years before I see a way of writing a blonde who has it all. Who gets to own her frivolity and be serious.

In the meantime, I ask:

“I need a name for this character.”

“What the blonde in the courtroom scene?”

“Yeah.”

“Just call her Booby McGubbins.”

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