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Monster is essentially a love story; a love story involving a sexually inhibited
socially awkward lesbian daughter of a fanatical Christian and a serial-killing
prostitute traumatized by a lifetime of abuse—on roller skates—but nonetheless a love
story.
The film opens as Aileen (Charlize Theron), a homeless prostitute
teetering on the verge of suicide, meets Selby (Christina Ricci), a young, naïve woman
whose equally naïve father is bent on deprogramming her lesbian tendencies. These two
lost souls, rejected and damaged by the world, form a desperate union. On the night
Aileen is to have her first official date with Selby, she turns one last trick to scrape
up enough money for a hotel room—a decision that changes the course of her already tragic
life. Aileen is raped and brutalized and kills her attacker in self-defense. And after
surviving the ordeal, she embarks on a rampage, murdering men to steal their cars and
money.
Written and directed by Patty Jenkins, Monster is loosely
based on Aileen Wuornos, America’s “first female serial killer,” who has been the
subject of two Nick Broomfield documentaries, several “true crime” books, and even an
opera (I’m not making this up). Here, the story is delivered as a dramatically
fictionalized, deeply compassionate portrayal of her life events—illustrating the human
aspects of the “monster” through the intimacy she shares with her lover as well as the
victimization that created a killer. Aileen was sexually abused from the age of 8,
prostituting and pregnant at the age of 13, and perpetually victimized by men throughout
her life. Her crimes appear as more of an occupational hazard for a prostitute suffering
from rape trauma syndrome than they do cold-blooded murder. Jenkin’s film does an
exceptional job of simultaneously mustering sympathies for both Wuornos and her
victims—but at times departing from the reality of the case to do
so.
While elsewhere the majority being written about Charlize Theron’s
Oscar-caliber performance centers on her physical transformation from one of the most
beautiful women in Hollywood to the gnarly toothed, eyebrow-less, and bedraggled killer,
far more noteworthy is that her every gesture and physical mannerism emanates
authenticity. Theron demonstrates her character in subtleties. When she initially is on
the receiving end of Selby’s advances—despite the fact that she insists she is not a
lesbian and it’s made obviously clear that she is no stranger to sexual advances—she
shifts her weight uncomfortably, smiles girlishly, and fiddles distractedly. As the
character’s relationship with Selby grows more intimate, her mannerisms become more
masculine—and Theron never once appears insincere in exhibiting them. More so, the
character’s descent into madness, her desperate attempts to rationalize her actions, and
the agonizing distress of rape trauma syndrome are expressed flawlessly. Her presentation
is so extraordinary, in fact, that it overshadows Ricci’s otherwise excellent
characterization as the emotionally stunted, socially challenged love
interest.
In short, Monster is a stunning drama composed of superb
storytelling and perfect performances.
