At first, it might sound surprising for a fundamentally profane art to consecrate its most relevant figures through rituals of physical pain and sacrifice similar to religious representation. In the iconography of films –and, by extension, all mass culture– there’s a space reserved for modern saints who undergo their particular via crucis on the screen, and also in real life. It isn’t by chance that in the gratest popular culture myths there is always a trace of “Christ-like” maladjustment that brings as a result a plethora of predicaments, when not the tragedy of premature death, which –like the son of God’s– grants them immortality. We love the characters we secretly want to destroy, as proved by necrophiliac idolatry towards a whole series of “funerary” stars, from James Dean to Kurt Cobain or Amy Winehouse. When they manage to survive beyond their youth, changing their heroine shots for tai chi, we are tempted to call them cynics or impostors. That’s why Marilyn Monroe, the star system’s great misfit, is, from the day she died, an immortal star. As philosopher Edgar Morin says in The Stars, her presence on the screen provokes on the audience something that goes beyond pure sexual discomfiture or other “scopophiliac” emotions; it “testifies a maladjustment, a problem, a search” connected to greater existential dilemmas, of which she probably wasn’t even too conscious. Maybe we love Marilyn so much because, like Christ, she was able to die for us.