From Follies of God - (its a wonderful site)
Must we hate Joan Crawford? The question sounds a little odd. Must we think about Joan Crawford at all? That’s perhaps a little more like it. Crawford the always posing, eternally hardworking star, with her affairs and marriages and triumphs and miseries and comebacks, inspires both exasperation and wonder. Her ferocious will to succeed seems a grim version of the life force itself. Few men go weak in the knees dreaming about her, as they might with Lana Turner or Rita Hayworth; nor is she the kind of woman men could imagine bantering with blissfully as a lover, as they might with Katharine Hepburn or Barbara Stanwyck. She’s the date who raises your blood pressure, not your libido. She was always a bigger hit with women than with men, but, at this point, young women eager to emulate her drive and success may shudder. The ravenous smile, the scything broad shoulders, the burdensome distress, the important walk and complicated hair—she’s too insistent, too laborious and heavily armed, and also too vulnerable. She lacked lyricism and ease, except, perhaps, when flirting onscreen with Clark Gable, her offscreen lover and friend, with whom she made eight movies. She almost always tried too hard—it was Crawford who reportedly uttered the grammatically ambitious sentence “Whom is fooling whom?”—and she demanded that you capitulate to her vision of herself. Many people dismissed her as crazy.
Her epitaph is a gloating monstrosity. The lighting in “Mommie Dearest” is overbright, the sets astonishingly ugly. (Crawford may have lacked taste, but I doubt that her decorators were inept; a noir heroine needs some shadows.) As far over the top as you remember Faye Dunaway, she’s that much farther over it on second viewing. Squatting on her haunches and roaring, her face covered in cold cream, she’s a samurai in Kabuki drag, beating Christina with the famous hanger and then with a can of Old Dutch cleanser. As she rides her voice higher and higher, she goes after innocent rosebushes in the garden with castrating shears, and savagely axes a tree. Of course, it’s all intended to be farce. But farce about what? The movie chronicles one power struggle after another between mother and child, so the joke gets buried in sordid emotional and physical violence. “Mommie Dearest” was an act of posthumous assassination. The movie discharged the assorted resentments that not only Christina but some of the audience had built up in its long assent to Crawford’s presumptions and demands, and to her stardom itself. For Dunaway, however, it was more like a murder-suicide pact than like a simple crime. She has since appeared in many movies and TV shows, but “Mommie Dearest” finished her career as a star. It’s as if Crawford’s convoluted aggressive and self-defeating force had carried Dunaway down with it. When the movie is over, you can only whisper, like a pious mourner longing for relief, “Peace, Joan, peace.”
David Denby in
The New Yorker, January 3, 2011.
newyorker.com
Escape Artist
The case for Joan Crawford.