The Gothic Grandeur of Baby Jane

I first read of the film Whatever Happened to Baby Jane in a paperback book published by Pyramid in the 1970s, entitled Karloff and Company: The Horror Film by Robert F. Moss. It was a slim volume that had a surprisingly exhaustive series of essays about the development of the horror genre, all the way from Nosferatu and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari up through the 1960s-70s Hammer Film period. This is where I first became interested in scary movies as varied as Dracula and Frankenstein to Rosemary’s Baby--and Baby Jane. As an “illustrated biography”, the Pyramid series offered a good mix of words and pictures to capture the imagination of a 10-year-old budding movie buff.

The first picture I ever saw of Joan Crawford and Bette Davis

It was the gruesome photo that accompanied the section about the 1962 shocker starring Bette Davis and Joan Crawford that made me pause and take notice...a pancake-faced old blond woman, dressed as a little girl, sitting on a beach with a grotesquely gray-faced brunette expiring beside her. The doll-like blond lady was grimacing and the brunette’s big eyes were full of pain.

At this moment in time, I had never even heard of Bette Davis or Joan Crawford, but I vowed to find out more. Who were these two scary ladies, and why did they both seem so intensely compelling?

Baby Jane was a movie that was never on television in the 1970s when I was growing up. I first saw it in the mid 1980s, thanks to the magic of videotape. Just prior to the Blockbuster Video era, when studios put out all the classics on VHS tapes, small Mom & Pop video stores would not only rent you the tapes but the videocassette player as well. In college in Chicago, my best friends and I would trudge miles in the snow lugging the video player and tapes, to watch movies we had heretofore only read about--or had only seen in edited-for-television versions.

The Hudson Sisters: Blanche (Joan Crawford) and Jane (Bette Davis)

Naturally, my two gay college friends and I were instantly transfixed by this black-and-white horror classic. A forgotten vaudeville child star and her former movie star sister have shut themselves away in a decaying old house amid regrets and recriminations, as the alcoholic Baby Jane (Bette Davis) taunts and tortures her crippled, long-suffering sister Blanche (Joan Crawford) with gleeful malice.

Reel life melds with real life as actual clips of youthful Davis and Crawford are used to illustrate their 1930s movie careers in one of the extended flashback sequences in the prologue. The Bette Davis clip is used to show what a terrible actress Baby Jane was, and indeed, Davis’s 1933 performance in Ex-Lady is wooden and leaden, replete with a cringe-worthy southern accent. She really does “stink” — Davis must have had quite a sense of humor about herself to allow that clip to be shown. On the other hand, Crawford is beautiful, elegant and flawless (if a little affected!) in her own clip from 1934’s Sadie McKee. The juxtapositions of past and present and young and old, are perfect exposition to precede the two aging stars’ first appearances.

Of course, it is the performances that make this movie a classic. Without a doubt, Davis steals the picture with her balls-out portrayal of the alcoholic, bitter and mentally unhinged Jane.  As caregiver to the crippled recluse, former movie actress Blanche Hudson, Davis’s former child star Jane Hudson is now the “fat sister” slouching around the dingy dark Hudson house, yawning, mugging, shuffling and clomping around, rattling through a multiplicity of empty gin and scotch bottles, beginning her endless guzzling as she prepares her wheelchair-bound sister’s breakfast tray.

"This is my very own Baby Jane doll"

With Mary Pickford sausage curls and heavily lipsticked cupid bow mouth on a chalk white face, Davis transforms herself into a monstrous life-sized doll. (Her performance of the child star’s theme song “I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy” truly has to be seen to be believed.) Jane is a grotesque madwoman but also a psychopath and a sadist, serving her disabled sister first their pet canary then a big juicy rat from the cellar under a silver cloche. She savagely kicks Crawford around the room then trusses her up with the precision of a BDSM dominatrix, but not before coldbloodedly murdering their housekeeper Elvira by bludgeoning her with a hammer.

Davis plays the role with a savage gusto, as if she knows this may be her last chance to prove herself on the silver screen. She is truly a force of nature--and Jane Hudson remains one of her most unforgettable roles. Already a two-time Oscar winner, she received her final Academy Award nomination as Best Actress for the role, but lost to Anne Bancroft in The Miracle Worker. (Ironically, Joan Crawford famously accepted Bancroft’s award that night amid glamorous fanfare, completely upstaging her former costar.)

Joan knew how to look like a winner!

Though Crawford was supposedly incensed that she had not received a nomination herself, she too had garnered strong reviews for her more sedate performance. Crawford was heavily praised by many critics, including reviewer Paul V. Beckley in the New York Herald Tribune: “If Miss Davis's portrait of an outrageous slattern with the mind of an infant has something of the force of a hurricane, Miss Crawford's performance could be described as the eye of that hurricane, abnormally quiet, perhaps, but ominous and desperate.”

You can’t underestimate Crawford’s contribution to the film, both on screen and off. It was Joan who found the novel by Henry Farrell and brought it to director Robert Aldrich, with whom she’d done Autumn Leaves. As the crippled Blanche Hudson, Crawford wisely chose to underplay to her costar’s flamboyant histrionics.

When the character of Jane imitates her sister Blanche’s voice over the telephone, Davis is obviously miming Joan Crawford’s own voice--and Crawford exaggerates her own hoity-toity, piss elegant delivery, neatly spoofing the saintly, holier-than-thou  “Bless You” Crawford image. It’s obvious Joan  was savvy to the joke and able to poke fun at herself for the sake of a good story.

Maidie Norman as Elvira: "I can't remember the last time I saw words like that written down!"

Victor Buono and Marjorie Bennett: "This is Mr. Flagg's seck-etary...I think you'll find he's very well qualified."

B.D. Merrill (later Hyman) and her Mommie Dearest

Obese and effete young actor Victor Buono (best known as the evil King Tut on Batman), who was only in his early 20s at the time, was inspired casting as the pianist and potential “love interest” for Jane, and he earned a well-deserved Oscar nod himself for Best Supporting Actor. Other standouts in the cast include the reliable Maidie Norman (Torch Song) as Elvira, and British character actress Marjorie Bennett’s (Promises, Promises) broad cockney characterization as Edwin’s coddling mother.

Rounding out the cast are Anna Lee (The Sound of Music, General Hospital) as the nosy next-door neighbor,  and a flat-voiced B.D. Merrill giving the worst performance in the film as the neighbor's daughter…obviously reading her lines off a cue card, practically pausing in the middle of a sentence till the next card is turned  (Of course, B.D. Merrill Hyman is Bette Davis’s less talented daughter who later wrote the Mommie Dearest-inspired hack job My Mother’s Keeper in Bette’s waning years.)

Director Robert Aldrich confers with his stars

Baby Jane is the film that spawned a brand new movie genre—the Grand Guignol, named for the grotesque and violent French theatre that played ironically until 1962, the year this film was released. Guignol horror pictures of the 1960s revitalized the careers of the grande dames who headlined them, and created a new stereotype--the aging movie actress as either victim or killer. Some were well-produced and notable, but most were schlocky and exploitative, but almost all made money and kept leading ladies of a certain age working and in the public eye.

Some of my own guilty pleasures of the period include Die, Die My Darling! (with Tallulah Bankhead), What’s The Matter with Helen? (Debbie Reynolds), Whatever Happened to Aunt Alice? (Ruth Gordon), Lady in a Cage (Olivia de Havilland) and The Devil’s Own (Joan Fontaine). Later on, into the 1970s and even the ’80s, Elizabeth Taylor in Night Watch and Betsy Palmer in Friday the 13th kept the subgenre alive.

Crawford kept up her new image as Scream Queen with Straight Jacket, Berserk and Trog, while Bette Davis returned often to the Guignol, first in Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte, then in The Nanny, Burnt Offerings and The Dark Secret of Harvest Home.

Why does Baby Jane remain a classic? The bottom line is that it is a very solid low-budget horror  movie, suspenseful, taut and well-plotted, infused with dark humor. This grotesquely gothic film is a camp classic, yes...but it’s so much more than just that. The inimitable style and attention to detail of director Robert Aldrich (The Big Knife, The Killing of Sister George) are everywhere apparent, and the film is photographed with flair by the brilliant Ernest Haller (Gone with the Wind, Mildred Pierce). The charisma and combustible chemistry of its two leading ladies adds an undeniable layer of excitement.

Much has been written about the making of this unique film, and the legendary feud between the two stars, a lot of it myth and legend and hearsay. One particular writer, Shaun Considine, has compiled all the Baby Jane lore into an engrossing book called Bette and Joan: The Divine Feud. How much of it is true and how much is fiction is debatable. Perhaps some of the more outlandish stories were made up or exaggerated by the participants themselves specifically to sell tickets to the film. 

Joan and Bette's reunion in Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte was not meant to be.

But it’s safe to say that Davis and Crawford were never the best of friends...to put it mildly. Their first teaming was such a box office bonanza that Aldrich convinced them to reunite in a new movie, Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte, but on location in Louisiana Joan reportedly fell ill and then quit the picture just as filming got underway. Bette’s old friend Olivia deHavilland took over the role. Yep, their mutual enmity was most likely real!

And yes, of course I am watching (and LOVING) Ryan Murphy’s FX series Feud: Bette and Joan starring Susan Sarandon as Davis and Jessica Lange as Crawford. Both actresses are absolutely marvelous in it! It’s must-see TV for classic movie freaks like me.

I Want My Mommie!

Reading Rutanya Alda’s recent book on the making of Mommie Dearest (1981) triggered me to take an umpteenth look at a fascinating film that never gets old to me, and an iconic star performance by Faye Dunaway that forever changed the trajectory of her career.

In her personal diary of the filming of this camp opus, Alda, who played the downtrodden and underappreciated secretary/companion Carol Ann to Faye Dunaway’s Joan Crawford, weaves an absorbing tale of neurotic and insecure actors (including dear Rutanya herself!), overworked technicians and designer divas (all as high-strung as the star, in fact). She paints Dunaway as the consummate narcissist, totally engrossed in her own performance to the detriment of the overall production. (Alda’s wry reflections are also a general indictment of how cold the movie business can really be.)

And at the end of her book, Alda confides that Dunaway herself is planning to publish her own Mommie memoir—and even asked Alda to help her write it (as if Carol Ann was still her faithful handmaiden).  Fanatic lovers of the cult classic are waiting with bated breath to hear her side of the story, as the actress has steadfastly refused to discuss the film at any length, indeed flying into a rage at the mere mention of Mommie.

Alda’s memoir is a great read, but there are so many unanswered questions that only Miss Dunaway can answer. Was Anne Bancroft really the first choice to play Joan? What were the original creative intentions of this film? Did they expect it to be taken seriously by critics and audiences? What in the world did the creative team think they were creating? Perhaps Faye will give us a clue, if she ever follows through with her own book.

According to Alda, Faye was convinced that the role of Joan Crawford would bring her another Academy Award nomination (“I won’t win it, though,” Dunaway added with false modesty.)

Day after day of obsessively running the dailies, poring over every foot of film shot, how could Faye Dunaway not know that both her performance and her appearance were an over-the-top cartoon?

Dunaway 1967—bigger than Jennifer Lawrence is today

Undeniably, Faye Dunaway was a fine actress of rare beauty and megawatt star power, the Jennifer Lawrence of her day. Her startling breakthrough role opposite Warren Beatty in 1967’s acclaimed Bonnie and Clyde brought her an Academy Award nomination for Best Actress, as did her turn in Roman Polanski’s homage to 1940s noir, Chinatown (in which Dunaway pays homage to The Maltese Falcon’s Mary Astor as the inscrutable seductress). In 1976, her realistic portrayal of an ambitious TV executive in Paddy Chayefsky’s chilling satire Network won her the coveted Oscar. Throughout the 1970s she costarred with Redford, Nicholson, Newman, McQueen. She was A-List all the way.

How could she have taken such a wrong turn with Mommie Dearest? What were the filmmakers intending? Was it some sort of creative experiment gone horribly bad? Were she, director Frank Perry, producer Frank Yablans (The Other Side of Midnight) and executive producer David Koontz (Christina Crawford’s husband) deliberately creating an overblown, surreal and cinematic biopic as an homage to Crawford’s famously mannered performances in iconic melodramas? Therein lies the mystery not solved in Rutanya Alda’s diaries.

Diana Scarwid as Christina; Faye and an overpowering bouffant as Mom

Producer Yablans had assembled a glittering production team to create a sumptuous period piece, recreating old Hollywood glamour of the 1940s and 50s—most notably Oscar-winning costume designer Irene Sharaff, who dressed Crawford herself, as well as Judy Garland, Elizabeth Taylor and Doris Day back in filmdom’s golden era; and production designer Bill Malley, who created the eerie look and feel of The Exorcist. The period costumes and sets were all first-rate and authentic, and early photographs of Faye as Joan (taken by Dunaway’s photographer paramour Terry O’Neill) were leaked to the press. The likeness would be uncanny, everyone thought.

But ultimately, according to Rutanya Alda’s book, the hair and makeup team quickly became fed up with Dunaway’s perfectionism, and the actress’s resulting looks suffered tremendously in the translation. Irene Sharaff also quit the production in a huff after a tiff with Dunaway. The script, originally adapted from his wife’s book by David Koontz, was tinkered with by a laundry list of writers of various styles and points of view. The shooting schedule of the film was demolished by poor time management, and many scenes were never shot, others filmed but never used. (Such is undoubtedly the case with many films.)

Mommie’s supporting cast, led by Mara Hobel as the younger and Diana Scarwid (Inside Moves, Silkwood) as the older Christina, are poorly developed (though those actresses do both give it their all opposite Faye), and in the final cut Rutanya Alda’s faithful servant Carol Ann is barely a cipher (and her horrific old age makeup is the pits!).  As a result, it was solely up to the star power of Faye Dunaway to carry the film. (And she runs away with it—but at what cost?)

Severe, taken to the extreme 

In many ways, it’s a monster movie, on a par with Godzilla or Frankenstein. In an early scene, Dunaway as Crawford walks into her foyer to greet her boyfriend, lawyer Greg Savitt (Bautzer to true Crawford historians), played by Steve Forrest. The camera moves in on Dunaway, looking quite attractive, but then in the close shot, we see her beauty marred by comically painted-on, caterpillar-width eyebrows. (Yes, that may have been the style in 1940, but it strikes one of the first jarring notes in this 1981 symphony of cinema dissonance.) The greatest drag show on earth has begun.

Dunaway allows herself to become more and more unattractive as the film goes on, wearing a series of wigs and hairstyles that are either severe or overwrought but always unflattering. Her grinning painted-on face leers underneath a tight white swimming cap in the pool sequence, transforming her from glamour gal to an evil, demonic clown. Most famous is the night raid sequence, where a drunken Joan bellows like a harridan about wire hangers in her daughter’s closet, then beats her with both a hanger and a can of Bon Ami cleanser. Dunaway’s horrifyingly insane-looking, cross-eyed face glinting under a thick layer of cold cream is iconically nightmarish.

Deep in character for the night raid scene

Faye Dunaway’s performance is histrionic, to put it mildly, positively operatic in its range and scope. (Faye herself described it as a Kabuki during a brief discussion of the film on Inside the Actor’s Studio.) She paints a no-holds-barred portrait of a monstrous shrew, evoking a tempest of trumped-up emotions and theatrical gestures. Unfortunately, there’s precious little heart or depth, and few quiet or introspective moments to offset the unrelenting bombast. Director Perry fails to pull Dunaway back from the precipice of ridiculous overacting, and the actress just simply takes the plunge into the grand guignol. (And truly seems to glory in it). 

Mommie Dearest, after receiving excoriating reviews and being branded an ignominious flop upon its release,  was immediately elevated to cult status by the gay community—and there it remains, where countless thousands of other films have disappeared from public consciousness. And generations of gay fans have applauded Faye’s balls-out performance as her most fabulous, fearless and unforgettable screen creation. The film has become an obsessive guilty pleasure, a gleeful happening on a par with The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a repetition ritual to be experienced over and over until every line and gesture is memorized and indelibly inscribed upon the psyche. 

A beauty-in-a-turban moment for Faye, and the real Joan Crawford

Faye’s A-List career never quite recovered despite creditable performances in dozens more films over the years. But her reputation was tarnished, and the characters of Joan/Faye seemed to blur as coworkers stepped forward to name Dunaway as a real-life diva who was as much a horror as the Mommie character she had created.

Bette Davis and Roman Polanski had both named Dunaway as the most difficult actress they had ever worked with, and Rutanya Alda’s tales confirm that Faye was indeed demanding, self-absorbed and contrary as she created the character of Crawford, always failing to connect on a human level with the other actors in the film. (Reportedly, she’d reblock entire scenes, pushing the supporting characters out of the camera frame whenever possible, commandeering and appropriating their lines, and insisting that no crew member be in her line of vision when the cameras were turning.)

But isn’t every great star a little bit of a monster? Don’t they all have to be tough cookies, to succeed in the hyper-competitive business of show? Ambition, self-preservation, immersion in craft and character, a ruthless determination to compete and come out on top...undeniably all the ingredients needed to obtain and maintain a firm footing in the quicksands of the cinema firmament. Faye had ’em all.

Miss Dunaway, we eagerly await your side of the story. In the meantime, we will always love you, Mommie Dearest! (And three cheers for Carol Ann!)

P.S. Read more about Rutanya Alda's book at Le Cinema Dreams. 

Mildred à Deux

Strong woman. Single mother. Never having to depend on a man, enjoying the thrill of making it on her own, but willing to sacrifice it all for the sake of her beloved daughter. That’s Mildred Pierce in a nutshell. Both film versions of James M. Cain’s gritty 1941 novel—the 1945 Warner Brothers classic and the 2011 HBO miniseries—are masterful works in their own right, with very different approaches to the material, but both films make strong feminist statements that continue to resonate, and fascinate audiences.  

At its core, Mildred is a twisted mother-daughter love story; in both versions the men in Mildred’s life are mere supporting characters. The real drama centers around a mother pining for the approval of her cold fish daughter, attempting to buy her love, to no avail. Housewife Mildred dotes too much on her children and her unemployed husband finds solace in the arms of another woman. She kicks him out and finds a job as a waitress to support herself and her two daughters, eventually finding a way to open her own restaurant. When Mildred loses her youngest daughter to pneumonia, Mildred redoubles her efforts to make her new venture a success—to give her spoiled surviving daughter Veda the glamorous life she craves.

Joan Crawford as Mildred

The 1945 version is a film noir masterpiece, directed by the legendary Michael Curtiz (Casablanca) and photographed superbly and inventively by veteran cameraman Ernest Haller in moody black and white. For the film, Cain’s frank and hardboiled yarn had to be sanitized to pass the stringent Motion Picture Production Code. but screenwriter Ranald MacDougall manages to retain the tension and conflict in his tightly plotted script while skirting the novel’s racier passages. Curtiz and Haller elevate melodrama to an art form with the use of film noir techniques, using light and shadow to suggest and underline the more lurid story elements and character motivations.

Glamorous noir, with Blyth and Crawford

By contrast, Todd Haynes’s 2011 miniseries is far more faithful to its source material, gutsy, raw and real. Haynes, who had paid homage to Douglas Sirk with Far From Heaven (in which the production design unfortunately far exceeded its ho-hum storyline) recreates 1930s Depression-era Los Angeles in painstaking detail. And on HBO, there’s no need to shy away from the more explicit and adult angles to the story...Mildred and Veda’s numerous sexual entanglements and the clearly incestuous underpinnings of their fragile relationship are explored in unflinching detail. But in its way, Todd Haynes’s vision of Mildred is just as stylized as its classic counterpart, touching the subconscious with its vivid imagery...it is the director’s most inventive and magical work since his 1998 masterpiece Velvet Goldmine.

Kate Winslet as Mildred

Mildred Pierce marked a comeback for Joan Crawford, who had unceremoniously exited MGM after 17 years as one of its top stars, following a string of box office failures. The 1945 Warner Brothers film was originally planned as a vehicle for Bette Davis, who turned the role down upon learning she was to play mother to an adult actress. A desperate Joan Crawford said that she’d play Wally Beery’s grandmother if it was a good role, and campaigned actively for the part. Director Curtiz resisted working with Crawford and made her submit to a screen test before casting her in the title role.

For Crawford, Mildred turned out to be a career-redefining role.  It revitalized her image, won her her a Best Actress Academy Award and secured her career longevity for the next 20+ years. Crawford carries the picture on her capable shoulders; her performance is luminous and compelling. Haller’s haunting close-ups show a radiantly beautiful, maturing Crawford, whose famously large eyes had registered human emotion since the silent era. Her scenes with Ann Blyth as daughter Veda crackle with excitement and chemistry, as Crawford generously and wisely underplays as the long-suffering mother.

Kate Winslet is an altogether different brand of Mildred. Winslet, herself an iconic movie beauty, eschews the glamour angle to bring the “common frump” Veda calls her mother to vivid life. Winslet’s Mildred is more than a pound or two above her ideal weight, and her sometimes slovenly appearance illustrates the sweaty hard work of waitressing. (By contrast, the perfectly coiffed Crawford sports her trademark ankle-strap shoes and Adrian shoulder pads under her waitress uniform, creating a perfect movie star mannequin silhouette.) Moreover, Kate’s Mildred is a sensual and sexual animal, rolling into and out of bed with the men in her life with lusty abandon, often merely to achieve her aims. As Mildred, Winslet is electrifying and unforgettable.

Ann Blyth and Evan Rachel Wood as Veda

Pretty Ann Blyth (The Helen Morgan Story)  was never better than as the bitchy, self-centered Veda in the 1945 film. The promise she showed was never completely fulfilled (she received a Best Supporting Actress Oscar nod for her work), though she did make a series of light musicals over the next decade. The 2011 version features an equally remarkable performance by beautiful young Evan Rachel Wood (True Blood) as Veda, who gives Blyth a run for her money. (Morgan Turner, too, is very good as the younger Veda.)

Guy Pearce as Monty

Guy Pearce (L.A. Confidential, Adventures of Priscilla) whose slim physique and chiseled face closely resemble the leading men of the 1930s and 40s, is perfectly cast as Monty in the 2011 film, lending a dangerous air of depravity and debauched sexuality to the character originally played by a smarmy and somewhat effete Zachary Scott. (We have to give props to Mr. Scott, too, in the sex appeal department, especially in the beach scenes where he rocks a black speedo paired with a polo sweater.)

Though both films are carried by the talents of their titular stars, it’s their fine supporting performances that give them depth and dimension and brand them as classics of their times. The 1945 version is leavened by the humor and energy of veteran supporting actors like Jack Carson, Eve Arden and Butterfly McQueen. The 2011 version is darker, deeper, and peopled with fine actors at every turn, including the wonderful Hope Davis and the underrated James LeGros and Brían F. O’Byrne.  

Eve Arden as Ida

The role of Mildred’s mentor and confidante Ida, played with trademark comic timing by the brilliant Eve Arden, is actually a composite of two rival characters in Cain’s novel, and Haynes’s version casts the versatile Mare Winningham as the no-nonsense waitress Ida, and Oscar winner Melissa Leo (The Fighter)  as Mildred’s best friend Lucy, who both vie for Mildred’s attentions. In Haynes’s film, in fact, all the womens’ relationships completely overshadow the male characters—obviously by design.

Mare Winningham as Ida

Melissa Leo as Lucy

Both these fierce Mildreds are “women’s pictures” but for different reasons. The 1945 film can be summarized as the story of a woman—Joan Crawford as Mildred Pierce; while the 2011 version seems to be a story about all women, how they survived during the dark days of the depression, how they raised their children, where they succeeded and failed.  I treasure both of these fine films, which stand next to one another in my DVD cabinet to be enjoyed equally, year after year.

Mommie Dearest: Faye or Joan?

No wonder Ms. Dunaway rues the day she signed on to play Joan Crawford in the big-screen adaptation of the Christina Crawford tell-all.

First, her performance in the 1981 epic sent shock waves through Hollywood--for all the wrong reasons. Probably believing she was giving a performance worthy of a second Academy Award (she had won Best Actress for Network in 1976), poor Faye must have blanched when she saw the finished product up there on the screen. Her high-camp, over-the-top Kabuki of a portrayal was universally panned by critics of “serious film” and gave drag queens material to copy for the next 30 years.   

So strong was the impact of Mommie Dearest that Faye Dunaway lost her identity as a top female star in her own right. From then on, “Joan Crawford” seemed to overshadow and obliterate all of the beautiful actress’s former accomplishments, including memorable roles in A+, four-star films like Bonnie and Clyde (1967) and Chinatown (1974).

Faye’s personality seemed to change, too. She couldn’t seem to shake off the exaggerated histrionics of the Joan character when playing other roles, such as Eva Peron in a TV miniseries. Like Elizabeth Taylor, who became the character of raucous broad Martha in 1966’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf and stayed Martha for the rest of her life, Faye morphed into an eerie reincarnation of long-ago star Crawford.  

What’s worse, young people today have trouble differentiating these two fine actresses. Oh well--both their heydays were so long ago that it’s lucky we remember either one.  

Here’s to Faye, and to Joan. You’re both unforgettable, and may you continue to shine brightly in our memories and on TV and the World Wide Web. 

P.S. I happen to LOVE Mommie Dearest. It’s a movie to see over and over until you’ve memorized every line...