Every so often there comes a movie that is so over-the-top it actually saves itself from total oblivion by the sheer force of the laughably bad performances. This one was one of the first movies to sweep the Razzies, not that Faye Dunaway was thrilled to do so, having just won an Oscar in 1977 for her brutal performance in NETWORK, but the same way that little gold guy can be a blessing, it can be a curse. If not, look at Halle Berry's career choices after her win for MONSTER'S BALL. She may still re-bound; her career is still not at a point of no return and her acceptance speech at the Razzies may be the cold water splashing on her face that will take her back to the roles she's supposed to be doing, not the ones which will garner her the "first black woman to..." status.
But not to digress. MOMMIE DEAREST was and is a camp classic de rigeur, right up there with VALLEY OF THE DOLLS. It is the CITIZEN KANE of camp. Producers must have decided that Christina Crawford's tell-all book about her mother -- in case you didn't already know it's Joan Crawford, movie star, Oscar winner, glamor girl, alleged child beater -- would make a brilliant film, and why? Well, for once, biopics featuring stars at their absolute worst weren't that common at the time this film was released, and certainly a book as sordid as this might make for a dark look into a respected actress, recently defunct. And so the casting of an actress who would embody those excesses to the hilt -- and wouldn't you know, the actress who stated years before she admired Crawford stepped into the task of turning herself to Joan from head to toe: not only physical, but in mannerisms, gowns, diction. Faye literally became "Joan Crawford" in image and style. The problem is, the script was so unabashedly exploitative and poorly written, her Crawford became a caricature, a cliché of poses that Crawford herself had created in many of her film credits. There is no real Joan Crawford here: only a repetition of lines that seem to be lifted almost directly from other movies. This Joan as a matter of fact seems to also live in her own time capsule. No mention of her 1920s or 1930s career, no mention of her marriage to Philip Barry, no mention of her later return to MGM to film TORCH SONG or her horror movie period, not even any back story of what happened behind sets in Mildred Pierce or the fact that she had to audition several times before getting that particular part (which won her her only Best Actress Oscar. No mention of her rivalry of Bette Davis (who? not in this film), either, and their one movie together, WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE? This is all fantasy, seen even more clearly with the inclusion of a completely fictional lover (played awfully by Steve Forrest) and housekeeper Carol Anne (an equally bad Rutanya Alda) and not to mention the horrific performance of Diana Scarwid as Christina Crawford who has some sublimely bad scenes filled with beyond terrible lines. (It made me wonder, was the actual Christina there as a consultant, and if she was, how does one explain how moronic she becomes as the movie progresses to the point that we actually side with Joan?)
Then again, this not being an autobiography nor a book of accounts of actors who knew and worked with Crawford but an amateur attempt at writing, huge inaccuracies were bound to happen. And to portray interminable, disjointed scenes of Crawford gone mad, brutalizing Christina for no other reason than being wigged out -- well, I'm not sure what the director is trying to say here.
So if there's no real Crawford (older and younger), then this is all a mindless exercise in glossy excess. It's the TV biopic of the month that never was; its existence predates future biopics of similar awfulness (if not, check recent tell-all bio-pics that ABC, Lifetime, and other channels have been churning out lately on TV stars clawing each other's eyes out). It's also the precursor of trash TV: if anyone recalls DYNASTY or MELROSE PLACE or even Jerry Springer, all they have to do is rent this baby and enjoy the sublime scene when Dunaway tries to body slam and strangle Diana Scarwid (Christina as an adult) as a reporter watches in horror. Now that's entertainment!
But not to digress. MOMMIE DEAREST was and is a camp classic de rigeur, right up there with VALLEY OF THE DOLLS. It is the CITIZEN KANE of camp. Producers must have decided that Christina Crawford's tell-all book about her mother -- in case you didn't already know it's Joan Crawford, movie star, Oscar winner, glamor girl, alleged child beater -- would make a brilliant film, and why? Well, for once, biopics featuring stars at their absolute worst weren't that common at the time this film was released, and certainly a book as sordid as this might make for a dark look into a respected actress, recently defunct. And so the casting of an actress who would embody those excesses to the hilt -- and wouldn't you know, the actress who stated years before she admired Crawford stepped into the task of turning herself to Joan from head to toe: not only physical, but in mannerisms, gowns, diction. Faye literally became "Joan Crawford" in image and style. The problem is, the script was so unabashedly exploitative and poorly written, her Crawford became a caricature, a cliché of poses that Crawford herself had created in many of her film credits. There is no real Joan Crawford here: only a repetition of lines that seem to be lifted almost directly from other movies. This Joan as a matter of fact seems to also live in her own time capsule. No mention of her 1920s or 1930s career, no mention of her marriage to Philip Barry, no mention of her later return to MGM to film TORCH SONG or her horror movie period, not even any back story of what happened behind sets in Mildred Pierce or the fact that she had to audition several times before getting that particular part (which won her her only Best Actress Oscar. No mention of her rivalry of Bette Davis (who? not in this film), either, and their one movie together, WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE? This is all fantasy, seen even more clearly with the inclusion of a completely fictional lover (played awfully by Steve Forrest) and housekeeper Carol Anne (an equally bad Rutanya Alda) and not to mention the horrific performance of Diana Scarwid as Christina Crawford who has some sublimely bad scenes filled with beyond terrible lines. (It made me wonder, was the actual Christina there as a consultant, and if she was, how does one explain how moronic she becomes as the movie progresses to the point that we actually side with Joan?)
Then again, this not being an autobiography nor a book of accounts of actors who knew and worked with Crawford but an amateur attempt at writing, huge inaccuracies were bound to happen. And to portray interminable, disjointed scenes of Crawford gone mad, brutalizing Christina for no other reason than being wigged out -- well, I'm not sure what the director is trying to say here.
So if there's no real Crawford (older and younger), then this is all a mindless exercise in glossy excess. It's the TV biopic of the month that never was; its existence predates future biopics of similar awfulness (if not, check recent tell-all bio-pics that ABC, Lifetime, and other channels have been churning out lately on TV stars clawing each other's eyes out). It's also the precursor of trash TV: if anyone recalls DYNASTY or MELROSE PLACE or even Jerry Springer, all they have to do is rent this baby and enjoy the sublime scene when Dunaway tries to body slam and strangle Diana Scarwid (Christina as an adult) as a reporter watches in horror. Now that's entertainment!