.” A caterwauling catastrophe that’s been reclaimed over the years as a queer camp classic, director Frank Perry’s astonishingly miscalculated 1981 adaptation of Christina Crawford’s score-settling memoir of childhood abuse set ablaze the careers of pretty much all involved. Faye Dunaway’s ferocious, fearless performance as screen legend Joan Crawford has been rightfully enshrined in the overacting hall of fame, and to this day remains a thing of wonder.
Part of what made the movie and memoir “Mommie Dearest” so scandalously delicious was that Crawford’s most celebrated role was playing one of the saintliest, most selfless cinematic moms of all time, in director Michael Curtiz’s 1945 noir-inflected melodrama “.” Programmed as part of the Coolidge series as I’m assuming something of a rebuttal, the film stars Crawford as a waitress and put-upon single mother to one of the most spoiled, ungrateful little brats in film history.
Often left off the list of most devoted movie moms is Betsy Palmer’s poor Mrs. Voorhees, who took up a machete to avenge her son Jason’s drowning death at Camp Crystal Lake while all those horny teenage counselors were off having sex. The “” series is pretty much the bottom of the barrel as far as slasher pictures go, but kudos to the Coolidge for reminding us that the franchise began out of maternal love.
It seems unthinkable now, but there was a brief window in the late 1980s and early ‘90s when studios were actually giving proud pervert and bad-taste icon John Waters budgets to make movies that played in shopping malls. His 1994 box office dud “” put an end to all that, I guess.
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