Joan Crawford' Stories

Trunks a lot!

Those are key words: "not easy to discipline her . . . punishing her by hurting her dignity .... hard not to spoil him . . . one thing I am determined not to do . . . discipline."

It was perhaps natural that Crawford, the most disciplined of movie stars, sought to have the most disciplined of children, especially when she had to assume the roles of both father and mother. Joan accepted the responsibilities, some of her friends believed, with a vengeance.

One of her friends sadly remarked: "I'm sure that Joan loved those children. But something, probably out of her own miserable childhood, drove her to discipline them unreasonably. Very often the battered child grows up to become an abusive parent." The private picture of Joan Crawford as mother proved far different from what appeared in the movie magazines.

Christina was five and not especially beautiful, except for her flowing blond hair. When complimenting her, visitors always mentioned her lovely hair. The girl was at the mirror one day, combing her hair over and over again. "Mommy, dearest, don't you think I have beautiful hair?" she said. "I will not have a daughter who is vain," Joan replied, and sheared Christina's hair with a pair of scissors.

Once an actor sat at the bar of Joan's playroom, conversing with the hostess about events in the studios. After twenty minutes Joan remarked, "Shall we let Christopher out now?"

"What?" the actor asked.

Joan walked across the room and opened a closet door. Young Christopher came out, blinking at the sunlight. "He has been a naughty boy," Joan explained, "but I think he has learned his lesson."

Christina was having a birthday party. Many other movie stars' children were invited, and Joan had ordered a clown and a pony ride. On the morning of the party, Christina in her excitement talked back to her mother. It was too late to call off the party, and so Christina watched it from the window of her bedroom.

At the end of a dinner party, Joan asked the women guests, "Would you like to see the children's clothes?" She led them upstairs to the bedrooms and proudly displayed the racks of pastel dresses, all starched and freshly ironed. When she went into Christopher's room, she opened the boy's closets. One of her guests, Betty Furness, was astonished to see that Christopher was tied to the four comers of the bed.

"Oh, he kicks off the covers, and he sucks his thumb," Joan explained. "I'm teaching him not to."

Guests at Joan's house learned to endure the ritual in which the children appeared and made their farewells to the visitors. Christopher was required to bow, and the girls curtsied as they went around the room saying "Good night, Uncle Clark, good night, Aunt Barbara," etc.

If the girls failed to curtsy correctly, they were required to repeat the procedure. The final obeisance was saved for their mother, and it was always, "Good night, Mommy dearest, I love you."

When the boy was six, Joan saved his discipline until her dinner guests had assembled. She reminded Christopher of his infraction that day, pulled down his pants and spanked his bare behind.

Visitors to the Crawford home were continually appalled by Joan's treatment of her children. A close friend recalled seeing Joan take Christopher's chin in her hand, saying, "Isn't he a beautiful boy?" She held the boy's face so tightly and for so long that his face turned deep red.

The same friend was waiting for Joan in the den one day when she heard a sound behind the door. She found Christina there, quivering in fright. "Tina, what are you doing?" the friend asked. "I didn't clean up my room before going to school, and I don't want Mommy to find me," the girl explained

Christina idolized Judy Garland, whom Joan had befriended at MGM (the two stars once met on personal appearances in New York, and Joan discarded Judy's entire wardrobe and bought her dresses Joan considered more suitable). Judy often attended the Sunday-afternoon parties at the Crawford house, and Christina followed her around, wide-eyed. Joan sometimes encouraged her talented guests to perform, and on one occasion Judy Garland was asked to sing. Because she had not done her household chores to her mother's satisfaction that morning, Christina was sent to her room before the concert began.

One day Joan heard Christopher squealing in pain. She rushed to the sobbing boy and said, "What is the matter, dearest?" He pointed to his terrified sister and said, "Tina shut my hand in the door."

"I didn't mean to," Christina said desperately.

"Of course you didn't mean to, but you were thoughtless and careless," said her mother. "How would you like it if someone did that to you?" She grabbed Christina by the arm and pressed the door against her hand until the girl screamed in agony.

At Christmas, packages mounted around the Crawford tree. Being young, the four children were consumed with curiosity, and they peeked inside the gaily wrapped boxes. Their mother found out, and she ordered that all presents for the children be put away. The presents would have to be earned, one by one, through additional household chores.

James MacArthur came to Hollywood in 1950 when his mother, Helen Hayes, returned to the screen in My Son John. They were entertained on a Sunday afternoon at the home of Helen's old friend Joan Crawford. James was invited to spend a weekend with Christopher, who was three years younger.

The two boys were preparing for sleep in Christopher's room when the maid entered and began strapping Christopher to his bed. Young MacArthur was astonished. "Is this the way they treat children in Hollywood?" he mused. "And will I be next?" The maid left the room without applying the same treatment to the guest

"How can you let them do that to you?" James inquired in the darkness.

"Don't worry about it," Christopher replied, executing a Houdini-like escape from his bonds.

There were other tales told by housekeepers and governesses who periodically left the Crawford employ. Of how Joan, after an evening of drinking, would terrify the children by bursting into their bedrooms and tearing apart their closets in a rage over their failures to meet her standards of neatness. Of relentless beatings, particularly of Christina and Christopher, over insignificant offenses

Joan would countenance no criticism about the upbringing of her children. One night she was escorted to an awards dinner by her director Curtis Bernhardt. He drove to her house and observed the ritual "Good night, Uncle Curtis" with curtsies and bows.

Bernhardt and Joan rode to the dinner in a studio limousine. As they drove along Wilshire Boulevard, the director remarked, "You know, Joan, you treat those children like monkeys. You make them bow and curtsy

Just like trained animals in a circus act. Why don't you let them be themselves?*

"Out!" she ordered.

"What?"

"Get out of the car! Don't tell me how to raise my children!"

Bernhardt stepped out on the sidewalk. After the limousine had proceeded a few feet, she allowed him to reenter. But she wouldn't hear another word about her children.

Not even her closest friends could temper her attitude. Cesar Romero once remarked, "My God, Joan, why don't you ease up? They're only kids."

It was the only time she was angry with him. " They're only kids'! Well, I was a kid once, and I didn't have a damn thing. Those kids are going to appreciate everything they get."

She made the girls learn how to cook and sew, and Christopher had to help with the household chores along with them. If they misbehaved, their toys were taken away and had to be earned again by special duties.

Olivia de Havilland once observed Joan and her children at the desert resort of La Quinta: "Joan came marching out to the pool in a white bathing suit and spent the morning teaching the children to dive in the water and swim the length of the pool. She cracked out the commands like a drillmaster, or a master training a German shepherd."

Christopher seemed to suffer the most. Robert Preston was a next-door neighbor for eight years. Often when he drove out his driveway in the early morning on his way to the studio, he found Christopher standing at the curb. It was too early for his school bus, but the boy seemed to station himself there for a talk with his neighbor, such was his need for male companionship.

The boy tried to fulfill his mother's demands, but it appeared impossible. In the limousine en route to a movie premiere, Joan kept admonishing Chris to sit up straight, brush his hair, and so on. Christopher suddenly became ill and vomited. Joan was furious.

When he was nine, he ran away. He was absent for four hours while Joan was at CBS to audition for a radio series. The police were notified and Christopher was found playing with two other boys several blocks away

James MacArthur came to Hollywood in 1950 when his mother, Helen Hayes, returned to the screen in My Son John. They were entertained on a Sunday afternoon at the home of Helen's old friend Joan Crawford. James was invited to spend a weekend with Christopher, who was three years younger.

The two boys were preparing for sleep in Christopher's room when the maid entered and began strapping Christopher to his bed. Young MacArthur was astonished. "Is this the way they treat children in Hollywood?" he mused. "And will I be next?" The maid left the room without applying the same treatment to the guest

"How can you let them do that to you?" James inquired in the darkness.

"Don't worry about it," Christopher replied, executing a Houdini-like escape from his bonds.

There were other tales told by housekeepers and governesses who periodically left the Crawford employ. Of how Joan, after an evening of drinking, would terrify the children by bursting into their bedrooms and tearing apart their closets in a rage over their failures to meet her standards of neatness. Of relentless beatings, particularly of Christina and Christopher, over insignificant offenses

It was not the end of Christopher's attempts to escape. When he was twelve, he was picked up by police as he was on his way to ship out to sea as a cabin boy. Four times he tried to run away from a military academy at Altadena, northeast of Los Angeles. Each time he was returned.

Christina, being the oldest child and the most like Joan herself, received the greatest punishment. The girl complained about the girlish dresses her mother made her wear to school, even though Christina towered over her fellow students. She continued to attend classes in short gingham outfits that drew ridicule from her contemporaries, making Christina more withdrawn and shy.

She began saving her meager allowance to buy inexpensive dresses that were more in style, making sure that her mother never saw them.

Once Christina made the mistake of appearing in pedal pushers, which were then stylish. Joan stripped them off and gave them to the Goodwill.

On weekends at home, the arguments between Christina and her mother continued, especially over the girl's desire to dress in the style of others her age. The weekend visits became less frequent. When Christina came home for the summer of 1953, the encounters with her mother were so acrimonious that Joan sent her back to school two weeks later. Christopher, who was eleven, followed soon thereafter

The two Crawford children were the only students at Chadwick School that summer, and their mother refused to support them. Commander Joseph Chadwick and his wife, Margaret, took the pair into their home, assigning them chores for their keep. "Living with the Chadwicks was my first taste of normal family life," Christina later recalled.

At Thanksgiving, Christina was scheduled to spend the holiday with her mother. When Joan learned the girl had not prepared her Christmas-card list as she had been ordered, Joan became incensed and ordered Christina to remain at school. Joan became angrier when the Chadwicks suggested that Christina might better stay with them in view of the turmoil at home.

Three days later, a station wagon appeared at Chadwick School to claim Christina. Inside were a chauffeur, Crawford's secretary and a private detective. They took Christina away from the only secure environment she had ever known, to a mountaintop convent, Flintridge Sacred Heart Academy. Christopher was sent to a military school, and the two younger girls to a Catholic grammar school.

Joan told the nuns of Sacred Heart that there had been some "difficulty" with Christina at her previous school and she was not to be allowed to leave on weekends or vacations. Christina endured two lonely years in the convent, achieving the highest honors of a non-Catholic student.

At graduation time she was forbidden to attend the celebration party. She was the only student with no member of her family at the graduation. Joan later remarked: "She wanted to be on her own, so I let her."

Problems with the children would continue throughout Joan's life. Said her longtime friend Dorothy Manners: "Joan was generous and kind, but her one blind spot was her children. She dressed the poor boy in velvet, and made all of the children bow and scrape. She felt in her heart that she was doing the right thing. Her reasoning was: I got where I was because I am a disciplined person. I am disciplined. Therefore she tried to discipline her children. She believed that undisciplined people were unhappy."

Adela Rogers St. John offered another observation: "I don't think mat Joan really liked children. Some women don't, you know."

None of her friends' analyses can explain adequately Joan's unthinking and sometimes horrid treatment of her children. She could be an overwhelmingly kind and generous person in other respects; for instance, her endowment of hospital rooms and medical care for Hollywood's needy. Her gift-giving was prodigious, and not always did she seek favor from the recipient. Why, then, would she treat her children so cruelly?

The answer must lie in her own Dickensian childhood. The beatings she received from the hands of her mother and the principal of Rockingham Academy were transferred to Tina, Chris, Cindy and Cathy. It was an instinctive, unreasoning reaction to the injustice that had been inflicted on her.

Helen Hayes, who had known Joan for almost half a century, remarked sadly, "Joan tried to be all things to all people. I just wish she hadn't tried to be a mother.'

It was Crawford's idea from the start. She believed a film starring Joan Crawford and Bette Davis would prove good showmanship and bring new vitality to both their careers. She further believed that Robert Aldrich was the filmmaker who could accomplish such a project, since he was daring, innovative and tough enough to control the two strong personalities. For several years after they made Autumn Leaves together Crawford kept urging Aldrich to find a vehicle for herself and Davis.

The two stars scarcely knew each other. During the 1930's they worked at different studios and rarely met socially, Bette preferring to live in the East between films. Joan never knew that Bette fell in love with Franchot Tone during the making of Dangerous, but the relationship was brief, and Franchot returned to his marriage with Joan.

Except for the luncheon with Curtis Bernhardt, Bette and Joan had little contact on the Warner Brothers lot Both appeared in Hollywood Canteen, but not together. In the 1950's both Crawford and Davis had experienced an inevitable decline in their film careers. Crawford occupied herself with Pepsi-Cola and television appearances, while Davis made two films abroad and returned to the theater in Night of the Iguana.

Both Joan and Bette sensed that Baby Jane could prove a much-needed bonanza to their fortunes and bring new life to their careers. They were willing to promote the film in any possible way, and they agreed to attend a command dinner-interview at the home of Hedda Hopper. Hopper noted: "The three of us were dressed in black. As we sat down to dinner, I said we looked like three blackwidow spiders. But there was a difference: Joan, always the glamour star, wore a black cocktail suit, the somberness lit with diamond earrings and a diamond pin in her hair. Bette's black was unrelieved by jewelry except for a small pin." The columnist also observed that Bette drank Scotch on the rocks while Joan poured from her own flask of 100-proof vodka. "I say if you're going to have a drink, have what you want," Joan explained

Inevitably, the spirit of competition entered their relationship; both were exceptionally competitive women. They competed in everything—in their interviews, in their performances before the camera, in their relationships with the cast and crew.

Joan had only one scene with Victor Buono, in which he discovers the crippled Blanche cruelly tied to her bed and near death. Joan had completed her part of the scene, had removed her makeup and was ready to leave the stage. Then she learned that Aldrich was filming a close-up of Buono's reaction. She put her costume back on, placed a veil on her head and returned to the set. She lay on the bed until Buono completed his close-up.

Bette's performance required a great deal of physical exertion. In one mad scene she had to whirl Joan around in the wheelchair, and she even lifted it off the floor. Another scene called for Jane to carry her sister from the bedroom. Playing the cripple, Joan made her body a dead weight, and Bette was strained under the exertion. As soon as Aldrich said "Cutl" Bette screamed in pain and bellowed profanities. She had hurt her back and required four days to recover. Aldrich managed to continue filming without her.

"You should see the way Bette dresses at the studio," Joan confided to a friend. "She walks around in bedroom slippers and an old ragged terry-cloth robe with makeup stains on the collar!"

She resented Bette's proprietary attitude toward the Baby Jane project. After all, it was she who had pestered Aldrich for years to find a costarring vehicle for the two actresses. Now, Joan complained, Davis was acting as if the idea were hers.

Joan became suspicious of Bette's relationship with Bob Aldrich. After all, he had been Joan's director first, and now Bette seemed to be claiming him. Joan recognized that the Davis style probably appealed more to the burly director. Bette had a lusty laugh and became buddies with directors she liked, whereas Joan always treated them deferentially, like surrogate fathers.

As was her custom, Joan ordered a Pepsi-Cola cooler to be installed on the set, and it was stocked with bottles that were free to the company members. Aldrich had long been friend with executives of Coca-Cola, and he asked them to send a supply to the Baby Jane set. Joan retaliated by ordering a giant Pepsi-Cola dispenser for the stage, accompanied by a tall stack of cartons.

The director was able to avoid a clash between Davis and Crawford until the final days of the strenuous schedule. He was filming a climactic scene in the bedroom with Jane tormenting her weakened sister. Joan had been suffering with a tenacious cold, and after several takes she asked Aldrich, "Could we have a break for a few minutes, please? I feel terrible."

Bette, who had aroused herself for the emotional scene, retorted, "You'd think after all these years we'd all be troupers."

Joan stared at Bette coldly for a moment, then walked off the set. Aldrich took Bette aside for a pacifying chat, and there was no further collision. Filming ended September 12, 1962, on schedule.

Some of the critics recognized Crawford's contribution. Paul V. Beckley wrote in the New York Herald Tribune: "If Miss Davis' 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." But the majority of reviewers and audiences were overwhelmed by the audacious performance of Bette Davis, and she was nominated for an Oscar in 1963.

Joan Crawford was not among the four other nominees. "I want this Oscar," Davis declared. "I want to be the first star to win three." She continued her appearances for Baby Jane, visiting Jack Paar on the Tonight show. She commented: "I must say we are gloating. When Aldrich tried to interest the studios in Joan Crawford and myself, the moguls said, 'We wouldn't give you a dime for those two old broads"

Joan Crawford sent a message to Davis: "Please do not refer to me that way again'

As the April 8 date of the Oscars approached, Davis was astounded to learn that Crawford had volunteered to accept the best-actress award if the winner was absent. Such a gesture seemed traitorous to the Davis cause, and Bette was certain that Crawford was scheming against her.

Backstage at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, Joan took over the largest dressing room and installed two Pepsi-Cola coolers filled with liquor. She played hostess to performers on the televised show, serving drinks . Bette paced nervously backstage awaiting the designation of winner for best actress. She stood in the wings as the announcement was being made. Her old friend Olivia de Havilland held her hand.

"The winner is Anne Bancroft for The Miracle Worker."

Bette felt a hand on her arm. "Excuse me," said Crawford as she strode past Bette and crossed the stage amid heavy applause. It was a moment Bette Davis would never forget.

Robert Aldrich wanted to reteam the two stars, and he found the opportunity in a four-page outline of a new story by Henry Farrell, author of Baby Jane. Originally the title was What Ever Happened to Cousin Charlotte? but Davis objected vigorously to the cash-in on Baby Jane, so it was changed to Hush . . . Hush, Sweet Charlotte.

Crawford arrived accompanied by her entourage of secretary, makeup man and maid. She seldom ventured out of her suite at the Belmont Motel, except to travel to the location. She and Bette had only one scene together in Baton Rouge, a long shot of Davis watching from above as Crawford entered the mansion. Otherwise they were never together.

Crawford remained in her dressing room on the location. When she was called for a scene, she was always slightly late, a rarity for her. Davis slouched around the set in blue jeans, chatting with members of the cast and crew. The tension between the two stars was evident in Bette's comments. She complained about how Crawford had made more money from Baby Jane because she had taken less cash and a bigger percentage of the profits, and about the Pepsi-Cola cooler that Joan had placed prominently on the set. She sometimes referred to Crawford as "Bless-you." "I hope 'Bless-you' doesn't insist on working in subzero temperature when we get back to the studio," she said.

Bob Aldrich had been able to avoid the confrontation at the location, but trouble began as soon as the company returned to Fox studio. The two stars spoke to each other only when in front of the camera, and set workers wondered when the clash would occur

When Aldrich rehearsed one scene with the two actresses, Davis snapped, "My God, is that the way she's going to play it?" Joan said nothing. She was well aware of the pressure that was building, and she was afraid to make a move. It was a rare time on a movie set when she felt out of control. From Mildred Pierce on, she had been able to exert her power by one means or another.

Now she felt powerless. She had never before encountered an adversary as steel-willed as Bette Davis. Joan suspected, with good reason, that Aldrich favored Davis as an actress and as a person, and realized that Bette had a much better role in Sweet Charlotte.

As often happened in times of stress, Crawford became ill. She was admitted to Cedars of Lebanon Hospital with the symptoms of high fever, lowered blood count and bad cough. The disease was reported as an "upper respiratory virus infection."

Aldrich and Fox faced a severe problem. Aldrich continued filming scenes without Crawford, but soon he would need his costar. Production was costing $50,000 a day, and although insurance would absorb part of the loss caused by Crawford's absence, if she remained unable to perform for an extended period a catastrophe could result. Joan's condition improved, and she was able to return to the studio. Aldrich worked a short day with her, but she experienced a relapse and returned to the hospital.

"Either replace Joan Crawford or cancel the picture entirely," the insurance company instructed Aldrich and Fox. Obviously Aldrich wanted to continue. But who could replace Joan Crawford? Aldrich favored Katharine Hepburn or Vivien Leigh, but Davis would not approve. She wanted her old friend Olivia de Havilland, but Olivia was reluctant to play a murderess, and Aldrich had to fly to Switzerland to convince her.

Joan received a telephone call in the hospital from Dorothy Manners. "What do you think about Olivia de Havilland replacing you in Hush . . . Hush, Sweet Charlotte?" the reporter asked.

"What?" Crawford could not believe it. She had made seventy-seven movies, and she had never been replaced. And to do it without telling her!

"I cried for nine hours," she told a reporter the next day. "I still believe in this business, but there should be some gentleness. ... I think it takes a lot of guts to make pictures, and I'm going to make a lot more of them. But I'm going to make them with decent, gentle people." She added: "I'm glad for Olivia; she needs a good picture."

Bette was livid over the Crawford statements. "The widow Steele has had her say, now I'll have mine," she told a publicist. She issued a statement welcoming Olivia to the movie and expressed regret over Miss Crawford's "reported" illness. Bette appeared at the airport to greet Olivia.

Joan retired to Palm Springs to recover her health and her morale. One night at Don the Beachcomber's she encountered a friend who had risen from the mail room of MCA, John Foreman, now a film producer. He was with Judy and Tony Franciosa, and Joan invited them for drinks at the house where she was staying.

She left them in the living room and returned in a green silk pantsuit, brushing her long auburn hair. She was still hurt over the Sweet Charlotte replacement, which she considered a plot by Bette Davis to favor her friend Olivia.

"It was a marvelous role, and I could have done great things with it," said Joan, and she proceeded to recite her lines from the entire script. She never forgave Bob Aldrich, and not until very late in life was she able to forgive Bette Davis.

Crawford continued to make films and television programs through the 1960's, but she never recaptured the prestige and success of What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

Berserk (1968) provided a happy return to England,.....Her producer on Berserk was Herman Cohen, who had risen from a Detroit theater usher to make low-budget horror movies in England. He was the ideal producer for Joan Crawford—attractive, attentive, single. No romance developed between them, but Joan became possessive.

Once during the filming Cohen received a telephone call at two in the morning: "Herm, have you got your script in front of you?" "Joan, I'm sleeping!"

'Well, get your script. I've got some things I must discuss with you." The producer realized her loneliness and spent as much time with her as he could afford from his business. He took her to dinner and to the London theater, and she was always dressed to perfection. When he tried to convince her to put on slacks and attend a weekend movie matinee, she balked. "I would never let anyone see me like that," she said

When J. Paul Getty came to call at her hotel, Joan insisted that Cohen should be present—"it'll be good for you to know Getty." When Joan couldn't reach Cohen, she demanded, "Where were you last night? Were you out with a girl?" He told her to "cut out the goddamn nonsense."

Cohen knew Joan's drinking habits, since he carried her flask when they went out. Before entering a theater, she always determined the location of a nearby bar—she would never drink at the theater, where she could be observed by the other playgoers.

Between acts she hurried to the bar and ordered glasses and ice from the bartender, then poured from the flask. She paid the bartender a couple of pounds and sipped her drink until it was time to return to the play. "I'll make a deal with you," Cohen told her before filming started. "On the picture you can never drink in the morning, and you can never drink without first getting your producer's permission."

Crawford agreed, and she adhered to her promise. When Cohen asked why she didn't quit altogether, she declared that her drinking was not a problem. "I'm just a sipper," she said. "It makes me feel good." The vodka also gave her courage before a television appearance, a challenging scene, a presentation to the Queen....

Gossip columnists claimed that she had had a face lift, but she hadn't yet; a few years later she had surgery to remove the wrinkles around her eyes. On Berserk, she enjoyed the services of a gifted hairstylist named Ramon Guy, who had worked with other aging stars such as Marlene Dietrich and Edith Evans. For Crawford he devised six "lifts"—tapes connected behind the head by rubber bands—which stretched the skin and erased wrinkles

Trog (1970) was the last of Crawford's eighty-one movies. It was a monster picture filmed on a budget so low that portable dressing rooms were not sent on location. Joan huddled in a car parked on an English moor and did not complain.

Why would Crawford, who had invented "star treatment," submit to such conditions on a film that could not possibly add luster to her career? First, she wanted to act; it was her life. As she once said, "They were calling me 'The Last Movie Queen/ I'm no queen. I started as a hoofer in the chorus line, and by hard work and good breaks became, I hope, an actress."

Also, she needed the money. Pepsi-Cola was paying her $50,000 a year with additional perquisites, but that was not enough for her to live like Joan Crawford. When no more movies were offered to her, she continued to pursue television

The writers of Lucille Ball's television show proposed a script with Joan Crawford as guest star. The plot would have Lucy and Ethel (Vivian Vance) breaking down in their car and stopping at the first house for help. They would discover Joan Crawford scrubbing floors in a house devoid of furniture. The two visitors would presume that the great actress was down on her luck, not realizing that she had a penchant for cleanliness and had disposed of her furnishings to redecorate.

Lucy and Ethel would then devise a program to raise money for the destitute Joan Crawford. An ideal Lucille Ball script, but would Crawford go for it? The word came from the William Morris office—Crawford would.

Joan arrived at the Desilu studio with her usual entourage, and Lucille Ball was indulgent and amused. But she became alarmed, then incensed as the rehearsals began. Lucille was accustomed to the precision enforced by a weekly television schedule. It required a stead progression from first reading to rough rehearsal, to camera blocking, to dress rehearsal, and finally performance before an audience with what might prove to be a minor comic masterpiece.

Crawford seemed totally incapable of such discipline. Her early readings were tentative and humorless, she displayed an inability to memorize lines, and the mention of a live audience filled her with terror. And she was drinking. Mutterings behind the camera. Urgent calls to William Morris. Lucille Ball grew more impatient. Crawford drank more.

"Get Gloria Swanson!" Lucy exclaimed.

Joan called her friend Herman Cohen in a panic. "They want to get rid of me. What shall I do?"

"Don't leave!" Cohen instructed her. "The worst thing you can do is leave. If you stay, they can't replace you." Joan stayed. She managed to stumble through the rehearsals, and prepared herself for the live performance with great trepidation. As soon as she made her first entrance, the studio audience gave her a standing ovation. Her eyes widened, and she thrust her shoulders back. She hurtled through the script, delivered every comic line with mastery, and never missed a cue or a word of dialogue.

At the end she received another standing ovation. "Joan, you were terrific!" Lucille said afterward. "Can you join Gary [Morton, her husband] and me for dinner?"

Joan had invited the rest of the cast and the crew members to a celebration at Don the Beachcomber's. "Thank you," Crawford replied imperiously, "but I have an engagement."

Steven Spielberg didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He had just been told that he would direct his first television movie with Crawford in the starring role. He recalled seeing Mildred Fierce and Baby Jane, but he knew little about her except that she was a legend. Steven Spielberg was twenty-one years old.

Rod Serling had written a pilot script for a series to be called Night Gallery. Crawford had been hired for $50,-000 to play a blind woman whose sight is restored on the night of New York City's 1965 blackout. Spielberg called her at the Hollywood apartment she maintained for film assignments.

Crawford sounded exuberant about the role but concerned about the dialogue. "People just don't talk that way," she said perceptively. She suggested they discuss the problem over dinner.

Spielberg bought the book of The Films of Joan Crawford and studied it from cover to cover. Learning of the star's penchant for punctuality, he arrived at her apartment precisely at eight

"Come in, Steven' said the warm, throaty voice. He opened the apartment door and peered inside. At first he didn't see her, and then he was startled to find her standing behind the couch with a mask covering her eyes.

He watched in astonishment as she stumbled about the room, bumping into furniture, holding out a protective hand as she moved. 'This is how a blind person walks through a room," she said. "I'm practicing for the role. How difficult it is without the benefit of sight. You feel lost in a world of blackness. I've got to do this on the set, Steven. I need to practice with the furniture two days before we shoot so I'll be able to let my eyes go blank and still find my way around like a blind person."

She removed the blindfold. Her huge eyes blinked in bewilderment as they gazed for the first time on the man who would be her director. Her smile froze as she studied the smooth, beardless face. "Hello, Steven," she said, offering a brave hand.

"Hello . . . Joan," he replied, wishing that he could escape. "Goodness," she said, "you certainly must have done something important to get where you are so soon. What films have you directed?^ "Uh, none." "No films at the studio?" "No, ma'am." "Then . . . ?" "Well, I did make a movie that the studio liked. That's why they signed me." "Oh? And what was that?" "It was, uh, a twenty-minute short I made at Cal State, Long Beach." "At school." "Yes."

She looked at him quizzically. "Do you happen to be the son of anybody in the Black Tower?" She referred to the executive building of Universal Pictures and MCA.

"No, ma'am. I'm just working my way through Universal." She laughed. "Steven, you and I both made it on our own. We're going to get along just fine! C'mon, let's go to dinner."

Crawford drank her vodka and kept the conversation going, asking about her young director's background and interests. "I guess about the only thing we have in common is that we're both members of the Pepsi generation," he remarked. Her thunderous laugh could be heard above the clamor of the busy restaurant.

Even though forty years separated them, Crawford and the young man spent the evening conversing like contemporaries. He told her of his dreams to be a filmmaker, she told him of the happiness she had known with Al Steele. When they parted she gave him assurance: "Now, I know what television schedules are, and I know the pressure that will be on you to finish the show on time. You'll want your first work as a director to be something you can be proud of, and I'll break my ass to help you. Don't let any executive bug you because the picture's not on schedule. If you have any problems with the Black Tower, let me take care of it. I'll be your guardian angel. Okay?"

"Okay," Spielberg responded with a wide smile

While preparing for Night Gallery, Spielberg studied Crawford's films: Mildred Fierce, Reunion in France, Torch Song, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? His assessment: "She is five feet four, but she looks six feet on the screen. In a two-shot with anyone, even Gable, your eyes fix on her. She is imperious, yet with a childlike sparkle. She is haughty, yet tender. She has no great range as an actress, yet within the range she can perform better than any of her contemporaries."

The schedule called for one day's rehearsal, seven days* shooting. Spielberg arrived early for his first day as a director, and when he opened the stage door he was blasted with a gust of cold air. The temperature was at fifty-five degrees in accordance with Crawford's contract, and crew members who had worked with her before were wearing overcoats.

At precisely 8:45 Joan Crawford walked through the stage door, wrapped in a fur coat. She was followed by her makeup man, hairdresser and wardrobe woman, then three men bearing portable coolers. Inside were dozens of bottles of Pepsi-Cola packed in ice. She began introducing herself to unfamiliar members of the crew, and by the end of the day she could repeat the first names of all fifty.

The first day's work went badly.... for Crawford the dialogue was an ordeal. She was rarely less than letter-perfect in remembering her lines, yet she stumbled again and again. She realized that the schedule for the television film would not permit delay, and her concern grew. So did Spielberg's. He knew that his bosses in the Black Tower were more interested in maintaining the schedule than in achieving quality, and he feared that both would elude him. If he failed on his first assignment, would he ever have another?

Barry Sullivan made a timely suggestion: write Crawford's lines on cue cards and place them off-camera. Even though she wore eye bandages, a thin layer of gauze would allow her to read the dialogue. The device improved the pace of filming, but Spielberg was falling steadily behind schedule. He himself was partly responsible. Since it was his first film, he declined the standard television formula of medium shots followed by "Ping-Pong" close-ups.

He insisted on choreographing complicated camera movements which he believed would heighten the suspense, and he also spent considerable time on a scene to introduce Crawford in a regal way. "I want to present her to the audience for the first time like an object d'art —or a Stutz Bearcat in a show window." The solution was to open with a shot of the back of a throne like chair. Then a bejeweled hand pressed a button on the chair arm and the chair swiveled to face the audience, placing Crawford on view.

After two days of shooting Crawford became at ease with the dialogue and no longer required the cue cards

Despite the difference in their ages, Joan treated Spielberg as she did every other director. She sought his counsel, deferred to his judgment. Realizing that some members of the crew would consider a twenty-one-year-old directing Joan Crawford as a bizarre joke, the pair decided early in the filming not to discuss filming problems before others.

They developed a rapport. Every day she found in her dressing room a single red rose in a Pepsi bottle, a gift from Steven Spielberg. She gave him an engraved bracelet, cologne. One day she startled him by finishing a Pepsi-Cola and emitting a large belch.

"Oh, that's what you should do, to show you enjoyed it," she explained. "Go ahead—you burp, too." "But I can't," he said. "You can't?" "No, I never learned how to burp." "Why, you poor boy! I'll teach you." And she did

The pace of shooting was improving, and Spielberg was hopeful that he could make up time and meet the mandatory seven-day schedule. But one day Joan fainted. Her ailment was diagnosed as an inner-ear infection, and her doctor insisted on a one-day rest....

Spielberg was asked if he would come to her dressing room for a talk about the next scene. When he arrived, he found her lying on the couch, stomach-down, the script opened before her. A doctor and a nurse were in the room

"Steven, I wonder if we could switch a couple of lines in this next scene," Crawford commented as she turned the script pages. While she continued the discussion, her pants were lowered by the nurse, and the doctor administered an injection into the shapely Crawford behind

Night Gallery extended two days over schedule, causing grave concern in the Black Tower. Spielberg didn't direct for a year, but later he went on to direct such successful features as The Sugarland Express, Jaws and Close Encounters of the Third Kind. They never met again, but Crawford followed Spielberg's career closely and sent periodic notes of congratulation. The last one came two weeks before her death.

Joan's daughter Christina left home to pursue an acting career. When she was advertised as "Joan Crawford's daughter" in an off-Broadway play, Joan became furious. She suggested that Christina change her name, and Christina refused: "It's the onlv name I've ever had."

When Christina couldn't find roles, Joan arranged a job for her as a receptionist in the New York office of MCA. Christina found she couldn't work there and seek acting jobs, so she quit. Joan cut off her daughter's allowance, and Christina struggled on her own and began to work in summer stock and on television. She secured steady employment on a daytime television serial, The Secret Storm. In 1966 Christina married a director, Harvey Medlinsky, and Joan attended the wedding. All the bitterness and recriminations between mother and daughter seemed to have vanished

By 1968 Christina's marriage had crumbled and she became suddenly ill. When she had to be hospitalized for an abdominal operation, Joan telephoned Gloria Monty, director of The Secret Storm. "Wnat about Tina's contract? Will she lose the role?" Joan asked.

"No, of course not," replied Gloria Monty. "It's not like the movie studios in the old days. I'll have to find another actress to fill the role until Tina can return." "Gloria, I'll play it," Joan announced. The director was astounded. Joan Crawford in a soap opera! "Are you sure?" "Yes, I'll do it. If it would help Tina, I'd do anything."

Fred Silverman, chief of daytime programming at the CBS television network, was delighted with the news, and he cleared the use of a studio for rehearsals on Saturday and taping on Sunday. Gloria Monty went to Joan's apartment on the night before rehearsal and found her in a state of excitement.

"I know this character like this," said Joan, snapping her fingers. "It's Mildred Pierce!" "Okay, let's not talk too much; let's just read the scene," said the director. She was amazed at how adroitly Joan fell into the character, and at the subtlety she lent to the soap-opera dialogue.

On the day of taping, Joan grasped Gloria Monty and said desperately, "I'm in your hands." Joan's chauffeur had brought the Pepsi-Cola cooler with vodka, and Monty strove to keep Crawford on the set so she wouldn't drink too much. At one point the director replaced the vodka in Joan's glass with water, and when Joan took a sip she bawled, "Who the hell touched my glass?"

Monty watched helplessly from the control booth as Joan's performance deteriorated through the day's taping. All the precision that Joan had displayed while rehearsing the scripts in her apartment was gone. When Joan missed her cues or failed to hit her marks, the director covered by announcing, "Sorry, I made a boo-boo in here. Could we try it again?"

Where is the part where she was scissorine with Patsy Kelley and the kids walked in and she said it was lady wrestling?

Crawford's consumption of vodka had become prodigious. All of her acquaintances became accustomed to the ever-present flask. At "21," where she dined almost exclusively when in New York, the 100-proof Smirnoff was always at the table when she arrived. It was poured over ice, and although she was meticulous in her table manners, she stirred the drink with her finger. In other restaurants she sometimes depleted her own supply of vodka and ordered from the bar. Waiters cringed when Crawford took a sip and announced like an expert, "This is not one-hundred-proof; take it back!"

Billy Rose once invited Joan to drive from New York to Washington for a government ceremony. They traveled in the producer's Rolls-Royce, and Joan astounded Rose by consuming a quart of vodka on the trip south, and later that day, another quart on the return to New York. Banquets and formal dinners were a peculiar hazard. She bolstered her nerves with drinks before arriving, and continued pouring from the flask during the meal. At one memorable New York banquet she rose from her seat and served dessert dishes to those sitting on the dais. "This is how I worked my way through school," she explained.

An unfortunate result of Joan's drinking was her giving way to certain obsessive fears, including her fear of competition from younger women.

In 1967 Crawford was invited by Lyndon Johnson to a White House dinner at which members of the Supreme Court and their wives were guests. Among them were William O. Douglas and his twenty-three-year-old bride, Cathy.

Joan had been drinking heavily, and she began to verbally snipe at the pretty young wife of the associate justice, who was sixty-eight years old. Whatever Cathy Douglas said about conservation and the environment was belittled by Joan, who also attacked the young woman's appearance and background.

When Mrs. Douglas was talking to a tablemate and did not see a waiter place a finger bowl before her, Joan reached across three guests and planted the bowl firmly on a doily, where etiquette dictated it should be. "That's the way we do it!" Joan said emphatically.

Mrs. Douglas looked up in surprise. "Uh, thank you," she stammered.

Joan had reached across Joseph Califano, a presidential assistant, and he came to Mrs. Douglas' defense. So did others at the table, including Interior Secretary Stewart Udall and Sol Linowitz, ambassador to the Organization of American States.

When the incident was published in Washington social columns, Mrs. Douglas was quoted as saying, "That was the first time I'd ever been insulted in Washington. Up to now everyone has been so nice."

Joan told reporters in Los Angeles: "I've never heard of anything so ridiculous. I have not even met Mrs. Douglas. I didn't attack her. Besides, who the hell am I to criticize anyone? I was a waitress from the time I was nine." Even among friends Joan could not understand why such a fuss had been raised. "When I was first at Metro, I was happy when anyone corrected me," she said

Joan could no longer afford the luxurious apartment on Seventieth Street. She was still earning $50,000 a year from Pepsi-Cola, plus a liberal expense account, but her income from acting had evaporated, and she did not want to expend more of her savings than was necessary.

Besides, the apartment was too big for her. Both of the twins were now married, and in fact, they had never even slept in the apartment. Joan and Al had rebuilt their home with no room for children; the girls lived at a nearby hotel with a governess.

Joan found an apartment at the Imperial House at 150 East Sixty-ninth Street, and made preparations to move. On her last night on Seventieth Street, Joan invited Gloria Monty to stop by for a drink. Gloria and her husband had become friends with Joan after she substituted for Christina in The Secret Storm.

Gloria arrived at eight and found Crawford in a morose state. She had been drinking, and she continued to sip vodka as she reminisced about how she and Al had constructed the apartment. "My bed was so big they had to bring it through the window," she recalled. "I don't know how the hell the movers are going to get it out."

She seemed compelled to share her memories, and she talked about Doug and her ordeal at Pickfair. And Franchot, who had exposed her to art and literature and music. At midnight Gloria tried to leave, but Joan insisted that she stay. Crawford talked about religion and how her understanding of God comforted her amid her sense of increasing disappointment.

oan Crawford read the news in the New York Times. Her friend publicist Michael Sean O'Shea had telephoned her on Saturday afternoon and told her to buy a copy of the Sunday Times. On page one of the financial section was the news that Joan Crawford was being retired by Pepsi Cola in 1973 when she reached the official age of sixty-five. She was stunned. She felt that a part of her life had been shattered, for she had devoted eighteen of her best years to the company, often to the detriment of her acting career. She had performed unflaggingly with an intensity that exhausted those around her.

Crawford was devastated. Her $50,000-a-year salary would continue as a lifetime pension, but she would no longer have her $40,000 annual expense account, including limousine service in Manhattan, $1,500 monthly allowance for her apartment, $12,000 a year for her secretary, and $40 a week for her hairdresser. And Pepsi-Cola summarily dropped her access to the company telephone line, with which she could call anywhere in the country without charge.

When her retirement became known throughout the Pepsi-Cola organization, the bottlers wanted her to be the guest of honor at their 1974 convention in San Francisco. Mitchell Cox, the Pepsi public-relations chief, had organized a program that would salute the achievements of Joan's career and her contributions to the success of Pepsi.

Several of her friends and figures from her career had been asked to be present and surprise Joan with a "This Is Your Life" program. What could the bottlers present to Joan as a token of their appreciation? They bought a rare handwritten letter from Sarah Bernhardt. Crawford never received it. She refused the invitation to appear at the convention.

"I'm not going," she said. "I worked my ass off for the company for almost twenty years, and now they have washed me up. Well, screw *em."

Crawford had to learn to live without Pepsi. And without Hollywood as well. She was happy to see old time movie friends when they passed through New York, but she was no longer concerned about her career. She didn't understand the new industry, with its parade of themes that were forbidden by the Hays Office during her heyday, and with a corporate structure now dominated by men who had once been lawyers, accountants and agents, including her own.

The press was different, too. Hedda and Louella had gone, and there was a new breed of reporter she didn't understand., though she continued to give reporters her best and brightest quotes—after thousands and thousands of interviews, Joan never allowed herself to seem bored— they were ridiculing her.

Joan began to withdraw. She wasn't selling Pepsi or promoting movies or television shows, so why set herself up for young reporters who wanted to make names for themselves by pulling down monuments? The interviews became less and less frequent

She found plenty to do. Her correspondence alone was enough to occupy her full-time.

Joan's relations with her two youngest children remained close. Cindy now lived in Iowa, Cathy in Pennsylvania, and Joan talked to them often on the telephone. When her daughters had babies, Joan refused to be referred to as a grandmother; the children were her "nephews and nieces."

Christina had once again fallen out of favor with her mother. Both women were strong-willed, and Joan expected the same obedience she had exacted when Christina was a child. But Christina was no longer a child; she was in her thirties and striving to establish a life of her own.

Joan would not discuss Christopher. She felt she had done everything possible for him, and now he was on his own. She knew that her son had served in Vietnam, and she hoped that experience would help "straighten him out." There were reports that he had settled down as a carpenter on Long Island, that he had established a family.

One day Christopher appeared with his wife and child at the Imperial House. He told the doorman that he had an appointment to see his mother, Joan Crawford. The doorman telephoned the apartment. Christopher was instructed to wait. After an hour he asked the doorman to telephone Miss Crawford again.

"I'm sorry," the doorman said, hanging up the telephone. "Miss Crawford says she doesn't want to see you."

R29, shouldn't that be Mildred Pierce? Is this a joke?

Although she complained about the polluted air and would not go on her apartment terrace because of it, her existence became more and more centered within the nine rooms of her New York apartment, a world she could keep immaculate and orderly. The place was decorated in shades of green and bright yellow, giving an impression of a California garden. The living area was devoid of remembrances of Joan's acting career—"I hate Hollywood people who live surrounded by memories." Her only concession was a bronze bust of herself sculptured by Sala-munich in the 1930's

Like other New Yorkers, Joan had become apprehensive about the city's crime. She rarely answered the telephone herself. After the secretary had left for the day, she put the telephone on an answering service. Or, if she answered herself, she often responded like a Southern maid: "Miz Crawfode isn't heah raht now; who is callin?" Her friends recognized the disguise, others did not.

She spent $3,500 on sophisticated locks and a security system that would prevent any stranger from reaching her apartment

Crawford began to withdraw more and more. She telephoned Stan Kamen at the William Morris Agency and told him, "There isn't much for me to do in pictures or television anymore, so why don't we just cool it? I love all you guys; you've been wonderful to me. But I'm just not terribly interested in working unless it's something I couldn't possibly resist."

R41 The DRM removal from the ePub ebook leaves spelling errors.

I wonder what happened to her Oscar?

Joan enjoyed seeing old friends, especially women. She had always liked the company of men and savored competing with them on their own level, but she couldn't really trust them. She had been disappointed by men too many times, including her four husbands. In interviews she continued to romanticize about her marriage to Al Steele ("He was the greatest lover I ever knew"), but privately and after a few drinks she complained, "The son of a bitch left me nothing but debts. When a friend playfully accused her of being a millionairess, she snapped, "I would be—except for four husbands."

Dorothy Manners visited Joan from California. Joan served Bloody Marys and cooked a brunch of Mexican food, which the two women adored. As Joan spread a hot sauce and powdered chili over the huevos rancheros, she said, "Only a couple of dames like us who were born in Texas could eat this food for breakfast and not die."

Joan didn't need to dress up for Dorothy Manners. She wore a yellow smock, her long hair tied back, with no makeup to hide the Crawford freckles. The two women sat before the huge window and talked nostalgically until daylight swept the panorama of Manhattan. Joan remarked that she was grateful for the past but couldn't live in it. "You don't see any photographs around here of me as a glamor girl, do you?"

Of the new breed of star she declared, "I feel so sorry for them. They seem to derive no joy, no real pleasure from what they're doing. They ignore their fans, they don't want to give interviews, they seem to feel guilty about being stars. They consider it dross. Well, believe me, Dorothy, it's not dross, it's gold. Pure gold."

Leo Jaffe and his wife made several dinner dates with Joan, and each time she canceled. "I'm working from five in the morning until eleven at night on my correspondence," she said.

The financial pinch continued, and Joan moved from the nine-room apartment on the twenty-second floor of Imperial House to a five-room apartment down the hall. She disposed of much of the furniture, giving her fourteen-foot dining table to her friend Cardinal Cooke for St. Patrick's Cathedral.

Joan admittedly was becoming more reclusive. She told her friend Peter Rogers, "Look, I've spent my whole life being told what to do. Now I have time to learn who I am."

Any residual loyalty Joan may have felt for Pepsi-Cola was destroyed with the appearance of an Esquire article by Robert Scheer about Donald Kendall. Scheer placed Joan Crawford among the things that Kendall didn't want to talk about, along with his first wife, the resigned President Nixon and Coca-Cola sales. A Kendall associate was quoted: "He took an awful lot of crap from Joan Crawford."

"Fang strikes again!" said Joan. She was devastated that her contributions to Pepsi would be so rudely dismissed

Joan's circle of friends grew smaller.........Joan often called Anne Anderson to come to her apartment for advice on cooking, but often she seemed to call out of loneliness. One day after Joan had moved to the smaller apartment, her belongings were in a heap and she picked up a photograph album of her children. She described each photograph to Anne, and she dwelled on Christina as a child. "Yes, I was strict," Joan said. "But I didn't want to coddle my children. I wanted them to be independent, as I had been."

She talked about child actors she had known at MGM, especially Judy Garland. Had Judy's death come from suicide or an accidental overdose of pills? If it was suicide, Joan had no sympathy. "That's the coward's way out," she argued. "I believe that human beings can conquer almost anything. Everyone should make the most of his life."

Selma and Marty Mertz occupied the apartment across the hall from Joan's, and they became good friends. Joan was so comfortable with the Mertzes that she would come to dinner without makeup, wearing only a caftan and glasses. When the Mertzes went to Joan's apartment, they learned to live by her rules. You accepted a napkin with every drink. You deposited your glass in the kitchen but did not wash it; Joan alone did the washing. Above all, you never tried to tune the television set: "Everyone has his own fine tuning."

Joan returned to the faith she had discovered in the 1930's, Christian Science. She had never really abandoned the doctrines of Mary Baker Eddy, but in the struggle to succeed in the worlds of motion pictures and business, she had often lost sight of those teachings. Now they appealed to her more than ever.

With her working career over, she needed to sort out her life, to justify the sacrifices and the mistakes she had made. The absolutism of Christian Science was ideal for her. She could believe that disease and evil could be eradicated by God's love. All error was erased in the realization that God is omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent Joan was comforted by the belief that her entire being was in the benevolent control of a loving deity.

She went to a Christian Science church in New York— once. "The other people were more interested in what I was wearing than in the service," she complained. Instead of worshiping in public, she sought counsel from a Christian Science practitioner, Mrs. Markham. She was well suited as the spiritual adviser of Joan Crawford...

Joan had changed, too. She stopped smoking and drinking. No more the hundred-proof vodka, no more Dom Perignon. She quit in 1975, and her children and her friends were amazed she could give up longtime addictions. "I realize that drinking and smoking are against Christian Science teachings, so I quit."

"Could you please come up to my apartment?"

Anne and Curt Anderson were surprised by the request from Joan. She had been invited to a dinner party that evening at their apartment. When they arrived , they were shocked to see Joan with an eye swollen shut as though from a beating.

"What happened?" they asked.

*I don't know," she said. "I was sitting at the table writing notes, and I must have blacked out. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, and I must have hit my eye on the edge of the table in falling. So you can see, I can't possibly make your dinner party. I'm terribly sorry." The Andersons saw little of Joan after that accident in the fall of 1976. Joan remained inside her apartment all the time. She spent much of her time alone

Truly an evil woman.

On October 28, 1976, Joan signed her will. She bequeathed her personal property to the nearest and most attentive of her daughters, Cathy. To both Cathy and Cindy she left $77,500, to be given in increasing amounts at five-year intervals until they were forty-five years old. To her secretaries, her makeup man, her wardrobe woman, and Michael Sean O'Shea she left amounts varying from $5,000 to $35,000. Whatever remained after the bequests would be divided among the Heart Association, the Muscular Dystrophy Association, the Cancer Society, the Motion Picture Country House and Hospital, the USO and the Wiltwyck School for Boys, New York City.

And then the unforgiving mother: "It is my intention to make no provision herein for my son Christopher or my daughter Christina for reasons which are well known to them"

Pain had become her constant companion, and hence she never went out and had no visitors. When she talked with friends on the telephone, she always sounded cheerful and busy. 'I'm happy to stay home with Princess and answer the mail and watch the soap operas and all my favorite TV shows," she said.

She loved the daytime serials and often spotted promising young performers; she copied their names from the credits and sent them letters of admiration. She liked Walter Cronkite and Bonanza; The Waltons was her favorite show, partly because it featured her long-time friend, Ellen Corby. Joan even watched the Saturday-morning children's shows.

She also watched Joan Crawford movies, not out of narcissism but as a means of testing her memory about past events. "Watch what Tracy does in this next scene," she would tell Michael Sean O'Shea on the telephone and then she would call him back to explain how it had been filmed. Joan was amused when Carol Burnett presented a parody of Mildred Pierce, and she telephoned the comedienne to tell her so.

Lucy O'Ball made her weep, not cry but weep, with tears and coughing and mucus. It was disgusting.

"I'm glad you liked it," said Burnett. "Now we're going to do a takeoff on Torch Song"

"Great!" said Crawford. "That was one of my best bad movies." But when she saw the Torch Song travesty she found it cruel and grotesque. Nor was Joan pleased when CBS presented the American Film Institute's tribute to Bette Davis

Joan was cheered by the outpouring of flowers and greetings on her birthday, March 23, 1977, but her health was rapidly deteriorating. A hospital bed allowed her to sit up and watch television with less pain, but her back hurt constantly. Her weight declined as her illness progressed. What was afflicting her? Neither she nor anyone else knew. She would not see a doctor. She would not take any medicine; none was in her apartment, except aspirin. Most likely Joan Crawford had cancer of the liver or pancreas.

"Am I dying?" she asked her practitioner

"Knowing God is life," Mrs. Markham replied. "The human spirit is like a sunbeam, and God is the sun. Your spirit has to go on—a sunbeam doesn't die. Your spirit is eternal. It doesn't exist in this fleshly body."

Joan thought for a long time, and then she smiled. "That's the first time I could see that," she said

What a woman! Very very difficult woman. No wonder she is a DL Icon.

Her only companions were her housekeeper and a longtime fan from Brooklyn who had attached herself to Joan and ran errands for her. Cathy came for a visit with her husband, Jerome LaLonde, and their two children. Friends like Nancy Kelly and Anita Loos tried to call Joan by telephone but reached only her secretary or answering service.

She continued corresponding with close friends in Hollywood, and after the holidays she sent a handwritten letter to Sally Blane, whose husband, Norman Foster, had died in 1976: Joan recalled her loss of Alfred eighteen years before and added that she had been saved from despair by remembering their "glorious experiences and joys together." Her advice to Sally: "Dwell only on the joys."

April was the crudest month, as Joan's strength waned and her weight declined to eighty-five pounds. When a close friend pleaded with her to see a doctor, Joan replied, "I'll be damned if i let myself end up in a cold hospital room with a tube up my nose and another up my ass."

By the end of the month, Mrs. Markham was coming to Joan's apartment every day. Joan would not let her tell anyone, especially the children, how ill she was. Mrs. Markham pleaded with Joan to enter a Christian Science nursing home.

"You're not going there to die, you're going there to be healed," the practitioner argued. "You have an obligation to go to a nursing home. You are an important person. You have an obligation to Christian Science."

"No, I will do anything but that," Joan said. "I prefer to be at home." She sat at her desk, attending to the correspondence

So she beat her kids and had strict discipline but they were still poorly behaved? Hmm

She sat at her desk, attending to the correspondence until her pain became too great. Then she continued signing the notes on a bed table across her lap. She declined the use of a bedpan, preferring to go to the bathroom.

Joan seemed to have acquired a new kind of gentleness. She was no longer the competitor in a hard world. She could find joy in small pleasures: "What a wonderful day! I got one letter from Barbara Stanwyck and another from Katharine Hepburn, all in the same day!" Joan could even forgive: "I'm so at peace with the world that I'm even thinking good thoughts about Bette Davis and Donald Kendall."

Her neighbors across the hall, Selma and Marty Mertz, were greatly concerned about Joan. They knocked on her door and were surprised when Joan herself appeared. She was pale and she seemed like a tiny replica of Joan Crawford.

"Joan, is there anything we can do?" Mertz asked

"No, darling, everything is fine," she said with a smile.

Afterward Selma Mertz told her husband, "She's dying; this woman is dying, Marty. We must do something." He replied, "There's nothing we can do. You know Joan. She does everything her way. Even dying."

Joan worried about Princess. She could no longer pick up the dog, and she was concerned about what would happen to Princess, who had never known life outdoors. Joan decided to give Princess to a woman who cared for stray dogs and cats and would be certain to provide affectionate care

I liked how they wrote a song about her body part....Oh wait a minute

On the morning of May 10, 1977, Joan insisted on getting out of bed to make breakfast for the housekeeper and the longtime fan, who had both stayed overnight. Joan returned to the bedroom to begin watching her soap operas, and she called to the two women to make sure they were eating the breakfast she had prepared. Then she died.

A medical examiner attributed the death to acute coronary occlusion. The remains were cremated, as stipulated in Joan Crawford's will, and the urn was placed next to that of Alfred Steele at a cemetery in Ferncliff, New York.

Christina, now Mrs. David Koontz, flew from California for the funeral, and she convinced Christopher to attend, although he hadn't talked with his mother in twenty years. Cathy came from Pennsylvania, and Cindy, Mrs. Joel Jordan, arrived from Newton, Iowa. The funeral was supposed to be private, but two hundred people arrived at Frank E. Campbell's funeral parlor.....

She was one helluva dame.

Joan was super twisted.

I know I talk about this a lot, but I think it’s a red flag when people want to have a child without a partner. What this usually means is that they are unable to compromise or consider others’ opinions. It’s why they’re always single and it’s why they make problematic parents. I’ve seen it often. Usually with women, because I don’t know any single men who have been able to adopt.

It’s very difficult for the children. The parent depends on them for emotional sustenance, and these people are often very neurotic and smothering. Not that they don’t love their children or have good intentions, but it’s always a mess.

I do know one woman who adopted when she was single (she was very heavy but fun personality) and then went on to find a nice man and marry. They have a bio kid also, and seem to be a happy family (but one never knows).

So this book came out before or after Christina's? I think it's interesting that given the people who were willing to go on record to say that Joan was abusive, there remains so much doubt from people.

Thanks OP!

Even her longtime friends confirmed her abusive antics toward her children . But, still there are people denying this until this day!

At 2:52 Joan talking about the confidential was going to write an expose about her and Christina.

Thanks for post all of that. It was an interesting read.

She definitely was a fascinating woman but I feel so bad for those kids. Still not sure how the two younger daughters seem to have had such a different experience than the two older children. Maybe Joan was better with the younger ones, and since the older two were sent away to school while the twins were young they don't remember how bad it was for Christina and Christopher or they are lying to protect their mother's memory.

I think all of those other celebs who knew how she was treating those kids and did nothing should have gone to jail along with Crawford. I know those days were different, but still... I don't think it was legal even then to just torture children. Those friends of hers could have saved those kids.

The author of this book, Bob Thomas talking about Joan - 1978

Where was the torture r67. Being locked in the closet for sure, but not much else. I don't agree with her tying her son to his bed but even now that happens with "approved" restraints. The sad part is that there was never another parent to intervene on their behalf.

Not letting your child attend her own bday party because the kid acted out? Slamming her hand in the door to teach her a lesson?

It's sad that (despite her failings as a parent, etc.) such a hardworking, pragmatic movie star struggled during her final years, and what a paltry estate she left to the twins and to charity. I would have imagined that Crawford was a millionaire by that point in her life.

Vincent Sherman claimed that he had socked her when she slapped him after he criticized her for the way she treated her kids...June Allyson also witnessed the abuse. But back then, people didn't interfere in the way other people raised their kids. It wasn't done. Today, Joan's ass would be in jail and her children shunted to a foster home. But then folks minded their own business.

I read in another book where an actress (can't remember who or what book it was) said that [italic]everybody[/italic] knew Joan was abusing those kids, but the Hollywood crowd protected their own. The unspoken rule was you kept your mouth shut about potentially scandalous things.

I'll give you the door slamming r70, and I'd never be so cruel as to punish a child by forbidding them from attending their own birthday party, but even now you'd be hard pressed getting the parent sent to jail on the latter offence, let alone witnesses who failed to report it. But feel free to call me "fucked up" if it makes you feel better.

Lana Turner' daughter (who was Christina' classmate) said in her book that her mother and others in Hollywood knew about Joan' abuse, and it was an open secret.

R67 It's like celebrities knowing about Michael Jackson unhealthy relationships with little boys and not saying anything.

R69, my comment was about YOUR comment. Not about whether it was difficult to get an abusive parent sent to jail.

Learn to read and stop conflating issues. Thanks. Has nothing to do with how I “feel”...

[quote] WHERE WAS THE TORTURE [R67]. Being locked in the closet for sure, BUT NOT MUCH ELSE. I don't agree with her tying her son to his bed but even now that happens with "approved" restraints. The sad part is that there was never another parent to intervene on their behalf.

R43, thank you.

Of course, at this point, her reputation centers on the child abuse. Of course, that's horrible, reading through this, in the other aspects of her life, she sounds amazing, and sad. Thanks, OP!

And my comments were in response to your initial one about sending people other than Joan Crawford to jail, r70.

Glad that's cleared up. The circle is now complete.

R69/r80, I’m not sure to what comments you refer concerning sending other people to jail. My first comments in this thread were as R70. I made no previous comments.

Some of her fans on here cannot get past the fact that she's their favourite movies star. The fact is she was a very damaged woman and should never have been allowed to raise kids. She came from abuse and neglect...and that is what she knew and gave her own kids. Sad.

The fact that she was open about it and did it frequently in front of other people makes me wonder what the fuck was wrong with her. That's not just a bad childhood. Usually abusive parents try to seem loving in public. Maybe she thought if she was open about the milder stuff no one would believe more severe accusations.

She was barking mad!

[quote]I wonder what happened to her Oscar?

Spielberg has it. He won it at auction.

Even today he still has wonderful memories of Joan and adores her.

Stanwyck said Crawford would have been far more upset about the lesbian stuff in Christina's book over the child abuse.

"the urn was placed next to that of Alfred Steele at a cemetery in Ferncliff, New York."

There is no place called Ferncliff, New York. The cemetery is Ferncliff, in Hartsdale, NY.

Was she bisexuality? Or maybe she was just up for anything.

R83 It seems like she really did think she was just being a disciplinarian and that her children simply needed the discipline and everything she did was how you properly raise well behaved children. She obviously didn't think she was doing anything wrong so she made no effort to hide it. Even if she had a miserable childhood herself (and by all accounts she did, she was even reportedly sexually abused by a stepfather) she had to witness how others raised their children and that no one else ever took discipline to the levels that she did.

Was Mommie Dearest so wrong after all?

The book or the person R89?

The book and the movie

Interesting that she gave up the booze and the smokes and was gone within a couple of years. Probably took up the christian science and gave up her vices to save money.

And what the fuck happened to all her money?