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Showing posts with label 1990s. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1990s. Show all posts
The Biggest Mother of Them All
This ain't your first time at the rodeo; some of you recognized our latest Mystery Guest as full frontal Faye Dunaway! The mask was made for the film adaptation of Christina Crawford's poisonous memoirs, Mommie Dearest (1981), which effectively killed off two careers: Joan Crawford's, and Dunaway's. In spite of its critical drubbing, unintentional hilarity, and general ineptitude, the film's bizarre, fascinating hold on the public's imagination ensured that Crawford's regal reputation would go into a tailspin from which it still hasn't fully recovered; and that Dunaway would spiral from Oscar-winning superstar to straight-to-video industry joke almost overnight. Thirty years later, the names of both Joan Crawford and Faye Dunaway are still inextricably connected with Mommie Dearest.
"I really hate talking about Mommie Dearest! It is like an obsession with people! Why do people need to focus so much on one film I made over 20 years ago? It was not a great time in my life and the film was not an experience I want to think about. Period!"
In all fairness, even before the biggest mother of them all came along, Dunaway's career was marked by wild inconsistency. Her one-two knockout punch of Bonnie and Clyde (1967) and The Thomas Crown Affair (1968) was followed by the disastrous A Place for Lovers and The Arrangement (both 1969); the brilliant Chinatown (1974) and Dunaway's Oscar-winning turn in Network (1976) were bookends for such glossy, all-star pap as The Three Musketeers (1973), The Towering Inferno (1974), and Voyage of the Damned (1976). But Mommie Dearest really ensured that Hollywood was Dunaway with Faye; her next film was the costume flop The Wicked Lady (1983), and such was Dunaway's infamy at this point, it was decided to not show her face in the advertising!
One can only imagine Dunaway thumbing through the script for her next picture, Supergirl (1984), and thinking to herself, "Why not? They want camp -- I'll give 'em camp!" Perhaps looking for a silver lining in the Mommie cloud, Dunaway decided to send up her over-the-top image by purposely camping up a storm as the villainess, Selena. Unfortunately, intentional camp almost always falls flat, and Supergirl was a super-flop.
Since then, Dunaway has had the occasional minor success -- a Golden Globe nomination for her downbeat, deglamorized performance in Barfly (1987); an Emmy win for a guest appearance on Columbo (1993) -- and very public disasters of epic proportions. Dunaway's own, highly-touted sitcom, It Had to Be You, premiered in 1993, and was yanked after only four, critically-reviled episodes. The following year, Dunaway was set to make her musical theater debut in what promised to be her best role in years: Norma Desmond in the Los Angeles production of Andrew Lloyd Webber's Sunset Boulevard. Dunaway was to take over the role from Glenn Close, who had triumphed as Norma on Broadway. It never happened; Lloyd Webber abruptly decided to shutter the musical after Close's final performance, rather than possibly subject Dunaway to "great embarrassment," due to what he deemed her inadequate musical chops. Ouch.
An oddly static ad campaign for Norell fragrances in 1998 introduced the beginnings of some seriously wonky plastic surgery to Dunaway's public; within a decade, her once-fabulous face had become virtually unrecognizable. Another high-profile misfire was The Starlet (2005), a short-lived reality competition show about young Hollywood hopefuls. Faye was the bitchy celebrity judge, a la Janice Dickinson; her would-be catch phrase was "Don't call us; we'll call you." Unfortunately, Dunaway's own phone wasn't exactly ringing off the hook.
Today, Dunaway continues to make small films which no one ever seems to see (Say it in Russian? The Seduction of Dr. Fugazzi?), as well as the occasional television spot. And in spite of the spectre of Mommie Dearest which continues to loom, Dunaway just can't seem to stay away from other complicated, highly-strung, iconic women: her next role is playing no less a diva than Maria Callas in the long-awaited film version of Terrence McNally's Master Class, which Dunaway successfully toured with in 1997.
The enigmatic Klee was the first to recognize the lifelike visage of Miss Dunaway; we are caught without a proper prize, but hey -- we never promised you a rose garden!
We love that you seem to get into these Mystery Guest segments; if you have any photos of potential future guests that you think might stump the panel, please send them to us. As always, thanks for playing, darlings!
The Biggest Mother of Them All
This ain't your first time at the rodeo; some of you recognized our latest Mystery Guest as full frontal Faye Dunaway! The mask was made for the film adaptation of Christina Crawford's poisonous memoirs, Mommie Dearest (1981), which effectively killed off two careers: Joan Crawford's, and Dunaway's. In spite of its critical drubbing, unintentional hilarity, and general ineptitude, the film's bizarre, fascinating hold on the public's imagination ensured that Crawford's regal reputation would go into a tailspin from which it still hasn't fully recovered; and that Dunaway would spiral from Oscar-winning superstar to straight-to-video industry joke almost overnight. Thirty years later, the names of both Joan Crawford and Faye Dunaway are still inextricably connected with Mommie Dearest.
"I really hate talking about Mommie Dearest! It is like an obsession with people! Why do people need to focus so much on one film I made over 20 years ago? It was not a great time in my life and the film was not an experience I want to think about. Period!"
In all fairness, even before the biggest mother of them all came along, Dunaway's career was marked by wild inconsistency. Her one-two knockout punch of Bonnie and Clyde (1967) and The Thomas Crown Affair (1968) was followed by the disastrous A Place for Lovers and The Arrangement (both 1969); the brilliant Chinatown (1974) and Dunaway's Oscar-winning turn in Network (1976) were bookends for such glossy, all-star pap as The Three Musketeers (1973), The Towering Inferno (1974), and Voyage of the Damned (1976). But Mommie Dearest really ensured that Hollywood was Dunaway with Faye; her next film was the costume flop The Wicked Lady (1983), and such was Dunaway's infamy at this point, it was decided to not show her face in the advertising!
One can only imagine Dunaway thumbing through the script for her next picture, Supergirl (1984), and thinking to herself, "Why not? They want camp -- I'll give 'em camp!" Perhaps looking for a silver lining in the Mommie cloud, Dunaway decided to send up her over-the-top image by purposely camping up a storm as the villainess, Selena. Unfortunately, intentional camp almost always falls flat, and Supergirl was a super-flop.
Since then, Dunaway has had the occasional minor success -- a Golden Globe nomination for her downbeat, deglamorized performance in Barfly (1987); an Emmy win for a guest appearance on Columbo (1993) -- and very public disasters of epic proportions. Dunaway's own, highly-touted sitcom, It Had to Be You, premiered in 1993, and was yanked after only four, critically-reviled episodes. The following year, Dunaway was set to make her musical theater debut in what promised to be her best role in years: Norma Desmond in the Los Angeles production of Andrew Lloyd Webber's Sunset Boulevard. Dunaway was to take over the role from Glenn Close, who had triumphed as Norma on Broadway. It never happened; Lloyd Webber abruptly decided to shutter the musical after Close's final performance, rather than possibly subject Dunaway to "great embarrassment," due to what he deemed her inadequate musical chops. Ouch.
An oddly static ad campaign for Norell fragrances in 1998 introduced the beginnings of some seriously wonky plastic surgery to Dunaway's public; within a decade, her once-fabulous face had become virtually unrecognizable. Another high-profile misfire was The Starlet (2005), a short-lived reality competition show about young Hollywood hopefuls. Faye was the bitchy celebrity judge, a la Janice Dickinson; her would-be catch phrase was "Don't call us; we'll call you." Unfortunately, Dunaway's own phone wasn't exactly ringing off the hook.
Today, Dunaway continues to make small films which no one ever seems to see (Say it in Russian? The Seduction of Dr. Fugazzi?), as well as the occasional television spot. And in spite of the spectre of Mommie Dearest which continues to loom, Dunaway just can't seem to stay away from other complicated, highly-strung, iconic women: her next role is playing no less a diva than Maria Callas in the long-awaited film version of Terrence McNally's Master Class, which Dunaway successfully toured with in 1997.
The enigmatic Klee was the first to recognize the lifelike visage of Miss Dunaway; we are caught without a proper prize, but hey -- we never promised you a rose garden!
We love that you seem to get into these Mystery Guest segments; if you have any photos of potential future guests that you think might stump the panel, please send them to us. As always, thanks for playing, darlings!
Who's Sorry Now?
She could sing pop, rock, country, jazz and R&B. She translated her hits (all 35 million records' worth of 'em) into French, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, and German. She was the first female pop-rock superstar, one as comfortable on the set of American Bandstand as she was on the stage of The Sahara in Vegas. She was the girl next door in a prom dress and pearls, and a larger than life diva with hair to match. She is Connie Francis, and she was our latest Mystery Guest!
It's this dichotomy in her public image -- Doris Day, by way of Annette Funicello, with a large helping of Agnes Moorehead-as-Endora anachronistic glamour -- that make Connie Francis' paper dolls so much fun, along with your guesses! Any one celebrity whose wardrobe calls to mind perky Debbie Reynolds, wacky Lucille Ball, frilly Loretta Young and Amazonian Julie Newmar is tops in our book.
From the start, there was something different about Connie Francis. Among the homogeneously pretty, blond-and-blue-eyed ingenues crowding the music, television and film industries when she came along in the 1950's, Connie, with her proud Italian-American heritage and dark, ethnic beauty, stood out among the Tuesday Welds and Sandra Dees. And then there was that voice -- a voice which seemed to incongruously belong to a junior Judy Garland or a femme Al Jolson. Like her equally talented contemporary, Brenda Lee, Connie was the proverbial Little Lady with the Big Voice -- but, unlike Brenda, Connie's versatility was so astonishing, it was almost self-parody. Connie Francis Sings Italian Favorites. Sings Jewish Favorites. Sings Irish Favorites. Sings German Favorites. Sings Folk Songs Favorites. There were Fun Songs for Children, and Award Winning Motion Picture Hits, and Country Music, Connie Style. In a delicious bout of musical schizophrenia, she was Hawaii Connie and Connie Francis On Broadway Today and Connie Francis at the Copa and A New Kind of Connie. If you were a Connie fan, you could Do the Twist!, or indulge in Greatest American Waltzes.
Frankly, we find Connie the most interesting after her chart success fell into sharp decline around 1964. All of her major, teen-oriented hits were well behind her ("Who's Sorry Now," "Stupid Cupid," "Lipstick on Your Collar," "Where the Boys Are"), but Connie continued to be a major concert and nightclub draw, as well as a prolific albums artist. She always had a hipper cachet than, say, Vikki Carr or Eydie Gorme; but listening to her splendid recordings of such standards as "Stardust," "The Shadow of Your Smile," and "Where Can I Go without You," or watching her performances on the variety shows of the day, it's clear that Connie relished the chance to really show off her jazzy, cabaret bent.
There's an image embedded in the public consciousness of a maudlin Connie Francis sobbing her way through a soggy ballad; and it's undeniable that quite a few numbers in the Franconero repertoire have a healthy dollop of sentimentality. The singer's own well-publicized woes -- a brutal 1974 rape which effectively ended her performing career for half a decade; her brother's murder at the hands of the Mafia; four failed marriages and seventeen involuntary stays in mental institutions -- only serve to burnish her reputation as, if not necessarily tragic, a tragedienne in the most dramatic sense. But Connie Francis is made of stronger stuff than that. What we love most is her chutzpah -- the ballsiness and salty humor she hid behind the bouffants and crinolines, which served her well in going toe-to-toe with MGM Records executives, truculent musicians and songwriters, and her irascible father, with whom she shared a complicated, love-hate relationship. She blazed a trail for every female pop-rock star to follow, and she did it on her own terms, called all the shots, studied every detail -- and still remained a lady. Not incidentally, she also did it in a variety of fabulous Don Loper frocks, with enough chiffon swags, net panels and fur trim to make Danny LaRue sigh with envy.
The mysterious Plum was the first to correctly guess Connie's identity -- so we extend our congratulations and huzzahs as we pack Plum off on full scholarship to the Joey Josephs Connie Francis Impersonators Academy. We can scarcely wait to see the results!As always, thanks for playing, darlings! We had a lot of fun with this one. Here's a little more Connie Couture for inspiration.
Who's Sorry Now?
She could sing pop, rock, country, jazz and R&B. She translated her hits (all 35 million records' worth of 'em) into French, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, and German. She was the first female pop-rock superstar, one as comfortable on the set of American Bandstand as she was on the stage of The Sahara in Vegas. She was the girl next door in a prom dress and pearls, and a larger than life diva with hair to match. She is Connie Francis, and she was our latest Mystery Guest!
It's this dichotomy in her public image -- Doris Day, by way of Annette Funicello, with a large helping of Agnes Moorehead-as-Endora anachronistic glamour -- that make Connie Francis' paper dolls so much fun, along with your guesses! Any one celebrity whose wardrobe calls to mind perky Debbie Reynolds, wacky Lucille Ball, frilly Loretta Young and Amazonian Julie Newmar is tops in our book.
From the start, there was something different about Connie Francis. Among the homogeneously pretty, blond-and-blue-eyed ingenues crowding the music, television and film industries when she came along in the 1950's, Connie, with her proud Italian-American heritage and dark, ethnic beauty, stood out among the Tuesday Welds and Sandra Dees. And then there was that voice -- a voice which seemed to incongruously belong to a junior Judy Garland or a femme Al Jolson. Like her equally talented contemporary, Brenda Lee, Connie was the proverbial Little Lady with the Big Voice -- but, unlike Brenda, Connie's versatility was so astonishing, it was almost self-parody. Connie Francis Sings Italian Favorites. Sings Jewish Favorites. Sings Irish Favorites. Sings German Favorites. Sings Folk Songs Favorites. There were Fun Songs for Children, and Award Winning Motion Picture Hits, and Country Music, Connie Style. In a delicious bout of musical schizophrenia, she was Hawaii Connie and Connie Francis On Broadway Today and Connie Francis at the Copa and A New Kind of Connie. If you were a Connie fan, you could Do the Twist!, or indulge in Greatest American Waltzes.
Frankly, we find Connie the most interesting after her chart success fell into sharp decline around 1964. All of her major, teen-oriented hits were well behind her ("Who's Sorry Now," "Stupid Cupid," "Lipstick on Your Collar," "Where the Boys Are"), but Connie continued to be a major concert and nightclub draw, as well as a prolific albums artist. She always had a hipper cachet than, say, Vikki Carr or Eydie Gorme; but listening to her splendid recordings of such standards as "Stardust," "The Shadow of Your Smile," and "Where Can I Go without You," or watching her performances on the variety shows of the day, it's clear that Connie relished the chance to really show off her jazzy, cabaret bent.
There's an image embedded in the public consciousness of a maudlin Connie Francis sobbing her way through a soggy ballad; and it's undeniable that quite a few numbers in the Franconero repertoire have a healthy dollop of sentimentality. The singer's own well-publicized woes -- a brutal 1974 rape which effectively ended her performing career for half a decade; her brother's murder at the hands of the Mafia; four failed marriages and seventeen involuntary stays in mental institutions -- only serve to burnish her reputation as, if not necessarily tragic, a tragedienne in the most dramatic sense. But Connie Francis is made of stronger stuff than that. What we love most is her chutzpah -- the ballsiness and salty humor she hid behind the bouffants and crinolines, which served her well in going toe-to-toe with MGM Records executives, truculent musicians and songwriters, and her irascible father, with whom she shared a complicated, love-hate relationship. She blazed a trail for every female pop-rock star to follow, and she did it on her own terms, called all the shots, studied every detail -- and still remained a lady. Not incidentally, she also did it in a variety of fabulous Don Loper frocks, with enough chiffon swags, net panels and fur trim to make Danny LaRue sigh with envy.
The mysterious Plum was the first to correctly guess Connie's identity -- so we extend our congratulations and huzzahs as we pack Plum off on full scholarship to the Joey Josephs Connie Francis Impersonators Academy. We can scarcely wait to see the results!As always, thanks for playing, darlings! We had a lot of fun with this one. Here's a little more Connie Couture for inspiration.
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