Lobotomy Room Goes to the Movies is the FREE monthly film
club downstairs at Fontaine’s devoted to Bad Movies We Love (our motto: Bad
Movies for Bad People), specialising in the kitsch, the cult and the queer! And
on Wednesday 20 September, we commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of Valley of
the Dolls (1967)!
Before Mommie Dearest ... before Showgirls ... the original “What the hell were they thinking?” Bad Movie We Love was show business cautionary tale Valley of the Dolls. A perennial favourite of drag queens and a cult classic for connoisseurs of kitsch, the unintentionally hilarious and wildly entertaining 1967 film adaptation of Jacqueline Susann’s scandalous 1966 bestseller took the already lurid source material – and went even trashier with it! (An enraged Susann herself called the film “a piece of shit”!).
Throw on a bouffant wig, get yourself a stiff drink and strap yourselves in for a wild ride when Lobotomy Room Goes to the Movies presents Valley of The Dolls!
As usual: arrive circa 8 pm to order your drinks and grab the best seats downstairs in The Bamboo Lounge. (Seating is limited! First come, first serve!). The film starts at 8:30 pm prompt.
“Bitches in wigs!” Drag queen Jackie Beat
“You’ve got to climb Mount Everest to reach the Valley of
the Dolls …” Barbara Parkins' spoken introduction to the film Valley of the Dolls (1967)
“Boobies. Boobies. Boobies. Nothin’ but boobies. Who needs
‘em?” Patty Duke as Neely O’Hara in Valley of the Dolls
“Adult books / I don't understand / Jackie Susann meant it
that way …” from the 1981 song “Adult Books” by Los Angeles punk band X
/ Casualties of the glamour jungle: Valley of the Dolls covers the show business travails of our three heroines (left to right) Anne Wells (Barbara Perkins), Neely O'Hara (Patty Duke) and Jennifer North (Sharon Tate, centre) /
Valley of the Dolls is a legendarily bad film with a terrible reputation. It is frequently categorised – albeit usually with affection – as a “bad film we love”, “so-bad it’s good” or “guilty pleasure.” But I’m ready to out myself: I’d genuinely rank Valley of the Dolls as one of my all-time favourite films. In fact, for me it’s as addictive as the fistfuls of “dolls” (pills) the film’s three main characters pop as casually as Tic Tacs.
Valley of the Dolls is a legendarily bad film with a terrible reputation. It is frequently categorised – albeit usually with affection – as a “bad film we love”, “so-bad it’s good” or “guilty pleasure.” But I’m ready to out myself: I’d genuinely rank Valley of the Dolls as one of my all-time favourite films. In fact, for me it’s as addictive as the fistfuls of “dolls” (pills) the film’s three main characters pop as casually as Tic Tacs.
Watching Valley of the Dolls lulls me into a trance of pure
pleasure. The film unspools like a shimmering, hallucinatory pink fever dream. Like
Mommie Dearest (1981) or Mahogany (1975), it’s an allegedly “bad movie” that is
so wildly entertaining on every level, it collapses conventional distinctions
between “bad” and “good”. The far more tasteful and respected 1952 talkathon
All About Eve (1950), for example, covers much of the same
“show-business-is-hell” thematic territory as Dolls (especially the bitchy
antagonism between ageing veteran actress Helen Lawson and young upstart Neely
O’Hara). Eve is heralded as a Golden Age Hollywood classic, but I’d argue the trashier Dolls
is infinitely more enjoyable.
And it improves with repeated viewings. Dolls is a truly
life-changing film! The insane dialogue was surely meant to be memorised and
quoted. Along with the oeuvre of John Waters, I’d argue watching Dolls should
be an essential rite of passage for all self-respecting queers. Sound-tracked
by the haunting and ethereal Dionne Warwick theme tune (which you hear over and
over and over again), the movie adaptation takes outrageous liberties with Jacqueline
Susann’s sizzling original 1966 source novel. (If you haven’t read the book I highly
recommend you do). Entire characters and subplots are excised – and the ending
is radically changed. No wonder Susann hated the film! It’s not so much a
faithful adaptation as a frantic summary of the book’s emotional climaxes as
lurid bullet points. Think 123 spellbinding minutes of teased hair, bouffant
wiglets, mood swings, mink coats, love affairs, emotional meltdowns, catfights,
pill-popping, abortions, drug overdoses, nervous breakdowns, terminal illness, rehab,
drunkenness, and slaps across the face.
Undistinguished hack director Mark Robson is usually blamed
for the hypothetical flaws of Dolls (and he was reportedly nasty and bullying
towards the lead actresses). But he’s also responsible for the film’s berserk,
wildly lurching tone and the hammy performances (he apparently encouraged
everyone to over-act) – so I am forever in his gratitude! It’s precisely his
lack of judgement and control over the sensational material that makes Dolls so
pleasurable. And to his credit, Robson shows some unusual, creative, and
stylish flourishes too. When Neely recounts her hellish stint drying-out in a
sanatorium to Anne and Lyon, the flashbacks are hazy and almost
hallucinatory. And the glimpse of Jennifer’s subtitled French “nudie” art film
is a viciously funny parody of almost every Brigitte Bardot film ever
made (most overtly, Bardot’s nude sequence at beginning of Le Mepris).
/ He's just not that into you: that cad Lyon Burke and Anne Welles in Valley of the Dolls. Via /
/ He's just not that into you: that cad Lyon Burke and Anne Welles in Valley of the Dolls. Via /
Special mention must be given to Dolls’ several music
numbers. Except for Anthony Scotti as Tony Polar, no one does their own singing
- which really adds to the film’s artifice. (Speaking of artifice: when one
character has her wig yanked off in a fight, she’s wearing another wig
underneath!). Saturated in faux-Continental sophistication and Vegas lounge
schmaltz, the middle-of-the-road quasi-show tunes belted by Neely, Helen and
Tony are gloriously unmoored from the real-life youthquake pop culture of 1967.
(Remember: this was the era of psychedelia, protest music, The Velvet
Underground and Nico). This strange, campy ersatz “swinging” music (by Andre
and Dory Previn) exists entirely in its own realm. Neely’s star-making
performance of the perky “It’s Impossible” has an almost Eurovision vibe. (My
favourite moment: when the strands of beads Neely is wearing around her neck miraculously
suddenly loop perfectly around each boob like a bra. I love that this
unintentionally hilarious shot was left in! It never fails to make me guffaw aloud).
Fierce stage diva Helen working herself up into a frenzy squawking about
planting her own tree (“my tree will not be just one in a row!”) is one of the
great kitsch moments ever captured on celluloid. (Michael Musto has noted that
Susan Hayward embraces the lip-synching so avidly that her mouth gapes open long after the final triumphant note she’s miming to has ended).
The chief pleasure of Dolls is the performances of its lead
actresses. Susann’s novel had caused a sensation in ’66, so the film was a
red-hot film property, every bit as hyped as Gone with the Wind had been in the
1930s. Just as with the hunt for Scarlett O’Hara, every happening young actress
of the period was up for consideration for the main characters. It’s fun to
imagine the various casting combinations that were proposed: Candace Bergen for
Anne. (Susann herself wanted Mia Farrow). Natalie Wood or Ann-Margret as Neely
(Susann would have preferred Barbra Streisand). Raquel Welch or Jane Fonda as
Jennifer (Fonda was also considered for Neely. Susann’s own choice for
Jennifer: Tina Louise – Ginger from Gilligan’s Island!). You can also throw
Tuesday Weld, Liza Minnelli and Faye Dunaway into the mix. Meanwhile, Bette
Davis, Joan Crawford and even Lucillle Ball reportedly vied to play Helen
before the part went to Judy Garland (and then Susan Hayward). Fun as it is to
speculate how Dolls would have turned out with these alternative rosters of
actresses, for me the final cast is perfection.
/ Barbara Parkins as Anne Welles: Good girl with all the bad breaks! /
As prim, long-suffering good girl Anne Welles, Barbara
Parkins is superbly inexpressive and wooden with an immaculate frost-bitten lady-like
demeanour. No matter what travails Susann’s plot throws at her, no matter how
badly the callous Lyon Burke treats her, Anne’s face remains a rigidly-composed
mask. Parkins - styled to evoke Jackie Kennedy - also seems to occasionally slip into a
patrician British accent. Her best line: “Neely, you’re being obnoxious!” Parkins’
performance is pretty terrible by most standards, but her lustrous bouffant mane
is impeccable, and she stares out of train windows and suffers in mink beautifully.
And her Gillian Girl hairspray advertisement is a mind-blowing camp
extravaganza.
/ Sharon Tate as Jennifer North: Sex symbol turned on too often! /
The acting of Sharon Tate as doomed sex bomb Jennifer North is
hesitant, remote, and uncertain in the fragile tradition of Kim Novak. Is Tate
“good” or “bad” as Jennifer? Certainly, she imbues Jennifer with a dopey
Marilyn Monroe-like child-woman vulnerability. Watching her, you’re reminded me
of Pauline Kael’s review of Some Like It Hot: “Monroe gives perhaps her most
characteristic performance, which means that she's both charming and
embarrassing.” Tate has two undeniably great moments. When hip-swiveling
smoothie nightclub singer Tony serenades her with the ballad “Come Love with
Me” and they instantly fall in love, Tate does dewy-eyed, besotted wordless simpering
better than any of the ingenues in an Elvis musical – and that includes
Ann-Margret and Nancy Sinatra. (Susann originally modeled Tony on the old-school
suave Brylcreemed likes of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra but as portrayed in
the film, he’s a macho crotch-thrusting Vegas stud more in the tradition of Tom
Jones or Engelbert Humperdinck). And Tate is genuinely tragic in Jennifer’s suicide
scene in that orange and brown hotel room, gulping down a fatal dose of pills
while staring at herself in the mirror.
Honourable mention must go to Lee Grant in the supporting
role of Jennifer’s scheming and secretive sister in law Miriam. Like her peer Shelley
Winters, Grant is from the intense, nostril-flaring Method school of acting. And like Winters, Grant demonstrates no one hams it up quite like a Method Actor. It’s been noted that even when
completely silent and standing completely still, Grant still manages to overact
furiously in Dolls. Whether eavesdropping on conversations, hovering around
corners, having tense telephone conversations with doctors, heating-up lasagna
or just lounging at home alone in a bathrobe (while wearing a thick glossy chestnut
wig and false eye-lashes), Grant approaches the role like she’s in a Greek
tragedy. In her 2014 memoirs Grant admitted she underwent her first face lift
when she was still in her thirties. Certainly, her face in Dolls is stretched
as taut as a drum. Grant’s best moments: when she cryptically warns Tony, “How many times do I have to tell you? At
night all cats are grey” as if imparting ancient mystical wisdom. (What does
that even mean?). And - when Tony’s medical bills begin piling up - Miriam
shamelessly pimps Jennifer to a high falutin’ French pornographer (I mean, film
director) with, “You’ve posed undraped on the stage before.” Miriam would be
Grant’s ultimate role until she played the drunk rich bitch slapped around by
stewardess Brenda Vaccaro in Airport ’77. (I also love Grant’s brief, ghostly
appearance in David Lynch’s 2001 tour de force Mulholland Drive).
/ Susan Hayward as Helen Lawson: A gut, fingernail, and claw fighter who went down swinging /
Judy Garland was initially cast as scary show business dragon
woman Helen Lawson, but she was fired for drunkenness and clashing with the
director. (Garland got revenge by swiping her Travilla costumes). Reliable pro Susan
Hayward was drafted in to replace her at the last moment. While it’s a great
cinematic “What if?” for Garland fans, I think the hard-boiled, tough-as-nails Hayward
is majestic as unapologetic bitch Helen. Defiant and abrasive with a butch, rasping
chain-smoker growl, Howard savours every barbed line. “The only hit that comes
out of a Helen Lawson show is Helen Lawson, and that's me, baby, remember?” she
rages. “Neely hasn't got that hard core like me. She never learned to roll with
the punches. And, believe me, in this business they come left, right and below
the belt!” she gloats about her vanquished nemesis. “I'm a barracuda!” Howard
snarls triumphantly, swilling champagne while wearing a green sequined caftan. Her Helen is a bitch goddess extraordinaire. And the fuss over Helen Lawson’s auburn
wig is unfair: everyone in the film wears wigs and hairpieces throughout! In
fact, in that infamous wig-tearing scene Neely’s own hair appears to be
augmented with a wiglet. And the powder room attendant who comforts Helen is sporting
an acrylic orange Ronald McDonald clown wig. (Seriously – check her out!). Wigs. Wigs. WIGS!
/ Patty Duke as Neely O’Hara: Nice kid turned lush /
Ultimately, though it’s Patty Duke who owns Valley of the
Dolls as show business monster Neely O’Hara. Duke had won a Best Supporting
Actress Oscar aged just 16 for playing Helen Keller in The Miracle Worker
(1962) and then starred between 1963-1966 in the pert ultra-kitsch Patty Duke Show
on TV (as identical twin cousins!). At 20, Duke was perhaps understandably eager
to jettison her teenybopper image. A meaty, challenging role like Neely
must have looked like the perfect chance to prove herself as a serious
dramatic adult actress. And boy did Duke seize the opportunity with both hands! She doesn't so much act as rampage through Dolls. The more pill-head Neely unravels, the more magnificent Duke is. Gritting her teeth,
screaming her lines, flailing and thrashing, Duke’s portrayal of Neely is like
one continuous whiplash mood swing or temper tantrum (or what John Waters would
call a “glamour fit”). I read someone somewhere describe Duke’s Neely as a “sequined
terrorist”, which is totally accurate. This is a truly towering, unfettered wild
display in the tradition of Ann-Margret in Kitten with a Whip (1964) or Tommy
(1975), Diana Ross in Mahogany (1975) and Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest (1981).
At the time Duke’s performance was widely ridiculed. Even though Dolls was a commercial hit, there was speculation it would destroy her career. (Like Dunaway with Mommie Dearest, for
years the mortified Duke refused to talk about Dolls. To her credit, towards
the end of her life Duke embraced the film’s kitsch devotees). Today, her depiction
of Neely O’Hara appears fearless and risky, nobly unafraid to appear foolish, pathetic,
or desperate. Patty Duke died in 2016. I’d argue her crowning achievement was
her incarnation of Neely O’Hara, destined to be continuously re-discovered by
new generations of aficionados of "a lavender persuasion". Sparkle, Neely – sparkle!
Further reading and viewing:
/ Below: A prime example of Travilla's understated costumes in Dolls, as worn by Anne Welles in the Gillian Girl hairspray advertisement /
This documentary (below) offers an insanely entertaining, concise analysis of Dolls’ enduring cult status through the prism of a true queer eye. Contributors include Bruce Vilanch, Michael Musto, drag icon Jackie Beat – and Barbara Parkins (Anne Welles herself!). The present-day Parkins (who’s seemingly styled herself as Madonna circa 1984 with the crucifix and sheer lace) is a revelation: self-aware, perceptive, funny, hip and appreciative of Dolls’ camp reputation. The footage from Theatre-A-Go-Go's legendary low-budget Dolls stage production is hilarious. Surely this play is overdue for a revival? I'd be in the front row every night.
Further reading and viewing:
There is a bonanza of documentaries about Valley of the
Dolls on YouTube. Designing Valley of the Dolls emphasises designer William Travilla’s
deluxe eye-popping costumes. (Travilla is best-remembered for his
collaborations with Marilyn Monroe on eight of her films. His most famous
creation is the white pleated halter-necked dress Monroe wears in The Seven Year
Itch). It offers a goldmine of juicy gossip and insight. One fun factoid: $25,000
of the film’s budget was set aside for wigs and hairpieces. Sharon Tate was
paid $35,000. Patty Duke was paid $75,000. Poor Barbara Parkins was paid just
$20,000. More money was spent on wigs than one of the film’s leading ladies! That
reveals so much about the filmmaker’s priorities! Designing also includes
stills from deleted scenes. For example, that famous image of an anguished Neely
reaching for the giant jar of red pills never actually appears in Dolls: that’s
a hallucination scene from the sanatorium, cut from finished film. I’d love to
see all these deleted scenes! If the scrapped footage still exists someone
should compile them as a DVD extra. Or better yet, assemble a three-hour “director’s
cut” with all the deleted scenes re-inserted!
/ Below: A prime example of Travilla's understated costumes in Dolls, as worn by Anne Welles in the Gillian Girl hairspray advertisement /
This documentary (below) offers an insanely entertaining, concise analysis of Dolls’ enduring cult status through the prism of a true queer eye. Contributors include Bruce Vilanch, Michael Musto, drag icon Jackie Beat – and Barbara Parkins (Anne Welles herself!). The present-day Parkins (who’s seemingly styled herself as Madonna circa 1984 with the crucifix and sheer lace) is a revelation: self-aware, perceptive, funny, hip and appreciative of Dolls’ camp reputation. The footage from Theatre-A-Go-Go's legendary low-budget Dolls stage production is hilarious. Surely this play is overdue for a revival? I'd be in the front row every night.
Read the essential Dreams Are What Le Cinema is For blog’s astute examination
of Dolls here. The author Ken Anderson first saw Valley of the Dolls as an 11-year old at The Castro Theatre in San Francisco. Beat that!
Perhaps the oddest Dolls-related artefact is the 1968 tie-in
album Patty Duke Sings Songs from The Valley of the Dolls and Other Selections.
Duke’s singing abilities can charitably be described as modest, which didn’t
prevent her from scoring a hit single in 1965 with the Lesley Gore-like teen
ballad “Don’t Just Stand There” (on which her voice is wreathed in forgiving
reverb and cooing backing vocalists). The
far more challenging material on Patty Duke Sings horribly exposes Duke as way out
of her comfort zone. Whose idea was this? The makers of the film clearly
recognised Duke wasn’t capable of singing Neely’s musical numbers (which is why
she was dubbed). So why let Duke tackle this misbegotten record? Her pained renditions
of “It’s Impossible” (certainly it’s impossible to sing!) and “I’ll Plant My
Own Tree” (Duke doesn’t stick just to Neely O’Hara’s songs – she massacres
other characters’ as well) are so bad they wind up being horribly compelling. See
if you’re masochistic enough to endure the entire album!
/ If you can't manage the whole record, here is a sampler: "It's Impossible" delivered in own Duke's own strident tones. /
/ Bonus material: in the film Susan Hayward mouths along to Margaret Whiting's belting delivery of "I'll Plant My Own Tree". However, before she was fired Judy Garland recorded her own version. This clip syncs Howard's performance with Garland's voice in an intriguing hint of what might have been. Wow! /
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I utterly adore this post!
ReplyDeleteSuch a shame I missed the showing last month...
Jx
I, too, will plant my own tree & watch it grow.
ReplyDeleteYour tree / will not be / just one in a row!
DeleteGood reading
ReplyDelete