"Naturally, we accepted," said Kathleen, who was excited at the prospect of seeing the star in her own home. "Wanda and I arrived promptly on the appointed evening. The door to her apartment opened, and there stood this elderly woman in a housedress and rubber-thonged flip-flops. It was Joan, looking as if she had just stepped out of the shower. Her hair was pulled back and she wasn't wearing any makeup, just a little lipstick, which made her look surprisingly young, but not like the Joan Crawford we knew. Miss Hale and I were taken by surprise. We thought we had the wrong date, but Joan said, 'Come in, I've been expecting you.' She showed us her apartment; then we sat down in the living room. Drinks were served in plastic glasses, but Joan didn't have a drink. She told us she had not taken hard liquor in nine weeks. She pulled her housedress around her waist to show off her girlish figure. Apparently she had made a deliberate decision not to dress up for us, but she gave no excuses or an explanation. We figured she just couldn't be bothered with the glamour anymore."
The visit lasted about an hour. "Joan talked about Hollywood, how she seldom went out there anymore and when she did she never left her hotel. 'All my friends are out of work,' she said. 'It's so sad. They never leave their house.' She could have been speaking about herself, or Bette Davis, but no names were mentioned, and she preferred to give the impression that she didn't really care. And then she disappeared into the kitchen and came out with some frozen quiche, which she served on paper plates. I never got to eat mine, because her little dog jumped up on my lap and finished it off. We spoke some more, and then it was time to leave. Saying goodbye, she seemed bravely self-sufficient. Wanda and I felt so sad that we headed straight to a restaurant and had a few stiff drinks. It hurt us to see someone we had admired for so long be so desperately lonely."
"I have never been so content in
my life.
I
think one had to earn
that
in
life: 'Contentment'
—
and
it's
a beautiful feeling."
—JOAN CRAWFORD TO
ALANNA NASH, SEPTEMBER 21, 1976
A Last Call from Joan
In December 1976, while researching a story about cinematography, I wrote Miss Crawford a letter. In a career spanning five decades, she had worked with some of the leading cameramen, including George Folsey, Robert Planck, and Ernest Haller. In the letter I mentioned the story and wondered if she would care to talk about these craftsmen. I delivered the note to the doorman of her building. The doorman said that Miss Crawford was in residence, but not seeing anyone.
Two days passed, and on the morning of the third day, Crawford called. She was enthusiastic about the article I was doing. "It's about time someone wrote about our wonderful cameramen," she said. "They are the real magicians of this business, and they are so seldom mentioned in reviews or articles."
Her voice was soft and she spoke very slow. I asked if she wanted to set up an appointment, to talk at a later time. "Can we do it now?" she said. "My mind is clear, and I have business meetings all week."
Speaking of her early days at M-G-M, she said she knew nothing about the camera. "It was there. I was told not to look into it. In time I grew less awkward, but my primary concern was that I looked good. My nose always seemed to be too big, and I hated my mouth. I seldom smiled, because there was a space between my teeth; it was slight, but on the screen I thought it looked enormous. I was vain and silly, like any young actress who thinks that the entire world is looking only at her."
During the 1930s, she said, it was cameramen Oliver Marsh
(Possessed)
and William Daniels
(Grand Hotel)
who taught her about camera lighting and how the close-up lens could catch her slightest emotion. "I was constantly told not to give so much, especially with my eyes and features. I listened, and I learned. Some early critic once said something to the effect that Joan Crawford was an effective actress but only in front of the camera. That upset and confused me. Movies are
made
by cameras. Where else should I project? Into the scenery? Down to the floor? Yes, it seems funny today, but back then I was a very serious young girl about my work."
Crawford proceeded to talk about the differences between working at M-G-M and Warner's. At her old studio they would spend hours lighting the sets and the stars, whereas at Warner's the emphasis was on time and cost. "It was the war. Film was scarce. They had to do so many setups within a work period. If they missed too many, Jack Warner would call down to the set." She spoke about Ernest Haller and his work on
Mildred Pierce,
and on
Humoresque,
when the leading star of the studio, Bette Davis, stole the cameraman's services. On her last film with Haller,
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?,
Crawford said she couldn't recall any specifics on the camera work, because the shooting schedule was so tight.
"One of the few scenes of mine that required an elaborate setup was the one where I found the dead rat on my luncheon tray. It wasn't enough that I screamed. Mister Aldrich needed action with my reaction. I couldn't run from the room, because I was playing a cripple. It was Ernie's idea to shoot me from overhead, circling in a frenzy in the wheelchair. He used two cameras. One was placed at waist level in the doorway. The second camera was ten feet above my head, in the crosswalks. When they yelled 'Action,' I was to scream and spin myself around and around in the wheelchair. We did so many takes that my arms were ready to drop off from pushing myself in the chair. It was very hard work. I remember later, at the beach, Miss Davis was supposed to wheel me from the car to the water's edge, but she couldn't push the chair in the sand. 'You can see how tough it was on
my
arms,' I told her, and she agreed."
During this part of the conversation there was no animosity in Crawford's voice when she mentioned Davis' name. She gave the impression that Bette was just another actress she had worked with, until, unprompted, she began to talk about seeing a final cut of
Baby Jane
in California, in October 1962. "I attended a screening at Warner's and I became totally immersed in the movie. I thought it was a powerful film. Everyone—Ernie Haller, Bob Aldrich—did a marvelous job. And Bette Davis was superb as Jane. I sent her flowers and champagne that evening. She never acknowledged the gesture or even bothered to call the next day, when she saw the movie."
"This was in 1962?"
"Yes," said Joan, "in October of 1962. Two weeks before the picture was released."
But according to Davis, she never saw the completed film until the following year, at the Cannes Film Festival, in May 1963.
"That's a
lie,"
said Crawford. "She saw the picture, fully edited, the day
after
I saw it. It was complete except for part of the credits, and one short scene with Jane as a young girl, which was being redubbed. The rest of the picture was there. I saw it with Mister Aldrich at Warner Brothers. Bette was to have joined us for the screening, but she never showed up. Despite some initial misgivings about the way I looked, I thought Bob did a terrific job, and Bette was magnificent. That afternoon I sent her the flowers and champagne, and later that night I called her at home. 'You were wonderful, darling,' I told her. 'I
heard,'
she said. She told me she had no intention of seeing the film. 'But you must,' I urged her. After all, we were supposed to go out, to tour together, to promote the film. How could she talk about a picture that she hadn't seen? 'You've got a
point,'
she said. So, the next afternoon, Bob Aldrich set up another screening for her. I waited all that evening and that night to hear from her. She never called. The next morning I called her."
"Well, Bette, what did you think?" Joan asked her costar.
There was a pause; then Bette answered, "You were so right, Joan. The picture is good. And I was
terrific."
"That was it," said Joan. "She never said anything about my performance. Not a word."
Not once in her entire career, it seemed, had the great actress Bette Davis ever acknowledged that her rival Joan Crawford had any talent. And, presumably, it was that last denial of approval that led Crawford to cancel the
Baby Jane
publicity tour with Davis; and to upstage her, in another round of competitive tit-for-tat, at the Oscars the following year. But before I was allowed to harbor a thought that a star of Crawford's stature would hold a grudge or stoop to acts of petty malice, Joan rushed in with a tactful and concluding assessment of her trials with Bette. "Of course that was a long, long time ago, and I've forgotten most of the unpleasantness. Certainly I continue to admire Miss Davis. She is one of our finest dramatic actresses. Her movies will remain beacons of achievements forever."
In January 1977 it was reported that Crawford was getting ready to return to movies. "She has found a script she likes and is coming out here for story conferences," said Hollywood publicist Joe Hoenig. There was also a report in
Variety
that the star was set for a TV series entitled
The Silver Fox.
That same month actress Mamie Van Doren said that Crawford had the hotel room next to her at the Ambassador East Hotel in Chicago. "She was seldom seen outside her room," said Van Doren, "but I could hear her up at all hours of the night, watching television and moving about like a phantom."
According to Crawford's secretary, the actress never left New York in 1977. She couldn't work or travel because she was dying of stomach cancer. Carl Johnes had visited the ailing star the previous December. "She still talked of working, but it was obvious something was very wrong. She looked as if she was disintegrating right in front of me. 'I'm getting down to picture weight, darling,' she said, but I didn't buy that."
Bette Rises, Again
By an ironic twist of fate, during the last few months of Joan Crawford's life Bette Davis resurrected her life and career. She left Connecticut and bought a condominium apartment in Los Angeles, "because, let's face it, this is where the industry is."
In January 1977 she traveled to Washington to attend the inauguration of Jimmy Carter, and took a poke in the press at the President's mother ("Miss Lillian doesn't like any women," said Bette. "She was perfectly terrible to all of us at the inauguration. She only wanted to see the men. When any women came up to her, she just glared at us like
this!"),
and at Elizabeth Taylor, who declined to have Davis as a costar in the film of
A Little Night Music
("She is such a
fool,"
said Davis. "One would think that after all her years in the business she would want to work with a professional").
That month it was also announced that Bette Davis would be the first woman to receive the Lifetime Achievement Award from the American Film Institute in Los Angeles. The attendant press leading up to the March event was plentiful, and most of it was seen by the ailing Joan Crawford. Interviews with Bette appeared in the New York
Times,
the Los Angeles
Times, Time, People,
and
Women's Wear Daily.
"She is another Di Maggio, another Einstein, the best there is," said Robert Aldrich, not mentioning his other
Baby Jane
star, Crawford. "I am thrilled to be back in Hollywood," Bette told the Los Angeles
Times,
and mentioned that at long last she would be making
Ethan Frome
with Henry Fonda as Caleb and Liv Ullman in the role that rival Joan had once coveted.
In New York, as the AFI event approached, Bette Davis retrospectives were held at revival houses and on television. "I am happy for Bette," Crawford was quoted as saying. "She deserves this most prestigious honor."
Director Vincent Sherman recalled a different reaction from Joan. Having directed Bette in
Old Acquaintance
and
Mr. Skeffington,
Sherman was asked to attend and to speak at the AFI tribute to Davis. He considered declining because she had recently been "particularly nasty and vicious towards an old friend and colleague of mine, Irving Rapper."
"It was gratuitous cruelty," said Rapper. "Bette kept giving these interviews saying I was not responsible for any of her good moments in
Now Voyager.
She claimed that her most famous scene, the one with the two cigarettes, was thought up by her and Paul Henreid, when in actuality it came from a 1923 movie with Ruth Chatterton."
"I was writing to Joan," Sherman continued, "and I told her I had doubts about going to the AFI tribute for Davis. A few days passed, and I had a call from Betty Barker, her secretary. She asked if I would be at home to take a call from Joan. I said 'Of course.' Joan called and said, 'Darling, don't go to the Davis dinner. She's really not worth the trouble.'
"I didn't go," said Sherman.
And Crawford didn't watch the ceremony, she said, when it was shown on television in late March.
"If you've earned a position, be
proud of it. Don't hide it. I want
to be recognized. When I hear
people say, 'There's Joan
Crawford!' I turn around and
say, 'Hi! How are ya!'"
—JOAN CRAWFORD,
MY WAY OF LIFE
Up until the last week of her life, the seventy-three-year-old Legend did not expect to die. Her faith in Christian Science made her believe that her body would cure itself of the pancreatic cancer that had spread through her system. As the pain increased and her weight kept dropping, she asked Mrs. Markham, her Christian Science practitioner, if she was dying. "With God, the spirit was eternal," she was told, and Crawford accepted that. She didn't complain or tell anyone, not even her children, that she had cancer, because that was how stars behaved, and Joan Crawford was one, of the first order.
"I am so at peace with the world that I'm even thinking good thoughts about Bette Davis," Crawford wrote on one of her Christmas cards that last season. To special friends she sent a recent photograph taken by John Engstead. The false eyelashes were in place, the famous mouth was painted, and her posture was erect as she held her beloved dog, Princess, in her lap. But her hair was turning white and her face was taut with pain. "She knew she didn't look good," said Vincent Sherman. "She sent me a note with the photograph. It read: 'Darling, if you don't like the picture, please throw it away. I'll understand.'"
Early in May, as her weight dropped to ninety pounds, Crawford could no longer lift her small dog, and she gave it away. "She called me that same week," said Monte Westmore. "Her voice was very weak; she spoke very slow and wasn't her usual bright and cheery self. When she mentioned she was giving the dog away, I knew something had to be drastic. I tried to get Peggy Shannon and Joan's friend, Vivian Walker, to find out what was wrong. None of us knew she was dying."
On Tuesday morning, May 10, the ailing star insisted on getting out of bed to make breakfast for her housekeeper and a fan who had stayed over. While they were eating the meal, Crawford returned to her bedroom and died. At noon the medical examiner was already there when her secretary, Florence Walsh, arrived for work. "She died of a heart attack," said Walsh. "It was cancer," said Betty Barker, her longtime secretary in California. "That's what the lawyer told us."
"I never bought that story," said Debbie Reynolds, who was one of several people who believed that Crawford committed suicide. "There were too many coincidental events leading up to it," Reynolds believed. "I just feel Joan found some way to exit this life before she looked too bad, before she had to suffer the ravages of decay anymore."
"Suicide wasn't her style," said Harry Mines, who had just picked up his mail that morning when he heard the news over the radio. "I stood there with a letter from Joan in my hand. It was a terrible shock, because I had no warning."
Bette Davis was on a movie set when she learned of the death of Joan Crawford. "We were at Disney Studios working on
Witch Mountain,"
said Peggy Shannon. "I was doing her hair at the time, in the makeup van, when Joan's secretary, Florence, called me from New York. She had made arrangements for me to fly to New York, to attend the funeral services. I thought it so strange. Joan was gone, and here I was working on Bette. I am sure she would have given me the time off, but I didn't ask and she said nothing."
"Bette Davis is more evasive on the subject of Joan Crawford than Richard Nixon is with David Frost," said reporter Arthur Bell when he covered the services that Friday at Campbell's Funeral Chapel in New York. "It was a mob scene outside, with the fans and celebrities swapping tears and autographs," said Bell. "Myrna Loy was there, and Van Johnson, and Joan's daughter Christina, who nobody recognized or seemed to care about. When Andy Warhol arrived with his flock and his Polaroid camera, he came over to me and said, 'Arthur, is Bette Davis here?' I said, 'Hardly.' That evening I called Bette's press agent to get a quote for my column. But I was told she wasn't talking to anyone. That was understandable. What could she say? 'The bitch is dead; long live the bitch'?"
"The memorial service in Hollywood was beautiful," said Peggy Shannon.
"Each branch of the union was represented," Harry Mines recalled.
"We read telegrams from every director and star she ever worked with," said George Cukor, "but there wasn't a word from Bette Davis."
A year would pass before Davis would offer a comment on the death of her most faithful and formidable rival. The occasion was the Academy Award ceremonies in Hollywood, which featured a special tribute to the stars who had died the previous year. As Sammy Davis, Jr., sang "Come Light the Candles," Bette was backstage watching the tribute on television, in a dressing room with Greer Garson, Barbara Stanwyck, and Olivia de Havilland. As the song was ending and photographs of the deceased—Charles Chaplin, Groucho Marx, Bing Crosby, and Elvis Presley—appeared on the TV monitors, Bette stood up and prepared for her appearance as a presenter. Suddenly the sound of a tumultuous ovation filled the entire auditorium. Appearing on the giant screen and monitors was the luminous face of the ultimate movie star, Joan Crawford. Looking up at the wide, lustrous eyes of Crawford, Bette Davis paused, nodded, then, clipping each syllable, bestowed a final benediction on her long-time rival. "Poor Joan," said Bette, "gone but not forgotten. Bless you!" And then she exited the room to seize the stage for her own appearance.