If you love Joan Crawford (and company’s) “(autobiographical) poor girl claws her way to the top” flicks — and naturally, I do — you’ll want to see The Damned Don’t Cry if you haven’t already.
Last night, I put it on, not expecting much (I’m a bigger Bette Davis fan than a Crawford one) but quickly got caught up in the movie.
Yes, even then, Crawford’s eyebrows and other severe makeup and hairstyle choices are confounding (and distract from her intensely-worked-upon figure) but maybe she was onto something: you can’t take your eyes off her, even if it’s because you are trying to figure out what the hell she must’ve been thinking.
By the way: That’s Frank Sinatra’s home in Palm Springs, doubling as the gangster’s house.
