Camper than a scout jamboree, this big-screen stab at Christina Crawford's account of life growing up with movie-star mom Joan almost defies criticism. Why? Because it's undoubtedly awful - - truly, appallingly awful - - yet it's also a compelling watch.
Just take a look at the sheer train-wreck vitality of Faye Dunaway's turn as the aging (and totally barking) actress. Going from simpering camera-hugger to Wicked Witch of West Hollywood in the blink of an over-mascaraed peeper, Dunaway is maniacally ludicrous. The film ought to be a serious drama about child abuse (the woman beat her kid with coathangers, for Chrissake!) but, with Dunaway's majestic hamming at its core, it's an unintentional comedy. And a bloody hilarious one at that, director Frank Perry layering on the Technicolor glitz with a shovel.