Adopted ingrate Christina Crawford did a quickie theatrical Mother’s Day vivisection of her mom, Joan Crawford. Her show came — and went — in days. It’s already over. Crawford is long over. Christina? She never began.
Back when shoulder pads outdistanced epaulets, Joan was a nova. A movie queen goddess. Oscar for “Mildred Pierce.” Leading lady opposite types like Clark Gable, John Garfield. A star 45 years, from the ’30s to the ’70s.
Big fame, rich husbands, adopted children. Itching to become something, Christina was the plotline of 1978’s Faye Dunaway movie “Mommie Dearest.” It was a slingshot at Joan. She said mom was a drunk. A horror, etc.
OK, so movie star Joan wasn’t Mother Teresa. I remember her apartment had white carpet, and she made me remove my shoes before entering. Carleton Varney was her decorator. He’s everybody’s decorator. He’s done the Oscars, Blair House, the Plaza, the Carlyle and probably King Tut’s commode.
Having also subbed as Christina’s designated escort, he says: “This show said Joan tried replacing her own sick daughter in a soap opera? Please. Christina had a hysterectomy. I went with Joan, who brought her flowers in New York Hospital. This big star didn’t need any small soap opera bit. She stepped in to cover for Christina. Save the kid’s job. “This girl wanted desperately to be her mother. She was on her mother’s coattails. Joan gave her everything. Always giving her. Joan got her acting jobs. She used Joan’s own exact stationery. Same color and printing. Only changed the name.
“Joan and I moved Tina into her own apartment and gave her so many objects and furnishings. But it was all one way. This girl was never satisfied because always she was Joan Crawford’s daughter.
“And saying she happily saw her mother in a casket just to make sure she’s dead? That’s B.S. Her mother was cremated. Never laid out.”
Age 73, Christina is Daughter Dearest.
WE just lost Dr. Joyce Brothers. I remember her big-time TV psychologist days when she told me what professions produce the best lovers.
“Worst,” she said, “are doctors. They’re only interested in telling you what you should do — not what they should do. Second worst, CEOs. Their interest is themselves. While you’re in position and shouting, ‘Go,’ they’re picking up a phone and hollering, ‘Sell.’ ”
Said Dr. Brothers, “Best are clergymen.” Clergymen? “Yes, because they’re interested in what’s better for you.”
THE American Ballet opening [reviewed on Page 44]. Forget theatergoers in tees, jeans, flip-flops and backpacks. This was ladies in ball gowns and jewels, gents in tuxes and expensive hairpieces. Breathtaking.
As one stunner kicked her long train with her heel and a kindergarten escort picked fluff off his senior lady’s rear bustle, over sashayed Lucy Liu. In floor-length borrowed white gown and borrowed J. Mendel white mink shrug — the eyelashes weren’t even hers — she said: “I’m here because I love dance. I took lessons long ago. I was not very good at it.”
Behind Christine Baranski and her beautiful daughter was one-time ballet student Bebe Neuwirth, who said she can tell a Pavlova on that stage from a dancer moving like Jay Leno. Her husband, Chris Calkins, said he starts today directing Isiah Whitlock and Peter Scolari in the movie “Jerome’s Bouquet” in the Village about “an 82-year-old woman pickpocket.” She said she’s waiting to see if “Browsers,” her musical comedy pilot, is picked up by Amazon Studios.
Inside a long beige tighttighttight strapless number — “Honey, I don’t keep it” — gorgeous-to-die fashion model Coco Rocha. “And trust me, I eat. I already had a sandwich, salad, soup and coffee. After this I’ll be starving, so I’ll have bouillabaisse.” Where she having bouillabaise? “Airport.” Bouillabaise in an airport? “Yes. Right from here I’m flying to Australia.” Added her artist husband, James Conran: “We’re going horseback riding.” Flying 22 hours to horseback ride?
Grammy winner singer Bridget Kelly was in Badgley Mischka. Somebody mumbled, “Designers actually just throw these gowns at us.” Sigourney Weaver in black silk Dior: “I’ve had two fittings. I think I’ll try to keep it.”
Ashlee Simpson was surrounded by more minders than Syria’s Assad. Nobody allowed to approach her. However, she posed for every picture-taker this side of Altoona. For anyone with a drawing board and a crayon she stuck her behind out, sucked her stomach in, tilted her chin, bobbled her boobs and wiggled her behind. Lips got puckered, hands hit hips. But you couldn’t ask questions. My only question would’ve been: Who-the-hell cares about Ashlee Simpson?
SO, who’s living high? Who’s got game? Who’s rich? Who’s able to afford petrol plus cars to put it in? Trust mother, kiddies; I con you not — now pay attention — I won’t repeat — ready? Here we go: The Middle East. Abu Dhabi. The Abu Dhabi police drive around in Ferraris and Lamborghinis.
Only in Abu Dhabi, kids, only in Abu Dhabi.