Be Afraid. Be Very, Very Afraid.
Ed. Note: It was raining harder than a Bordeaux winter and I was completely out of Oxys. Since none of my usual cohorts would come out to play and having already ripped apart the closets in the West, South and South-East Wings of Arabella Manor, I attempted to quietly sneak into Mumsy’s sleeping chambers. Being that it was two in the afternoon and beauty rest is of the imperative in our household, I was loathe to wake her (and dreading the risk of being caught lest I be forced to engage in conversation). Before I could begin licking the dregs of her Hermes collection for whatever powdered remnants remained, there in the doorway was the frightening silhouette of the woman who bore me, in all her resplendent, silk-robed and perpetually tipsy glory. Dangling a full bottle of Endocet just out of my reach, I struck a deal with the Devil Incarnate that day. A full scrip for full writing privileges. So, I must extend my apologies, as I cannot be held accountable for the fuckery that’s about to commence; blame my overwhelming and uncontrollable need for narcotics. – Alistair Blake Arabella, Managing Editor Extraordinaire
That’s right my darling little street urchins, your most favourite of all matriarchs is here to throw you down in the gutter and make you kiss the bootstraps of my brilliance. You’ll have to reach up from the gutter, darling, I would never risk sullying my Weitzman’s. As my last entry in the lustrous halls of the Donnybrook Manse was related to my superior opinions on the film, Magic Mike, I decided the most appropriate means for my full-fledged debut should stick to the same genre. And what better film to showcase my great skills in parenting than one of my personal favourites, 1981’s Mommie Dearest, which celebrated its 31st anniversary last week.
Why am I a week late? Because I can be. No one worth having at your establishment should ever be expected to arrive on time. And if they do throw them out immediately as they are obviously charlatans posing as the aristocracy. Bonus points if they crack a tooth on the cobblestones of your roundabout, double bonus if it is one of their canines, triple for the central incisors.
Based on a tawdry and unsubstantiated 1978 book written by the incredibly ungrateful guttersnipe, Christina Crawford, Mommie Dearest was Christina’s attempt at getting back at her amazingly talented mother, Joan, after learning she’d been cut out of the will. This is why I require everyone I meet to sign non-disclosure agreements, including my darling children. It’s also why I dangle their inheritances over their heads their entire lives – it makes for dutiful and silent wards in the Arabella compound. Silence truly is golden, in that it allows them the continued use of their gold cards.
The movie itself plods along a bit but features deliciously campy performances by Faye Dunaway and Mara Hobel / Diana Scarwid who play young and older Christina, respectively. But don’t be fooled by its B-movie appeal and cheesy script – spectacular highlights like the hair chopping, rose bush cutting, and the “so huge it’s taken on a life of its own” wire hanger scenes make Mommie Dearest required viewing for any cult film lover and anyone unsure of how to properly train their cleaning staff.