Regie:
Frank PerryKamera:
Paul LohmannMusik:
Henry ManciniBesetzung:
Faye Dunaway, Diana Scarwid, Steve Forrest, Howard Da Silva, Mara Hobel, Rutanya Alda, Harry Goz, Jocelyn Brando, Priscilla Pointer, Xander Berkeley (mehr)Streaming (1)
Inhalte(1)
Dies ist die unfassbare und umstrittene Geschichte des legendären Kino-Stars Joan Crawford und ihres Kampfes um ihre Doppelrolle als überforderte Mutter und Schauspielerin, deren Ruhm zu verblassen droht. Die öffentliche Crawford war entschlossen, glamourös und bewundernswert, aber “Meine liebe Rabenmutter” enthüllt die private Crawford als Frau, die verzweifelt Mutter sein will; die ihre Kinder adoptiert, als sie alleine lebte und die versucht, in der zerstörerischen Film-Industrie zu überleben. Der Zorn, die lähmende Belastung und der erschreckende Abstieg in Alkoholismus und Kindesmisshandlung sind eindrucksvoll und unvergesslich dargestellt in diesem Film. (Verleiher-Text)
(mehr)Kritiken (1)
A masterclass in dreadful overacting (Faye Dunaway acts as if she is possessed by the spirit of Joan Crawford, but for all of the maniacal mimicking of theatrical gestures, her performance lacks nuance, thus remaining only a grotesque sneer). Neither the filmmakers nor the actors have a sense of moderation. The emotions are turned up to eleven from the opening minutes and even the style is exalted, when the most banal verbal exchanges are carried out in urgent detail, when you expect the actors’ heads to explode and merely walking down the stairs has the seriousness and nobility of an ancient tragedy. Not only the main protagonist, conceived as a horror-movie monster, but the whole film seems to suffer from psychosis. The dramaturgy is lame in both legs. It’s mostly just a succession of totally overwrought scenes (like the frenzied destruction of the rose beds and the hysterical fit over the wire coat hangers) that would be intentional parody in the hands of someone like John Waters (who loves this film), but here they are approached with absolute seriousness, without even a hint of distance. Due to the lack of any connective tissue that would bring sense to this cascade of rage and because there is zero understanding for the characters, this film cannot be taken seriously as either a character study or as an account of child abuse. I hope this will not be taken seriously as a biopic about Joan Crawford by anyone who endures until the last scene, which clearly declares that the film (and the book on which it is based) is an act of revenge by a daughter who was disinherited by her mother (a lot of the things that happen in the film are demonstrably not only exaggerated, but simply made up in order to make Crawford come off as the most repulsive monster possible). Given everything mentioned above, however, Mommie Dearest can be enjoyed as a first-class or even one of the best examples of what Susan Sontag described as camp, i.e. a work so intensely bad and devoid of a sense of detachment, and in which everything on every level is so shamelessly excessive, that it becomes entertaining and unforgettable. And impossible to rate, because it would equally deserve either one or five stars.
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