Wont they throw her a bone?
Because Bettes definitely getting one: Theyre like bunny rabbits, Joan grumbles, glaring at her hotel-room wall.
(Incidentally, Mamacita is rolling plastic sheeting off the bed this entire time, which is fascinating.
Credit: Byron Cohen/FX
Is that a standard Southern 60s hotel thing?
A Howard Hughes germaphobe thing?
Then she changes her mind again and decides to express her concerns in person.
Villains always have the meaty roles.
If thats true, shes a very lonely master.
But once she finally arrives on set, things go sideways fast.
You have no idea how much harder I have to work to be taken seriously as an actress!
I didnt get my start in thetheat-uhlike Miss Bette Davis.
I broke in shaking my fringe in nightclubs.
(So Lady Macbeth!
Out, out, damn Scotch.)
Has he ever been rejected for the wayhelooks, she wonders?
I dont make the rules, Bob replies, busily unbuttoning her blouse.
And she got it: He said I had zero sex appeal.
He said, Who would want to f that?
I was 22, and nobody ever had.
He also said he wished she looked like… Joan Crawford.
Finally, Bob seems to understand.
He puts her to bed tenderly and heads back to his own room.
So Joan retreats to the sweet relief of her trailer and her trusty flask.
Hours later, she wakes up sozzled and sad, with the whole day gone.
So she makes the wise choice to confront Bette in her hotel room.
This entire production is an elaborate opportunity for you to humiliate me, isnt it?
You, Bob, the whole fing crew abandon me out at that plantation!
(Can we agree that Joan is way, way the meaner one in this particular situation?).
It was wonderful, Joan replies.
The most joyous thing you could ever imagine.
And it was never enough.
Joan throws the same question back at her, replacing beauty with talent, and gets the same reply.
If this scene doesnt make the For Your Consideration reel, I will eat a hat.
Finally, New Orleans is in the Spanish-mossy rear-view mirror, and its back to L.A.
Except Joan is seeing the script revisions, and shes not thrilled.
Where are her monologues?
Anyway, she has her own problems: 16-year-old B.D.
As in, Bette Davis.
Really though, could Joan really not have predicted that her master plan might backfire?
Maybe just a wee little costume ball?
Bettes even got a gift for her: Joan, do you accept this rose?
She does, warily.
Bette brings her bad mood home, though its actually good news for B.D.
), theyre releasing her from her contract, unless she submits to an independent medical examination.
Tiny Tim over there isnt going to let your doctors get anywhere near her, Davis snorts.
Shes gassing us all with her Vapor Rub for show.
Turning her attentions to her daughters wedding plans, Bette thinks shes offering sage advice, but B.D.
And she doesnt want this big fancy ceremony at all.
Pauline begs her, as a fan, not to lose every last ally.
She will get sued or fired or both if she doesnt quit her reindeer games.
Her friend George Cukor wants to know.
Ive always been valued for my beauty, and more times than not, nothing else, she replies.
But now the only bed I can find power in is this hospital bed.
Bettes old friend Olivia de Havilland (welcome back, Zeta-Jones), after some intercontinental convincing by Bob.
c’mon Mamacita, no!
You cant leave me, not after what theyve done to me!
Mamacita, that Teutonic rock, doesnt even turn around: You haff done this to yourself.
She has a few.
So farewell Joan, and sayonara Pepsi: The queen is dead.
Long live the queen.
