Among the most legendary of trashy movies, "Valley of the Dolls" is also compulsively entertaining. Anne Welles leaves the pristine snow-covered village of Lawrenceville for the savage Broadway jungle in Manhattan. Based on the lurid best-selling novel by Jacqueline Susann, the film chronicles the rise and fall of three young women: Welles, played by Barbara Parkins; Neely O'Hara, played by Patty Duke; and Jennifer North, played by Sharon Tate. Evidently, life is easy street in New York, at least at first, because opportunities are thrown at their feet; secretaries with scant shorthand skills become hair-spray models, mediocre singers become sensations, and women with bodies become stars of French art films.
Reportedly a roman-a-clef drawn from well known show business personalities, "Valley of the Dolls" is glossy, big-budget nonsense from director Mark Robson, who previously directed such decent films as "Von Ryan's Express," "Peyton Place," and "The Bridges at Toko-ri." Perhaps Robson thought lightening would strike twice, and he could fashion another critical hit like "Peyton Place" from another trashy novel like Grace Metalious's 1950's scandalous best seller. However, "Valley of the Dolls" is no "Peyton Place." While Robson drew excellent performances from Lana Turner and a distinguished cast in his earlier soap opera, he unleashes his cast, and they go over the top in "Valley of the Dolls." Although directing three Oscar-winning actresses (Susan Hayward, Lee Grant, and Patty Duke), Robson let them chew the scenery shamelessly. While the bitchy performances provide guilty entertainment, they are often risible. Hayward is Helen Lawson, a tough Broadway veteran, who leaves no survivors; Hayward's badly staged musical number pits her against an out-of-control mobile, and her wig-pulling duel with Duke is justifiably famous for campy hilarity. Duke overplays the bitchiness throughout, and her final scene is a histrionic masterpiece of bad acting. The flashbacks of Duke in a sanitarium will have viewers rolling, especially when her toe cuts through a sheet. Only Lee Grant retains her dignity and under-plays a small, thankless role. Meanwhile, Sharon Tate is lovely, but wooden, and Barbara Parkins and Paul Burke do little with what little they are given by the script.
The film's budget was obviously generous, and the now-dated 1960's fashions, make-up, and hair styles could be studied and copied for period films set in that decade. Also dated and offensive are repeated references to gays as queers, fags, and faggots; but, in fairness, the all-white cast lacks other minorities to denigrate. Except for the title song sung by Dionne Warwick, the tunes are instantly forgettable, although a duet between recovering addict Duke and wheel-chair bound Tony Scotti is like something out of "Airplane." The dialogue is either intentionally or unintentionally funny at times, and the use of "dolls" to refer to pills sounds forced. Although Robson likely entertained fantasies of producing another soap opera masterpiece on the order of "Peyton Place" or "Imitation of Life," he instead left a camp classic that is a guilty pleasure for many.
Reportedly a roman-a-clef drawn from well known show business personalities, "Valley of the Dolls" is glossy, big-budget nonsense from director Mark Robson, who previously directed such decent films as "Von Ryan's Express," "Peyton Place," and "The Bridges at Toko-ri." Perhaps Robson thought lightening would strike twice, and he could fashion another critical hit like "Peyton Place" from another trashy novel like Grace Metalious's 1950's scandalous best seller. However, "Valley of the Dolls" is no "Peyton Place." While Robson drew excellent performances from Lana Turner and a distinguished cast in his earlier soap opera, he unleashes his cast, and they go over the top in "Valley of the Dolls." Although directing three Oscar-winning actresses (Susan Hayward, Lee Grant, and Patty Duke), Robson let them chew the scenery shamelessly. While the bitchy performances provide guilty entertainment, they are often risible. Hayward is Helen Lawson, a tough Broadway veteran, who leaves no survivors; Hayward's badly staged musical number pits her against an out-of-control mobile, and her wig-pulling duel with Duke is justifiably famous for campy hilarity. Duke overplays the bitchiness throughout, and her final scene is a histrionic masterpiece of bad acting. The flashbacks of Duke in a sanitarium will have viewers rolling, especially when her toe cuts through a sheet. Only Lee Grant retains her dignity and under-plays a small, thankless role. Meanwhile, Sharon Tate is lovely, but wooden, and Barbara Parkins and Paul Burke do little with what little they are given by the script.
The film's budget was obviously generous, and the now-dated 1960's fashions, make-up, and hair styles could be studied and copied for period films set in that decade. Also dated and offensive are repeated references to gays as queers, fags, and faggots; but, in fairness, the all-white cast lacks other minorities to denigrate. Except for the title song sung by Dionne Warwick, the tunes are instantly forgettable, although a duet between recovering addict Duke and wheel-chair bound Tony Scotti is like something out of "Airplane." The dialogue is either intentionally or unintentionally funny at times, and the use of "dolls" to refer to pills sounds forced. Although Robson likely entertained fantasies of producing another soap opera masterpiece on the order of "Peyton Place" or "Imitation of Life," he instead left a camp classic that is a guilty pleasure for many.