Hollywood’s Star of Stars – Ferocious Ambition: Joan Crawford’s March to Stardom

A Book Review Essay by Jeremy Carr.

More than a mere biography with chronological touchstones and historical anecdotes (though there are plenty of those, and they’re fascinating), it is also a psychological profile delving into the inner motivations of its subject, and a lavishly illustrated assessment of how a Golden Age star was molded, defined, and redefined….”

Author Robert Dance couldn’t have picked a better title for his latest book, this one on Hollywood star of stars, Joan Crawford. It’s all right there – Ferocious Ambition: Joan Crawford’s March to Stardom – words to delineate the career and personality of this superlative actress. Terms like “ferocious” and “march” perfectly express the powerful consciousness of Crawford, her dogged determination, and her relentless pursuit of success and popularity. As detailed throughout Dance’s book, Crawford knew what she wanted and let scarcely any obstacle get in the way of her goal. In this, and like Dance’s previous book on Greta Garbo, The Savvy Sphinx: How Garbo Conquered Hollywood, Ferocious Ambition is more than a mere biography with chronological touchstones and historical anecdotes (though there are plenty of those, and they’re fascinating); published by the University Press of Mississippi, it is also a psychological profile of sorts, delving into the inner motivations of its subject, and a lavishly illustrated assessment of how a Golden Age star was molded, defined, and redefined as dictated by the needs of studios, audiences, and herself.

Still, it is an exhaustive biography in the traditional sense, charting the course of Lucille Le Sueur as she moved from a Texas youth with dancing dreams to Joan Crawford, Tinseltown luminary. After the early establishment of her young life – in passages that are brief and rapidly recounted yet nevertheless illuminating – Dance settles in to narrate the progression from Crawford’s fledging start to the slow but steady accumulation of a spectacular 45-year career in motion pictures. Crawford signed a contract in 1925, with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and what followed was a protracted journey with more than 20 films logged before she reached the preliminary stages of stardom. There was a name change contest initiated by producer Harry Rapf, as well as a bit part as Norma Shearer’s double in 1925’s Lady of the Night (no screen credit, but there she was) and turns alongside Jackie Coogan and Harry Langdon (widely seen, but Crawford was clearly overshadowed). As Dance notes, however, this period of relative obscurity did little to hinder her drive. According to screenwriter Frederica Sagor, quoted in Ferocious Ambition, Crawford “had only two interests, two obsessions: her goals of stardom and of becoming a good actress.” Sporadic hints of acting potential and fan magazine recognition continued to push her forward, but the odds still seemed stacked against her, with Dance writing that the “first miracle in the Crawford story is that she managed to land a contract at MGM” and the second “that it was renewed.” But miracles did happen, and Crawford went from a burgeoning studio stalwart to arguably its crown jewel.

“Confidence and determination, sometimes with an intensity that bordered on the ferocious, became her hallmark,” comments Dance, and Crawford persevered despite the stardom that often seemed purposefully withheld. “Money was a factor, influence was another,” Dance notes. It was like Crawford was in the right place at both the wrong and right time. Nevertheless, she attained leading lady status by 1928, made her sound debut in Hollywood Revue of 1929, and by 1930 she was a box office sensation. Contributing to this unremitting rise, as Dance expertly outlines, was Crawford’s relatable screen persona, especially for Depression-era women: her characters were familiar, understandable, and, other than donning the occasional outfit average ladies could only dream of wearing, conceivable to a broad populace. Take, for example, as Dance does, the earlier Tod Browning silent film The Unknown, from 1927. Compared to other MGM stars at the time, Crawford’s role here was uniquely fitting. It “demanded an actress who could convey steadiness, bravery, perseverance, and a working-class sexiness,” writes Dance, “all characteristics that would soon come to define the Crawford brand.”

Along these lines, Crawford gladly appealed to her fans, welcoming the public adoration and striving to be as accessible as possible, not only reading but answering the many letters she received. Dance writes of Crawford feeding off the attention of others as a reassuring way to validate her stardom, and as perceptive as she was, she also made it a point to befriend crew members, costumers, and writers, partly to better learn her craft but also to understand who could best assist her in her own endeavors.

Crawford ultimately spent 18 years at MGM, making her final film for the studio in 1943. After that, and after so much effort, she shrewdly risked it all with a move to Warner Bros., a decision that proved judicious (to say the least) when she received an Academy Award for her exceptional performance in 1942’s Mildred Pierce. “For the first time, playing Mildred, she inhabited a character, leaving aside the learned mannerisms that had contributed to her success,” writes Dance. As he also points out, having endured a jealously of Garbo and Shearer while at MGM, moving to Warner Bros., home of Bette Davis, may seem strange, but it was also a challenge, a challenge met by what Dance calls the “Crawford Renaissance.” Dance maintains a pragmatic view of the famed Crawford/Davis feud, though, arguing, “Davis was never going to be the supreme glamour girl, and Crawford was never going to garner ten Academy Award nominations.” All the same, there was a rivalry, one that was as genuine and it was perhaps overblown.

In addition to Davis and Shearer, Dance offers up the strongest and most intriguing professional and personal Crawford parallel with Garbo, whom he obviously knows best (as evinced in his text on the Swedish legend). “They were complete opposites in personality and screen type,” states Dance. “Yet, each deliberately and strategically planned her path to stardom.” Crawford “may not have been as strategic as Garbo about managing what films she would accept [but she] maneuvered through Los Angeles society with an equal sense of purpose.” Although he acknowledges the premise isn’t exactly true, Dance cites a revealing comment about MGM in the 1930s: “Shearer got the prestigious productions, Garbo supplied the art, and Crawford paid for them both.” Yes, Shearer and Garbo’s films were also profitable, but the point is significant.

Crawford worked into the 1970s when she appeared in her final film, she shifted to television when it was required to keep up appearances, and she had even tried out the business world when, through husband Alfred Steele, she became an ambassador and board member of Pepsi-Cola. While increasing periods of inactivity marked Crawford’s later career, for most of her life she was extremely prolific, and Dance gives much of her work –certainly her major and more noteworthy projects – ample attention and analysis. Applying detailed historical facts and figures, Dance, at the same time, doesn’t shy away from expressing his own informed opinion, drawing conclusions about Crawford, her performances, and the films generally with considerate hindsight, a clear-eyed evaluation, and a biographical context. Crawford’s role as Harriet Craig, for instance, in the 1950 film of the same name, was one that “may be closest to her real personality: the controlling, judgmental perfectionist who keeps everyone in her path, from husband to maid, quaking at the prospect of the next outburst.” Though plainly a fan, Dance also isn’t averse to calling out films and performances that didn’t quite land, particularly less exalted productions like 1967’s Berserk! in which Dance contends Crawford gave “arguably the weakest performance of her career.”

The author convincingly demonstrates Crawford as having ‘the most spectacular acting career in the history of the movies.’”

Alongside contemporary critical evaluations, Dance presents a standpoint that is in no small part influenced by what, as he writes in the introduction, sets Ferocious Ambition apart from other Crawford biographies, namely its attention to her complex personal life, from childhood to motherhood, as well as the “drive that propelled her forward.” Thoughtfully navigating the truth and the fiction of Crawford’s life, Dance’s laudable meticulousness when it comes to detailing the assorted contracts, conflicts, and associations along the way is matched by his handling of the husbands and lovers who also came and went at regular intervals. Crawford’s multiple romantic engagements – sometimes happy, sometimes unhappy, almost always complicated at best – are treated with a respectful assessment, even the more controversial relationships like her marriage to Douglas Fairbanks Jr., who was then 17 while she was 22. Then there were the men she was attracted to compared to those who were most compatible, and the on- and off-screen entwining of the two, like with Clark Gable, who made eight films with Crawford and was, according to Dance, “her greatest screen partner.” Familial affairs are further explored, and, again, handled rather well, when it comes to Crawford’s somewhat dubious adoptions, starting in 1939, and the allegations leveled in her oldest daughter’s 1978 memoir, Mommie Dearest, which thereafter influenced a certain perception of Crawford that took hold and was exacerbated by the 1981 film adaptation.

Appearing in moody noirs, screwball comedies, poignant dramas, moving romances, and sometimes films with shades of everything in one, Crawford was, for Dance, “a star who could thrive both in heavy drama and was also a proven commodity for lighter fare.” He scrutinizes these films in terms of box office results, contemporary critical reception, and current appraisals, frequently noting the similarities and disparities of these shifting evaluative factors. Dance points out, as one example, the negative views of New York Times critic Bosley Crowther (apparently no gushing fan of Crawford’s), who complained about Crawford’s turn in Flamingo Road (1949) by arguing “she has evidently conditioned herself to the point where she can go through such an ordeal without showing the slightest strain … she moves like a sleek automaton … hers is a Spartan demonstration of bearing-up-under-it-well.” To this, Dance rightly counters, Crowther is “correct on all points but, what he wasn’t able (or willing) to acknowledge back in 1949, was that these traits were among the reasons why fans adored her, and still do today.” And Ferocious Ambition isn’t just about the popular and widely available films; it’s also about the pictures that are increasingly rare or, lamentably, lost entirely, in addition to enticing glimpses of what could have been, like Lisbon, a pre-Johnny Guitar collaboration with Nicholas Ray that was eventually made in 1956 with Ray Milland directing and starring with Maureen O’Hara.

Primarily, though, Dance is concerned with the creation and evolution of Crawford’s star persona. Much of this, as noted, was achieved by her intense initiative and singular sense of worth, but it was also impacted by a mutual reliance on costume designers like Sheila O’Brien and Adrian and photographers like George Hurrell and Harriet Louise, all of whom helped exploit and distinguish the fluctuating and enduring image of their glamorous subject. “Beginning with Untamed,” writes Dance, “Crawford was never merely a mannequin for beautiful dresses; rather, clothing became integral to her screen personality.” And designers like Adrian, who dressed many other stars, seems, for Dance, “to have saved his best for Crawford.” To that end, Dance graces Ferocious Ambition with more than 120 photographs, many of which are simply stunning.

That said, while others had a hand in the development and advancement of Crawford – as an image, as an actress, as a star, and as an icon – it was Crawford herself who guided the process, from the precision of her craft to the corresponding publicity. Director George Cukor is quoted as saying, “Few of us get to be our own Pygmalion, and for those who have managed to do so, none have done it better than Crawford,” while Dance contends Crawford “was the perfect image of the movie star and, as such, largely the creation of her own indominable will.” Quoting a critic from 1949, Dance begins his text with an observation that sets the scene and remains the fundamental core of Ferocious Ambition: “Unlike most movie stars, she owes practically nothing to luck. The determining factor of her career has been her own unflagging resoluteness.”

The manner of Crawford’s self-invention and, if the case need be, reinvention, even went so far as a dispute over the year of her birth, but while Ferocious Ambition is principally about this individual history, it is also a personified history of Hollywood itself: from the silent era to the transition to sound; from the Great Depression to World War II; from censorship to the community’s social scene; from the heyday of studio management to the rise of independent producers and distributors. Crawford lived through it all and thrived. “As a film star of the first order,” Dance writes, “Crawford was essential to the Hollywood motion picture enterprise of the twentieth century.” She was, he notes toward the end, having convincingly demonstrated as much throughout his book, “the most spectacular acting career in the history of the movies.”

Jeremy Carr is a Contributing Editor at Film International and teaches film studies at Arizona State University. He writes for the publications Cineaste, Senses of Cinema, MUBI/Notebook, Cinema Retro, Vague Visages, The Retro Set, The Moving Image, Diabolique Magazine and Fandor. He is the author of Repulsion (1965) from Auteur Publishing and Kubrick and Control from Liverpool University Press, and a contributor to the collections ReFocus: The Films of Elaine May, from Edinburgh University Press, and David Fincher’s Zodiac: Cinema of Investigation and (Mis)Interpretation, from Fairleigh Dickinson University Press.