"psycho-biddies"

Flippin' the Script #3

Why am I so good at playing bitches? I think it’s because I'm not a bitch. Maybe that's why Miss Crawford always plays ladies.

~Bette Davis

Let me set the scene—

September 1962.

Stage lights sear the air, transforming the soundstage into a pressure cooker. Bette Davis, face ghostly with clown-white makeup, grunts and struggles. She’s dragging Joan Crawford’s limp body across the floor, unaware that Joan has weighed herself down with hidden rocks.

Days earlier, Davis launched a similar attack: Pepsi machines vanished, replaced by Coca-Cola dispensers — a pointed jab at Crawford, Pepsi-Cola board member and widow of its late magnate. One can only imagine Crawford’s face upon discovering this carbonated coup d’état.

These petty acts of sabotage exemplify their bitter rivalry.

And on the set of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, years of tension crackled more intensely under the hot studio lights, suffusing the air with a charge more potent than the cloying scent of hairspray.

Davis and Crawford were in their mid-fifties, grappling with fading stardom and a feud spiraling out of control — a feud mythologized by gossip rags, exploited by studios, gulped up by the public.

But how much was real? And how did it come to this?

Beauty and talent, insecurity and pride — volatile mixtures. And in the wings, men in power, eager to fan the flames.

Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, Warner Bros.

The Seeds of Rivalry

“Who would want to fuck that? I wish she looked like Joan Crawford.” These words, Bette Davis claimed, slithered from Jack Warner’s mouth after her first screen test for Warner Brothers.

The initial poisoning of the well.

But Davis wasn't one to wilt, so she clawed her way to stardom, her raw talent blazing across screens. Crawford, already film royalty, countered with calculated glamour — a stark foil to Davis’s intensity.

Two queens of cinema, destined to collide. And as their stars rose, whispers followed, and a narrative took shape.

The alleged reasons? Professional jealousy, role competition, romantic duels. While not baseless, these explanations seem almost quaint in their predictability. And they perfectly mask a deeper, more insidious truth: society’s compulsion to pit women against each other.

In Hollywood — a world built by and for men — Davis and Crawford were cast as adversaries from the start. Their contrasting styles and artistry became weapons in a manufactured war. Hollywood wasn't ready for this double feature of divas. The unspoken message? There’s only room for one type of female success.

This narrative fed broader societal norms: women as competitors, not collaborators; beauty versus skill, as if mutually exclusive; female power as a finite resource.

And as the years wore on, their contentious relationship mirrored the shifting landscape of Hollywood itself. The industry that had once pitted them against each other as young starlets found new ways to exploit their talent. As they entered midlife, the industry that had fueled their feud now threatened to discard them.

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The Rise of Hagsploitation

As Davis and Crawford got older, Hollywood — never one to miss a chance to be ruthless — cooked up a new subgenre: hagsploitation, or the Psycho-biddy. This creepy trend cashed in on the idea that former screen sirens were “decaying” and turned them into campy, over-the-top parodies of their former selves.

Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? is the crown jewel of this bizarre but beloved genre. Picture this: a faded child star, a decrepit mansion, and sisterly torment cranked to eleven. Subtlety? Not on the menu.

The film’s success was a double-edged sword: it breathed new life into Davis and Crawford’s careers while also trapping them in roles that gleefully emphasized their “decline.” They weren’t playing characters — they were playing cruel reflections of Hollywood’s idea of what women like them should become.

“Hags” and “spinsters.”

Uncomfortable to look at.

But here’s the twist: hagsploitation became a rebellion in disguise. When Hollywood had all but slammed the door on them, Davis and Crawford kicked it back open, proving they still had plenty of fight left. Sure, the roles were macabre, but in embracing them, they flipped the script. It was as if they were telling the industry, “You think we’re done? Think again, you bastards!”

Looking back, I’m confused as hell: was hagsploitation progress for actresses, or just another insult wrapped in a clever marketing ploy? Maybe it’s both — a problematic but necessary nudge in Hollywood’s sluggish crawl toward better representation for women of all ages.

Or maybe this is all to assuage my guilty conscience for my persistent love of those films…

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Flippin’ the Script

What if the real story was their similarities, not their differences? Davis and Crawford were both trailblazers, fighting against a system rigged against women like them — women who dared to seek employment as they aged (🙄), to be ambitious, to be more than “likable.” While their male counterparts waltzed into romantic leads well into their 60s, Davis and Crawford were boxed into a twisted game, forced to fight not just each other, but the industry itself.

And their “feud” seemed to serve everyone but them. It provided free publicity and gave audiences an easy narrative, reinforcing the idea that successful women must be in opposition. But in truth, Davis and Crawford had more reasons for alliance than enmity. Their rivalry — whether exaggerated or wholly genuine — was a symptom of a world uneasy with their power.

But let’s be clear: unpacking the Davis-Crawford feud isn’t just about old Hollywood gossip. It’s about our collective willingness to buy into these narratives. Why are we so quick to accept the idea that women must be at each other’s throats? And it’s telling that the echoes of their rivalry still ripple through today’s headlines, coloring how we perceive them.

Ryan Murphy’s Feud: Bette and Joan tries to peel back these layers, but it comes with its own set of biases. The show paints Crawford as the lesser artist, her beauty and boldness fading in Davis’s shadow. Yet this too flattens a much more complex reality. While Murphy shines a light on how men in the business manipulated them — a valid angle — it sometimes slips into the same trap: woman v. woman for the sake of drama.

The truth, as always, is more nuanced.

Yes, their relationship had tension, ego, and insecurity, but it was also built on a mutual understanding of what it meant to survive in an industry that devoured its stars.

Their story is messy, and that’s what makes it worth telling. It’s not just another Hollywood catfight; it’s a reflection of the real dynamics of female relationships under systemic pressure.

And, in all its mucky glory, it’s a reminder of how far we’ve come — and how far we still have to go.

The feud they birthed was a beast of epic proportions, outliving even its combatants. When Joan Crawford died in 1977, Bette Davis’s infamous quip rang out: “You should never say bad things about the dead, you should only say good… Joan Crawford is dead. Good!” I shiver. Ice cold.

The final twist of an ever-rotating knife.

But beneath the venom, an older poison lingers. Jack Warner’s crude dismissal of Davis echoes through time: “Who would want to fuck that?” I’m struck by how easily that line could sink into my heart, rotting and festering. Of how it could darken everything for decades, if not a lifetime.

But let’s be honest, Jack’s cruel words were but extra fuel on a fire destined to burn. For decades, Hollywood whispered vitriol into both women’s ears. To Joan: “You’re only a star because of your face.” To Bette: “You’d be a bigger star if you had Joan’s face.” With every role, every review, every backhanded compliment, the industry drove a wedge between them. Their rivalry wasn’t just predictable; it was practically preordained.

Yet, when I lose myself in All About Eve (a ritual I indulge in far too often), Davis’s brilliance leaves me breathless. “This is beauty incarnate,” I think. And then there’s Crawford in Humoresque, marching resolutely into the ocean. In that scene, her pain becomes mine, our shared humanity stripped bare. As she surrenders to the waves, my tears flow, moved not by her beauty, but by her genius.

In these flickering images, I don’t see rivals, but kindred spirits — two women who, despite Hollywood's machinery, left indelible marks on cinema and my heart. Perhaps that’s the most fitting tribute: not as enemies, but as artists who challenge our perception of female relationships.

I want us to paint more honest pictures, framing their behavior in context. Because their story, in all its jagged glory, mirrors our evolving understanding of women’s roles, conflicts, and resilience.

Their feud is the headline, but their legacy is the fine print – complex, nuanced, and demanding of a closer read.

So, join me. Break out those magnifying glasses and start taking a better look!

PS— One of Delilah’s nicknames is “Baby Jane.” And if you want to see something magically insane…click here. You’ll thank me later 😉.

PPS— Any suggestions on future Flippin’ the Scripts? Let me know!!!