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Authors: Dominick Dunne
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Her oldest daughter, Tracy, is from that marriage, and she has two more daughters by Oscar, Tiffany, twenty, and Rory, eighteen, who are not, absolutely not, she will tell you, “Hollywood kids,” which will be the subject of the book after
Lady Boss
, which will be the book after
Rock Star.
All three girls live at home, in a deceptively large white house in the flats of Beverly Hills which Carroll Baker once bought with her
Baby Doll
earnings. It is definitely not the kind of house where Joan Crawford would have lived, but rather a house that screams family and family life. There are so many cars in the drivewayit looks like a parking lot: Jackie’s ’66 Mustang and her two Cadillacs, Oscar’s Mercury, her daughters’ cars, and sometimes their boyfriends’ cars. Every room has bookcases brimming over with books, most of them best-sellers of the Harold Robbins and Sidney Sheldon school, and so many paintings that they are stacked against the walls. Pictures of movie stars at movie-star parties, all taken by the famous author herself, who never goes to a party without her camera, line the walls of her powder room.
On my first visit to Jackie’s home, two large yellow Labradors were flaked out on the white sofas in the living room, and she did not tell them to move. “Poor old thing, he’s fifteen,” she said about one of the dogs, and we moved to another room rather than disturb them.
When the doorbell rang later, the dogs charged for the door. Joan Collins, in a fox coat, had stopped by to have tea with her sister.
“Am I going to be jumped on by these wild animals?” she screamed from the front hall. All Joan’s entrances are entrances. The day before, she had walked down a stairway wearing a—for her—demure dress. “This is my
jeune fille
look,” she said in greeting. “Still trying after all these years.”
“Joan’s not crazy about dogs,” Jackie explained to me, rising to take the dogs elsewhere. It occurred to me that Silver Anderson in
Hollywood Husbands
is not crazy about dogs either.
The sisters greeted each other with a kiss on each cheek. One had tea. One had coffee. They talked about movies they had seen the night before. They always see movies in friends’ projection rooms or at studio screenings. Jackie had seen
The Last Emperor
at Roger Moore’s house.Joan had seen
Baby Boom
at someone else’s house. “It’s my favorite movie. Diane is so good,” she said about Diane Keaton. “She had one of the best scenes I ever saw.” She then re-enacted it while Jackie watched. Whatever you hear about these two sisters having a feud, just remember this. They like each other. They laugh at each other’s stories. They listen to each other, and they’re proud of each other’s success.
“We are the triumph of the immigrant,” said Joan. “That’s what America’s all about. People dream that the streets are paved with gold, and my sister and I showed that they are. If only Mummy had lived to see the two of us now, she would have been so proud.”
Their father, now in his eighties, they remember as aloof, strict, and austere when they were children. “English men are rather cool and into themselves,” Joan said. He was a theatrical agent with Lew Grade, later Sir Lew Grade, now Lord Grade. But it was their mother, who died in 1962, whom both sisters spoke of in the most loving terms, as being affectionate and feminine and protective of them. There are pictures of her in both sisters’ houses.
“We wish our mother was alive to see what’s happened to us. She would have enjoyed this more than anyone,” said Jackie.
Joan said it was not true, as I had heard, that she was so broke in 1981 that Aaron Spelling had to pay her grocery bills before she could return to California to do “Dynasty.” “Where do these stories start?” she asked.
In a large album of color photographs on the tea table, there is a picture of Joan, taken by Jackie, at the party Joan gave to celebrate her
Lady Boss
, which will be the book after
Rock Star.
All three girls live at home, in a deceptively large white house in the flats of Beverly Hills which Carroll Baker once bought with her
Baby Doll
earnings. It is definitely not the kind of house where Joan Crawford would have lived, but rather a house that screams family and family life. There are so many cars in the drivewayit looks like a parking lot: Jackie’s ’66 Mustang and her two Cadillacs, Oscar’s Mercury, her daughters’ cars, and sometimes their boyfriends’ cars. Every room has bookcases brimming over with books, most of them best-sellers of the Harold Robbins and Sidney Sheldon school, and so many paintings that they are stacked against the walls. Pictures of movie stars at movie-star parties, all taken by the famous author herself, who never goes to a party without her camera, line the walls of her powder room.
On my first visit to Jackie’s home, two large yellow Labradors were flaked out on the white sofas in the living room, and she did not tell them to move. “Poor old thing, he’s fifteen,” she said about one of the dogs, and we moved to another room rather than disturb them.
When the doorbell rang later, the dogs charged for the door. Joan Collins, in a fox coat, had stopped by to have tea with her sister.
“Am I going to be jumped on by these wild animals?” she screamed from the front hall. All Joan’s entrances are entrances. The day before, she had walked down a stairway wearing a—for her—demure dress. “This is my
jeune fille
look,” she said in greeting. “Still trying after all these years.”
“Joan’s not crazy about dogs,” Jackie explained to me, rising to take the dogs elsewhere. It occurred to me that Silver Anderson in
Hollywood Husbands
is not crazy about dogs either.
The sisters greeted each other with a kiss on each cheek. One had tea. One had coffee. They talked about movies they had seen the night before. They always see movies in friends’ projection rooms or at studio screenings. Jackie had seen
The Last Emperor
at Roger Moore’s house.Joan had seen
Baby Boom
at someone else’s house. “It’s my favorite movie. Diane is so good,” she said about Diane Keaton. “She had one of the best scenes I ever saw.” She then re-enacted it while Jackie watched. Whatever you hear about these two sisters having a feud, just remember this. They like each other. They laugh at each other’s stories. They listen to each other, and they’re proud of each other’s success.
“We are the triumph of the immigrant,” said Joan. “That’s what America’s all about. People dream that the streets are paved with gold, and my sister and I showed that they are. If only Mummy had lived to see the two of us now, she would have been so proud.”
Their father, now in his eighties, they remember as aloof, strict, and austere when they were children. “English men are rather cool and into themselves,” Joan said. He was a theatrical agent with Lew Grade, later Sir Lew Grade, now Lord Grade. But it was their mother, who died in 1962, whom both sisters spoke of in the most loving terms, as being affectionate and feminine and protective of them. There are pictures of her in both sisters’ houses.
“We wish our mother was alive to see what’s happened to us. She would have enjoyed this more than anyone,” said Jackie.
Joan said it was not true, as I had heard, that she was so broke in 1981 that Aaron Spelling had to pay her grocery bills before she could return to California to do “Dynasty.” “Where do these stories start?” she asked.
In a large album of color photographs on the tea table, there is a picture of Joan, taken by Jackie, at the party Joan gave to celebrate her
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