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There exists a thin and ambiguous threshold within the narrative realms of any communicative conduit where emotional experience can easily be exploited as fact — where defining influences execute a punitive coup de grace to manipulate and malign. The integral austerity often essential to documentaries is often entirely abandoned in the adjacent genre of the biopic, where objectivity threatens to encroach — and then eclipse — the multidimensional subjectivity inherent and quintessential to cinematic longevity. It’s a large part of why I frequently avoid or circumvent these films, particularly in my fervor for the broadening mitigation that interpretational diversity engenders within the community. All this notwithstanding, that doesn’t invalidate the purpose of the biopic, nor its final product, even if it can traverse tricky lines that traditionally go untouched under a fantastical dominion.
This is not a phenomenon exclusive to the conduit of film, but rather symptomatic of our greater media infrastructure and the way it facilitates as both a group and individual agent of suggestion. We are all free to put our own words, stories and experiences into the world, all of which are typically lost in the shuffle of collective banality. But throw sensationalism into the mix, and a personal anecdote suddenly becomes an omnipotent weapon with momentous potential. Alas arises the conundrum of the biopic, which by definition promises to not only divulge — but to recreate and reinterpret — past events from the private sector a celebrity to which we were never privy. Facts are scarce and inconsequential, secondary to high octane emotion and catharsis. Even those with the best of intentions are liable to create a deleterious depiction with risk of it eventually being grandfathered into fact.
Brooke and Franchot Tone
Jason Robards and Deborah Raffin as Leland and Brooke Hayward in Haywire
Naturally, then, I found myself apprehensive to take a chance on HAYWIRE, a made for TV biographical drama based on Brooke Hayward’s eponymous memoir (which I’ve admittedly yet to read) with Lee Remick playing the tortured and talented Maggie Sullavan. Originally released in early 1977, it predated Mommie Dearest and never accrued the ignominious notoriety that the latter would, even despite the fact that both books received film adaptations in close succession. There’s no singular factor to chalk this up to, but rather an amalgam of various ones of differing importance. It’s true that Maggie Sullavan never achieved the enduring stardom of her contemporary and one-time costar, yes; and it is true that Brooke and Maggie sustained a far healthier mother-daughter relationship than Christina and Joan, but neither stand as arbitrary agents in distinguishing the stark tonal disparities between both figures.
Before I move forward, I want to provide a foundational overview of both stars and their challenges with motherhood — something I feel holds indispensable contextual relevance to aptly carve and dissect Haywire in a thorough and critical manner. It’s impossible to fully deconstruct the specifics of both relationships in complete objectivity, but broader realizations are easy and necessary to glean before delving into further analysis. In fact, the brunt of descriptive detail proves superfluous in trying to establish any sort of overarching understanding.
Margaret Sullavan and Joan Crawford in the 1930s, during their career peak.
Drawing overt parallels between Sullavan and Crawford (who would costar in 1938’s THE SHINING HOUR) is irrelevant in regards to the evolution of their stardom — more important is how they received and tolerated it. Crawford was dependent on fame for both internal and external validation, and found it an intoxicating elixir to stoke her ambition. Conversely, Sullavan loathed how it infringed upon her privacy, personhood, and normalcy. Crawford was proud of her career and let it be known; Sullavan struggled to hide it from her children. Both were disciplinarians of varying degrees, though Sullavan paled in comparison to Crawford, and both ultimately struggled in their roles as mothers, though for different reasons. In no way am I declaring either actress blameless, nor could I ever do so in an objective manner. Both women were inarguably capable of abusive behavior — as are all mothers, a fact often discarded in the absence of celebrity amplification. But therein rests a topic that warrants a separate critical excavation of its own, and one into which I’ll venture no further as it bears minimal relevance to the heart of this piece.
We must also consider the characters of both authors in order to emphasize their disparities as celebrity daughters, and how said disparities reflect in their writing. A cursory examination exhumes antithetical attitudes and approach: Crawford lacked the empathic sensibility to recognize the traumatic origins of her mother’s behavior, demonizing her carte blanche without any regard or recognition for gradience. Hayward was the opposite, well aware of her mother’s shortcomings as a parent but sympathetic to her mental fragility. Mommie Dearest plays and reads like a sensationalized spectacle, staunch in its self-pitying to offer what is ultimately a stilted and one-sided perspective. Haywire, in comparison, offers a far more nuanced family assessment that feels forthright, forgiving, and fair in relative terms.
Christina and Joan in 1956, photographed by Eve Arnold
Christina’s entitlement ultimately served as the catalyst for souring — and eventually destroying — her rapport with Joan. She felt a great envy toward her mother’s fame, and resented Joan’s refusal to help her land nepotic stardom. Joan’s intentions of encouraging self-sufficiency and independence would later be warped and misconstrued as neglectful and abusive behavior, reframed in persuasive pity within Christina’s gravitational orbit. It is fascinating to note that Brooke, like Christina, also pursued a theatrical career but went about it in a near opposite fashion — and succeeded.
With all this in mind, my initial reservations immediately subdued as the opening showcase of dreamlike vignettes bled into one another in gentle succession, before finally resting to freeze on one immaculate still of a happy family. A second glance is necessary to recognize that the smiling starlet in the photo is not actually Maggie herself, but Lee Remick, to whom she bears an uncanny, unparalleled likeness. I’d soon discover the aesthetic similitude was simply the surface of a transformative and visceral performance in body, tone, and behavior – and none of it reductive or offensive.
Left: HAYWIRE’s introductory shot is a direct recreation of this actual Hayward family snap, seen to the right.
Remick’s diligence and dedication is exactly what distinguished her as a one of a kind performer with a visceral palpability that bleeds through the screen to emotionally arrest the viewer. Her rawness is incapacitating, and the standout element that holds and tempers the constant tragic undercurrent in DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES — a film that, had it been handled irresponsibly, could have easily lost its dramatic potency by way of camp. Her professional discipline coupled alongside a robust talent and appetite for her craft is instrumental to the way she shapes and bodies Sullavan. Unlike Dunaway, who plays a caricature of Joan Crawford, Remick instead opts for subtle realism. If there’s any critique to be made, it’s that Remick never ages despite the twenty-odd year span the film encompasses: no fault of her own, but rather the studio’s.
The picture perfect freeze frame dissolves to reveal a young brunette en route to a stage performance. She enters a phone booth to excitedly call her mother, but receives no response. As the rings continue to droll on, intermittent flashes flit across the screen: a darkened bedroom, a slumped body; an unkempt bed and a locked door. It is New Year’s Day, 1960. Maggie Sullavan is dead at fifty.
Haywire then veers haphazardly through flashbacks, none of which fall in exact order but nevertheless linearly chronicle the progression of the Hayward clan throughout the 1940s and into the 1950s. These moments run a chaotic gamut of juxtaposing extremes — flashes of the pendulous continuum of mental duress and the crux of performative responsibility. The breadth of these anecdotal recollections offers the viewer an intimate glimpse into the many complex facets at play within Maggie, and how her erratic behavior shapes and breaks the lives of those around her.
L to R: Dianne Hull as Bridget, Lee Remick as Margaret, Jason Robards as Leland, Deborah Raffin as Brooke, and Hart Bochner as Bill.
At face value, Maggie and Leland are the perfect Hollywood couple: young, seemingly happy, and undeniably glamorous. By the early 1940s, she was a top ranking star with a number of formidable credits to her name — many of which, like THE SHOP AROUND THE CORNER, still endure today. Yet Maggie Sullavan was as fragile as she was tempestuous, a woman easily overwhelmed and private at heart. It was a struggle to juggle fame and family at once, to live an impossible uninterrupted duality over which she could have total control. She wanted normalcy for her three little children, even going so far as to shield her stardom from them. Every departure was predicated by a habitually vague explanation, and followed by bear hugs and promises of return — the only ones she was able to keep when it came to protecting her children. She is constantly at odds with her profession, loathing the spotlight and its ceaseless demands, but craving the work and distraction. Remick bodies this duality with impressive finesse, acutely capturing the nervous reticence brought about by an incessant fan during a leisurely stroll in the park. In another scene, a tour bus meanders toward their property. Remick immediately shifts from playful to poised, exchanging a goofy countenance for a megawatt smile as her fans come into view.
Sullavan is only able to stomach the Hollywood lifestyle for a couple more years, and decides to rashly uproot and relocate to rural Connecticut. It’s a haste decision fueled by neurotic frenzy — an attempt of self preservation made in fevered frenzy with no regard for its impact on the rest of her family. Cracks begin to emerge between man and wife, overshadowed still by a manic ebullience rivaled only by her former screen personas. Remick captures every little motion, mannerism, and detail — the wide eyes and zealous laughter that in essence endeared Sullavan to the public. Her spirit, rejuvenated, teases promise and rejuvenation for the family bond. Sadly, it will not endure.
As time progresses, Sullavan’s sanity continues to deteriorate. It is not sudden, nor bombastic — and Remick, free of makeup and other visual aids, conveys this with astounding resonance. It’s a slow and grating deterioration that culminates in a conquest of nerves and codependence. Remick moves like a marionette — tense, distracted, and jumpy. The string feels as if it’s ready to break at any moment, triggering a calamitous avalanche of ruin. As the years pass by, the pressure mounts. Work opportunities dwindle, leaving Sullavan with an abundance of static nerves with no release. She and Leland separate; she consoles herself by clinging pathetically to her now grown children, coddling them in a bid to suspend time and fend off a creeping emptiness. The tipping point finally arrives in 1955, when Bill decides to move out and live with his father. Maggie vehemently pleads for him to stay and refuses to relent even given his firm refusal, and chases his car out of the driveway in full-fledged hysterics before collapsing in tears. It’s a difficult visual to stomach, largely thanks to how Remick conducts herself throughout the entire crescendo. She deftly articulates that final snap without ever veering into turgid territory, erupting like an underwater volcano in that her intensity is violent but not egregiously bombastic.
The astounding likeness between Margaret Sullavan and Lee Remick.
Though Maggie is inarguably the crux of the film’s story, Haywire is judicious in that it allots considerable time to every other player involved, allowing for their voices — and perspectives — to be heard loudly and clearly. There are sequences of considerable lengths where Maggie is entirely absent, and the film even leaps ahead to the early seventies to explore the compounded fallout sustained from the subsequent deaths of Bridget (who passed a year after her mother in the same exact way) and Leland. These moments feel organic and confessional, as opposed to surreptitious and persuasive. A final reconstruction unveils the same suspended snapshot of beachside joy — but with all the cracks and fissures on full display: these are human beings, not deities; and no amount of pretense can shake that gutting, final realization.
Brooke Hayward (L) by Dennis Hopper; Deborah Raffin as Brooke Hayward for the cover of TV magazine
Haywire succeeds on account of its respect and synchronicity. To date, it’s the most professionally handled biopic I’ve come across. There’s a tacit collaborative understanding between all parties despite their differing levels of importance — and Remick wrestles what is arguably the most central element with stately aplomb. The production is not without its foibles, naturally, and it would be an exercise in futility to parse out its inescapable creative liberties. Instead, I urge you to consider its intent and genesis as a collective catharsis that is free of the scheming vitriol that so often comprises the backbone of contemporary memoirs and their filmic counterparts.
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