VALLEY OF THE DOLLS (1967) 1/2* "I don't know who I am, or what I want. I only know that I must find out." I've not read her but by the accounts of the poor saps that have Jacqueline Susann writes stuff like that effortlessly, without remorse, and all the time. Ok, fair enough, but why would anyone bring it to the attention of anyone else? The rumours about this-that it is one of the most poorly made films in the history of humanity-are all true. Perhaps because of the wealth of subject matter previous chroniclers have failed to mock the music to the full extent that it deserves: from the opening theme by Dione Warwick as the snow falls over New England graves the music is self-absorbed, horrid, irredeemable. Only slightly less remarkable is the procession of putrid performances on and off Broadway supposed to awe the audience. No wonder everyone is taking pills, they've no sense of aesthetics. Despite all of this the film never gains the critical mass that would allow it to inadvertently succeed as a comedy. This may, however, must surely have been obtained in discussions between Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate offscreen. Sharon's sweet French suggests something international and cultured that California could have become, but did not.
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