Who decides when a woman becomes “too difficult” for Hollywood?
And more importantly – who gets to tell her side of the story?
Faye, the new HBO documentary directed by Laurent Bouzereau and produced in collaboration with Faye Dunaway’s son Liam Dunaway O’Neill, attempts to do just that: reclaim the narrative. Or at least smooth it out. Or maybe just contour it under soft lighting and a controlled interview setting.
The film opens like a backstage reality show: Dunaway is seated, fixing the frame, adjusting her hair, calling out for water. Within seconds, she’s directing the director. She’s a diva and she knows it. It’s theatrical, it’s awkward – and it’s undeniably entertaining. Before we can even catch our breath, we’re treated to a late-night clip of Bette Davis declaring on national television that Faye Dunaway is the one actress she’d never work with again. “Never. Ever.” Talk about setting the tone.
But this isn’t your average tabloid takedown. It’s a 90-minute character study and legacy polishing spray with a soft spot, gliding between icon worship and intimate confession. We get all the hits: Bonnie and Clyde, Chinatown, Network, and, of course, Mommie Dearest – the latter being both a turning point of career and a cinematic cautionary tale.
Source: Deadline
Dunaway’s story, as told here, is less about scandal and more about stitching a cohesive quilt out of a life of constant motion. Raised by an independent, strong mother and a military father, she moved every six months as a child – from Florida to Germany and California. This nomadic upbringing, she reflects, soaked into her bloodstream. Packing up and leaving became a pattern: relationships, homes, cities. Nothing stayed for long.
The film frames this as both survival and style. It’s not hard to see how this transience built the foundation for an actress who could disappear into roles with alarming ease – and then, at times, struggle to come back out. We hear anecdotes from film sets, including her infamous Chinatown clash with Roman Polanski over a single strand of hair, and how Jack Nicholson had to step in to mediate a number of times. The documentary seems to want us to forgive these things. “Yes, she was volcanic,” it says. “But look how much she struggled underneath, but how talented she was.”
And she was. No argument there. Her performances crackle with a rare, unsettling intensity. Network’s Diana Christensen isn’t just a character – she’s a warning. But here’s where the film edges into problematic territory: it tiptoes around the suggestion that her bipolar disorder may have helped fuel that brilliance.
It’s a romantic idea – troubled genius, suffering for art, etc. – but it’s also a dangerous one. Dunaway herself pushes back a bit, speaking openly about being diagnosed late in life and how therapy and medication finally brought clarity and balance. She’s 84 now, and only recently began this chapter of healing. That’s a long time to be carrying around something so heavy, unspoken and untreated. And it does not make you more creative, for sure.
Then the film drifts back into the myth-making: was the disorder part of the gift? Could she have been so great without it? It’s a narrative as old as Hollywood – difficult women who must be both punished and praised.
This documentary does many things well. It shows us the roots: childhood footage, vintage interviews, flashes of extraordinary beauty and charisma, all edited with a soothing flow. Dunaway’s son, Liam, appears throughout with calm authority, helping shape the narrative with a gentle hand and a mature and generous heart. It’s lovely to see Dunaway the grandmother, the matriarch, the woman who craved motherhood so deeply that she centered her life around it when the spotlight dimmed.
It also reminds us of the price of fame. Roles dried up. Relationships fractured. When people on set saw her, they saw Network’s Diana. Cold, demanding, ratings-hungry. Typecasting of the worst kind: not just as an actress, but as a person. That’s the legacy she’s now trying to rewrite – or, at the very least, rebalance.
Source: PageSix
Still, the film’s attempt to be both confessional and celebratory ends up muddying the waters. It’s “candid,” sure, but only within a carefully controlled perimeter. There are revelations, yes, but few risks. The whole thing feels… curated. A classic American portrait documentary.
You start to wonder: who is this for? Is it for Dunaway, hoping to carve out a new chapter? For casting agents who may be watching? For the audience who only knows the punchlines and not the person?
Faye ends with what feels like a soft pitch: here is a legendary actress, finally balanced, eager to work again. But the conclusion feels too neat, too staged. If this were a screenplay, the final act would be flagged for being a little too on-the-nose.
And yet, there is something powerful – even moving – about seeing a woman in her eighties reflect with such clarity. In a media landscape that often villainizes complicated women (especially those who dare to age), maybe a little legacy polishing isn’t the worst thing.
Watch it if:
You love a comeback story, don’t mind a bit of PR polish with your popcorn, or still have Chinatown screenshots saved on your phone (you weirdo).
Skip it if:
You’re hoping for deep psychological excavation, or if the phrase “collaborative documentary” makes your eyebrows twitch.
Faye is now available on HBO Max.
~ by Dora Endre ~
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