She changed her name from Lucille LeSueur (rather pleasant sounding, one would think, even if it does make some folks think of canned peas) to Joan Crawford (which is not pleasant at all, hinting of a matronly official who is not pleased about anything). Then she posed for this publicity still, where it was obvious that she was prepared to take her own life if she didn’t get her way. And, lest we forget, she apparently had a string of lovers longer than the line at the opening night of “Gone with the Wind”.
But despite these clear signs of her lackluster nurturing skills, the adoption agencies in California still arranged for children to be delivered to her door along with the milk and the newspaper. How was anyone surprised when one of those product-placement urchins, aka Christina Crawford, eventually published a tell-all book about what it was like to grow up with a spiteful woman who eventually had eyebrows with their own zip code?
Categories: Past Imperfect