At some 263 pages of text, this would qualify as shallow, just by length, for a serious biography of a figure as complex and contradictory as Joan Crawford.

Unfortunately, this book is below shallow. It's just about the most worthless biography I've ever read.

Why? There are several reasons:

1. Mr. Bret has adopted the "Joan could do no wrong" attitude of Crawford's maniacal fans. If there is any critical attitude in this book, I haven't been able to see it. What is particularly schitzophrenic is, on the one hand, denying the existence of any veracity in Christina Crawford"s Mommie Dearest--and on the other hand detailing Crawford's usually exceptionally nasty and vulgar behavior off the screen, which supports anytime in Mommie Dearest.. When Crawford does something particularly foul, it's always justifiable; Bette Davis comes in for continuous condemnation.

2. There is very little substance. Suppopsedly, the book is pbased on unpublished documents and interviews. It feels like there is not a scrap of primary research here. Far too much space is devoted to (badly written) synopses of Crawford's films--most of which, at least to this reader, reenforce the notion that most of these films were pretty bad.

3. The book is riddled with errors. At various points (and these are only ones that spring to mind directly), Bette Davis is said to be at MGM (never--Warner's); that Billie Burke played the "Blue Fairy" in "The Wizard of Oz" (the Blue Fairy is a character in Pinocchio; Burke is Glinda, the Good Witch of the West); that Helen Lawson in Valley of the Dolls is based on Ms. Crawford (no--based on Ethel Merman)--and numerous other howlers that any moderately literate movie goer would notice.

4. The amount of scurrilous detail about sexual proclivities of the stars would make Kenneth Anger (Hollywood Babylon) blush.

The book opens with "She was one of four genuinely great movie actresses of the twentieth century--the others were Garbo, Hepburn, and Bette Davis." Surely a disputable attitude--and certainly (assuming that Katherin Hepburn is intended) Crawford would be last among them.

David Bret often speaks of Ms. Crawford legion of (unquestioning) gay fans. He is obviously one of them, with all the fanatical prejudice that such a statement applies--and unfortunately reenforcing any bigot's attitudes towards gay men.

In sum, shallow, shoddy, and poorly written. It fails to address the either the real complexities of Crawford's personality or the dichotomy of being a star and being an actress, which is the core of any serious evaluation of Crawford. It fails to put any critical framework around the films. And, on top of anything else, it's so turgidly written that it fails to be even good nasty fun.

Don't waste your time.

Don't waste your money.

It would be nice to accept this book simply as a guilty pleasure and let its shortcomings slide, but honesty requires pointing out the latter. The first problem is the fact that, although the book was originally published in Great Britain and then published the following year in the United States, no attempt whatsoever has been made to Americanize spelling and punctuation, much less the British slang that one must at times figure out from context ("She put paid to any mother-daughter bond that might have developed between them by rounding on her with, `Listen, kid . . . '"). Are publishing houses now so cheap that they can't afford a competent copy editor?

The next problem is the hype one encounters on the inside flap of the jacket, which declares, "Bret divulges . . . how her loathed mother forced Crawford to work as a prostitute, appear in pornographic films, and sleep her way to the top." Maybe the copywriter for that blurb didn't read the book. The author makes clear that Joan hated her mother, and reports (more as rumor than fact) that Crawford may have appeared in a few "stag films" (other writers have discredited this legend, using such evidence as birthmarks in publicity photos) and intimates that she did indeed sleep around, but nowhere does he establish the cause as being her mother.

These charges, along with many others, are not backed up by authoritative sources--there are no footnotes anywhere in the book--and smack of being entertaining but most likely apocryphal gossip. Virtually every male star of the time, according to Bret, was gay or bisexual and, more often than not, enormously hung. I'd love to believe, for example, that Errol Flynn and Franchot Tone really did spent an intimate night together in memory of actor Ross Alexander, "the lover they had shared," after his suicide, but where on earth did Bret dig up that anecdote? He's not saying.

It doesn't help that on numerous occasions, Bret makes minor errors that could have been easily checked and corrected: for example, the Broadway play in which Fred Astaire appeared was titled "The Gay Divorce," not "The Gay Divorcee" (Hollywood changed the title for the film version since it was deemed inappropriate to characterize a divorce as a happy thing), and Billie Burke portrayed Glinda the Good Witch in "The Wizard of Oz," not the Blue Fairy (a character from "Pinocchio"). If he can't be bothered to be precise about such minor matters--has he never even seen "The Wizard of Oz"?--how are we supposed to trust him for the many outlandish claims he makes about stars' private sexual conduct?

Joan Crawford: Hollywood Martyr shares some of these shortcomings with the equally delicious, similarly non-documented book Bette and Joan: The Divine Feud by Shaun Considine, but Considine does at least in some instances credit where he heard the rumors, and further attempts to be fair and balanced: for each vicious rumor about one of his subjects, he usually includes an opposing viewpoint from a different colleague. It is a much more readable and satisfying book overall.

One also has to question the value of the film synopses that make up a major portion of Bret's book--virtually every film Joan appeared in is related plot-point-by-plot-point. Why? If you are interested enough in Joan Crawford to be reading a biography of her, chances are you've already seen "Mildred Pierce"; and if by some freak occurrence some readers haven't, why in God's name spoil the surprise ending for them? A description of the overall theme of each film would be fine, but the he-said-then-she-said minutiae seem like so much filler. Perhaps Bret's publisher was paying him by the word.

I will give the author this: He obviously loves his subject, and it shows. I especially appreciated the way he attacks Christina Crawford and her loathsome book "Mommie Dearest" every time the opportunity arises. I'm sick of seeing that self-serving bitch on every documentary ever made about her mother (so she had to write thank-you notes at Christmas--boo hoo). It is totally obvious that once it became clear to Christina that she wasn't going to have a successful career as an actress, she decided to make a career out of smearing the name of her mother. It's time she finds some sort of productive job and gets on with her life, instead of being a professional victim.

So for a few giggles and at times unbelievably outrageous rumors and gossip, "Joan Crawford: Hollywood Martyr" can be fun, but for heaven's sake don't rely upon it as a reliable history of the woman who has justifiably been called The Ultimate Movie Star.

This book is not a biography.It is an attempt at muckraking expose. It is written by an author who cites very few authentic sources, who writes incorrect information ( He says that Ricardo Cortez was Sam Spade in the 1941 version of THE MALTESE FALCON when everyone knows it was Bogart who played the role in that version. Another example of total inaccuracy is when he states in his discussion of Johnny Guitar that Ward Bond played nothing but cop and fighter roles. Has Mr. Bret ever seen a John Ford film?) Bret is totally preoccupied with the sex lives of Ms. Crawford and her acquaintances, even to go so far to discuss stuff that in no way can be proven. He spouts heresy and hearsay. This is an offensive tome and does not attempt to honor Ms. Crawford's illustrious career. It is a sham and I was ashamed to have spent money on it. If you have the slightest respect for Joan Crawford, please avoid.

I do not think that this book had much thought put into it during the conception period, as it reads a novel of misinformation. While it boasts some lovely photos, the text is atrocious, unbelivable during most. I am an avid Joan Crawford fan and have read several biographies of the star and the claims made in this biography are seemingly preposterous.

This writer obviously did not read the books he lists in his bibliography. Because both the Lambert book on Norma Shearer and the Stenn book on Jean Harlow, disprove the lies that Bret writes about them. Shearer did remarry after Irving Thalberg died, she married in 1942 and the marriage lasted until her own death in 1983. Jean Harlow's kidneys failed. Regardless of whether her mother delayed her going to the hospital or not, there was nothing the medical community could have done in 1937 to save her. The only thing they could do was make her more comfortable in her last days. Stenn's book discusses all of this. So why Bret chooses to ignore what Stenn as well as another Harlow biographer Eve Golden have written about Harlow's life and death, is a mystery.

Given the poor research Bret did regarding other actresses he mentions, this poor research likely extends to what he has written about his own subject Joan Crawford. My knowledge on Crawford's life is limited; however I will look elsewhere in seeking accuracy about her life. Bret is obviously not worth the time. I seriously wonder how someone like him manages to get a book deal.