No Wire Hangers!
Last night, Erin and I split a bottle of red wine and watched Mommie Dearest, probably for the seven billionth time, but this time it occurred to me: exactly where is elementary school-aged Christina Crawford getting these contraband wire hangers? Some dealer on the playground? Off the Hollywood black market? Is she hanging around dry cleaning establishments when she should be at home scrubbing the bathroom floor?
Also: the close-up of wild-eyed Faye Dunaway lounging on the white couch in her closet, clad only in turban and robe, slowly massaging lotion onto her elbows, is without a doubt the most demonic scene in the history of cinema.