That it will drive us to pills and kill us? That it’s impossible to achieve? That it’s sexy in concept but silly in practice? That, at best, it will leave us barefoot in the snow? Nothin’ but boobies!” It’s unclear what the movie wants to convey about female ambition. At one point, she is stumbling around Los Angeles and delivers the iconic line, “Boobies, boobies, boobies. Neely justifies taking dolls while working by saying she needs them in order to “sparkle, Neely, sparkle!” She screams her own name during a drug-fueled breakdown in an alley.
Then there’s Neely, who is worth her own multi-film franchise. Her commercial is a bizarre and dreamy montage in which she wears billowing clothing and poses among giant statues for some reason. Take, for example, Jennifer and her “chest exercises.” (Jennifer’s boobs are as much a character in the film as any of the three women.) Or the moment when Anne, a mere legal assistant, unexpectedly lands a major brand campaign simply by being very hot. Valley of the Dolls is greater than the sum of its parts, but each of those parts is truly bonkers. Anne moves back home and declines a marriage offer by *checks notes* running out into the New England snow while wearing flats. Neely grows increasingly dependent on barbiturates, which she calls “dolls,” ultimately sabotaging her own career.
Jennifer dies from an intentional overdose. In the end, none of the women really gets what they want. This is where I’d normally say “spoilers ahead,” but it is impossible to spoil this movie by simply reciting its plot. (Rude.) They each aspire to greatness, both in their careers and love lives, but instead face heartbreak, addiction, abortion, cancer, soft-core pornography, and lots of transatlantic accents. Valley of the Dolls follows three women working in NYC’s entertainment industry: Anne Welles (Barbara Parkins), a small-town girl turned secretary at a theatrical-law firm, rising star of stage and screen Neely O’Hara (Patty Duke), and Jennifer North (Sharon Tate), who is gorgeous but considered talentless. At the very least, it’s the sort of movie you watch in a room with one other person to whom you can occasionally turn and say, Holy shit, this is wild.
The 1967 movie, based on the best-selling novel of the same title, is the kind best enjoyed in a theater full of people who can recite the script like religious doctrine. My first mistake was watching Valley of the Dolls alone.
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