At 81, Bette Davis Revealed More Details About Joan Crawford… Try Not To Gasp | HO!!!!

In the final years of her life, Bette Davis, the legendary actress known for her steel will and unflinching honesty, broke her silence on one of Hollywood’s most infamous rivalries. What she revealed about Joan Crawford—her long-time adversary—left even jaded insiders stunned. This is not just a story of two icons locked in a decades-long feud, but a window into the wounds, betrayals, and raw emotions that shaped the Golden Age of Hollywood.

The Wound That Never Healed

At 81, her body weakened by strokes and cancer, Bette Davis was still a force to be reckoned with. Her voice was gravelly, her posture stooped, but her eyes burned with the same intensity that once lit up the silver screen. In a series of interviews near the end of her life, Davis finally spoke openly about her relationship with Joan Crawford—a relationship that had been the subject of gossip, speculation, and myth for half a century.

When asked if she was hurt by the memories, Davis didn’t hesitate. “I was furious,” she said, her words sharp as ever. She had spent years swallowing her anger, but now, with little left to lose, she spat out the truth. The feud with Crawford was not just a Hollywood sideshow—it was a saga of ambition, heartbreak, and humiliation that had left permanent scars.

Stolen Headlines, Stolen Dreams

The animosity between Davis and Crawford began not with a dramatic confrontation, but with a headline. In 1933, Warner Brothers was preparing to launch Davis as a leading lady with the film Ex-Lady. The studio promised her face would be on every newspaper the next morning. But when Davis eagerly unfolded the morning papers, she found her name buried beneath headlines about Joan Crawford’s divorce from Douglas Fairbanks Jr.

To Davis, it felt intentional—a calculated move by Crawford to hijack her moment. Crawford, then a darling of MGM, was a master of manipulating the press. Davis, a stage-trained actress who valued craft over glamour, saw the incident as her first lesson in Hollywood’s brutal hierarchy: image trumped artistry. She internalized the slight, convinced it was no accident. From that day forward, Davis watched Crawford with suspicion. The rivalry had begun.

Love, Betrayal, and Public Humiliation

If the stolen headline planted the seed of resentment, what happened two years later made it bloom. In 1935, while filming Dangerous at RKO, Davis fell for her co-star, Franchot Tone. He was charming, intelligent, and, for a time, seemed genuinely interested in Davis. She confided to friends that she imagined a future with him.

But Joan Crawford had other plans. She courted Tone with lavish dinners and seductive charm. Within months, Tone was smitten—not with Davis, but with Crawford. They married in October 1935, just days after Davis had publicly declared her feelings for him. Davis was shattered. It wasn’t just the loss of a man; it was the humiliation of being upstaged by Crawford again.

The pain deepened the following year. Davis received her first Academy Award nomination for Dangerous. Warner Brothers, still punishing her for breaking contract rules, refused to fund a glamorous gown. Davis arrived at the ceremony in a shapeless dress, while Crawford, resplendent in diamonds, kissed Tone on the cheek and purred, “Dear Bette, what a lovely frock.” The press mocked the contrast. Davis felt exposed and ridiculed on what should have been the proudest night of her life.

Rivalry Becomes Open Warfare

The wounds never healed. Davis believed Crawford’s marriage to Tone was less about love and more about winning. The bitterness festered, and as both women’s careers soared, so did their rivalry. Hollywood, ever hungry for drama, fanned the flames.

In 1943, Crawford’s career faltered at MGM. She negotiated a release and stunned the industry by signing with Warner Brothers—Davis’s studio and kingdom. Crawford sent Davis flowers and gifts, which Davis returned with curt notes. She saw Crawford’s overtures as manipulation, an attempt to get close only to steal roles.

The competition for plum parts became fierce. Davis, known for her tough, unglamorous roles, was considered for Mildred Pierce. But studio executives, annoyed with her demands, gave the role to Crawford, who reinvented herself and won the 1946 Academy Award. To Davis, it was another theft, another victory for image over substance.

Davis’s resentment seeped into her work. In 1952’s The Star, she played an aging, alcoholic actress—a performance widely interpreted as a parody of Crawford. Davis didn’t deny it. “Mrs. Crawford is a movie star. I am an actress,” she once said. The line drew laughs, but it also revealed the depth of her bitterness.

The Set Becomes a Battlefield

By 1961, both women’s careers were waning. Crawford found a script, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, and agreed to star—on the condition that Davis play the monstrous Baby Jane Hudson. Davis accepted, but only with strict conditions: she would play Jane, Crawford would have no romantic entanglements with the director.

On set, the rivalry became warfare. Davis arrived with a Coca-Cola bottle, knowing Crawford was now a Pepsi board member. She insisted on a Coke vending machine in the studio. Crawford retaliated by handing out Pepsi to the crew and knitting during Davis’s scenes.

Their animosity escalated into physical pain. In one scene, Davis hit Crawford so hard that she needed stitches. Crawford got her revenge by strapping weights under her costume for a scene Davis had to drag her, causing Davis to injure her back. Crew members whispered that they were witnessing decades of hatred erupting on set.

Despite the chaos, both actresses delivered unforgettable performances. The film was a hit, but the truce on screen masked the war behind it.

The Ultimate Betrayal

The feud reached its peak at the 1963 Academy Awards. Davis was nominated for Best Actress; Crawford was not. Behind the scenes, Crawford contacted the other nominees, offering to accept the Oscar on their behalf if they couldn’t attend.

On Oscar night, when Anne Bancroft won, Crawford swept past Davis to accept the award on stage, dazzling the audience and stealing the spotlight once again. Davis was humiliated. “It was volcanic,” she later admitted. The betrayal confirmed her belief that Crawford would stop at nothing to upstage her.

The Final Act: Bitterness and Empathy

Hollywood producers tried to capitalize on the feud again by reuniting the two for Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte. But old wounds reopened. Davis, now a producer, made Crawford’s life miserable with impossible demands. Crawford retaliated by faking illness and eventually quitting the film. The production survived, but the relationship was finished.

By the late 1970s, both women were aging out of Hollywood’s spotlight. Yet their feud only grew in legend. Journalists asked about it in every interview; fans gossiped endlessly. The truth was more complicated. Both women were tired, hurt, and still chasing work in an industry that had moved on.

In her eighties, Davis finally admitted the toll the rivalry had taken. “It hurt,” she confessed. “It cost me relationships.” She acknowledged pushing Crawford away out of fear and jealousy, and admitted to crying after the Oscars. She even expressed regret that she didn’t know how to make peace during the filming of Sweet Charlotte. “By then, it was easier to hate,” she sighed.

A Human Story, Not Just a Hollywood Tale

Davis’s late-life confessions shocked audiences. Gone were the witty barbs and icy put-downs. Instead, she offered raw admissions of jealousy, cruelty, and vulnerability. She recognized that both she and Crawford had been trapped by a system that pitted women against each other, rewarding cutthroat behavior and amplifying every slight.

When asked if she forgave Crawford, Davis paused. “I don’t know,” she whispered. Her honesty was startling. It didn’t erase the pain or the public cruelty, but it humanized her in a way few Hollywood legends ever allow.

The Legacy of a Feud

Bette Davis died in 1989, leaving behind a legacy of unforgettable performances—and a feud that remains Hollywood’s most notorious. Her final words about Crawford were not insults, but reflections: admissions of vulnerability, regret, and complicity. She didn’t excuse herself or her rival. She exposed the insecurity and fear that drove them both.

Hollywood loves a good rivalry because it sells tickets and magazines. But beneath the headlines are human beings—messy, vulnerable, and deeply wounded. Davis’s confessions at 81 remind us that legends bleed and regret, and sometimes the ugliest stories teach us the most about ambition, jealousy, and the price of success.

Try not to gasp—not at the cruelty, but at the courage it took for Bette Davis to finally tell the truth.