Was Barbara Stanwyck’s death in January of 1990 perhaps hastened by the premiere of Loni Anderson’s made-for-television remake of Sorry, Wrong Number in October of 1989? The coroner’s report contains nothing to support that irresponsible theory, but it’s difficult not to wonder how Stanwyck, arguably the greatest American film actress in the history of the medium, felt about this silly project, one of many ’80s TV remakes of classic films. What must she have made of Anderson’s performance in particular, beginning with the stilted delivery that’s reminiscent of Brenda Dickson welcoming you to her home? (The video will inevitably be scrubbed from YouTube, but the legend lives on in print.)
Dressed alternately as a stewardess and a Sea Org member, her strikingly unnatural wig brilliantly capturing the sunlight in flashbacks, Anderson—who we last enjoyed as a robotic and impeccably attired escort in My Mother’s Secret Life—plays Madeleine Coltrane, middle-aged heiress to the country’s fourth-largest pharmaceutical empire. Screenwriter Ann Louise Bardach and director Tony Wharmby don’t probe too deeply, but we understand that her tycoon father Jim (Hal Holbrook) has kept her in an overprotective bubble. However, her guilelessness is so pronounced that during the interminable scenes that Madeleine spends hanging on the telephone, my thoughts turned to how she’d react if Beverly Sutphin called.
If you’re familiar with the 1948 film adaptation of Lucille Fletcher’s radio play, the basics are unchanged. Madeleine falls for broad-shouldered Charlie Stevenson (Carl Weintraub), who is friends with her pal Sally (Diane D’Aquila) and reeks of desperation. “Believe me,” Sally cautions, “he’s definitely not for you. For one thing, his father was a cop before he drank himself to death. Charlie went to state college! I doubt if he even has two dimes to rub together. And he’s working in a drugstore.” The heiress pursues him anyway.
It is a failure of Anderson’s performance that the subtler dynamics of Madeleine’s relationship with Sally—how she aims to claim the prize that Sally wants for herself—are lost to her inexpressiveness. This section of the film also provided my heartiest laugh, when Charlie sheepishly admits on their first date that he doesn’t know Antonioni from Renoir. With Anderson wandering through her scenes mechanically, as if she were new to the planet, it is impossible to imagine Madeleine as a cinéaste who could easily converse about L’Avventura or The Rules of the Game. I’m convinced she would mistake Renoir for a toothpaste.
Of course, Sorry, Wrong Number isn’t a love story, it’s a thriller, and its tension hinges on Madeleine overhearing a murder plot on the phone while confined to bed with illness. Alone (as usual) while Charlie’s out on New Year’s Eve and too prideful to tell her father, who has doubted his son-in-law’s motives from the start, she slowly begins to realize—with help from chemist Nigel Evans (John Steed himself, Patrick Macnee)—that she might be the intended victim. How she reacts to this possibility is maddening, though completely in keeping with her exhausting character.
In a modern retelling (that would be excoriated on TikTok and Twitter), Madeleine might suffer from fibromyalgia or carry a contentious diagnosis like POTS, chronic fatigue syndrome or chronic Lyme. In the 1989 remake, as in the ’40s original, she is issued a dubious heart ailment, so we unfortunately miss out on the opportunity to crack insensitive “so tender to the touch!” jokes. But camp aficionados are rewarded with a great sequence in which she tearfully interrogates a Western Union employee about a telegram before a stranger repeatedly buzzes her door, sending her into a fit of hysteria. Crying and staggering across the bedroom, she shouts “I can’t come down! I’m on the top floor! I’m ill—and I’m all alone!”, which I plan to yell incessantly during my next Crohn’s flare.
Wharmby, who went on to direct many episodes of NCIS, isn’t unskilled at building suspense. But here the combination of an abjectly terrible screenplay and Anderson’s dramatic limitations is deadlier than even a hired assassin. For those who treasure off-the-wall terrible performances, tacky wigs and garish wardrobes, Sorry, Wrong Number is a must-see. Those of you who are less masochistic will want to give this one a pass.
Streaming and DVD availability
The 1989 adaptation of Sorry, Wrong Number hasn’t been released on DVD or authorized streaming platforms, but you can find a grainy VHS transfer on YouTube. The 1948 edition with Barbara Stanwyck is available on DVD and for digital rental.
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… But wait, there’s more!
I regret to report, for those of you who rely on me to consult Loni Anderson’s memoir, My Life in High Heels, for Burt Reynolds gossip relating to her projects, that Sorry, Wrong Number didn’t merit a mention. Hal Holbrook’s name comes up twice, though, in reference to Evening Shade, and of course one of those passages contains a damning Reynolds anecdote.
One night, after an “Evening Shade” taping, Burt was having heated words with Doug Jackson, one of the producers. The cast was taping public service announcements, and Burt, angry that Hal Holbrook’s was going to be taped before his, stormed off the set and into his dressing room. Doug followed him. As the argument escalated, I could see what was coming. Seconds before Burt lunged at Doug, I just hurled myself at him from behind, grabbing his arms with all my weight, and hung on with every ounce of strength I had. He kept right on moving, yelling and trying to swing at Doug, and dragging me across the floor behind him. We finally got him calmed down, but it wasn’t a pretty scene.
In the months after we separated, he would throw a punch at former “Cheers” star John Ratzenberger, who was guest-directing an “Evening Shade” episode. He would hit his longtime friend Jim Hampton, who was directing and writing for the show. He would hurl a chair at young Jay Ferguson, who played his son, and the chair would come very close to leveling Kathie Lee Gifford instead. The “Evening Shade” crew would attempt a drug-and-alcohol intervention, and Burt would walk out on them. In short, he would bring the whole house of cards down on his head and on the heads of many talented, dedicated people as well.
loni anderson, MY LIFE IN HIGH HEELS
Cranky Lesbian is a disgruntled homosexual with too much time on her hands. Click for film reviews or to follow on Instagram.
Who ME?
She should have been waterboarded for making this remake. She was absolutely terrible in it…
Cranky
By 1989 I think Burt Reynolds had already waterboarded her a few times for overspending on white leather couches and silk sheets.