To say it was a damning illustration of how Hollywood sucks up and spits out even its biggest stars would be to understate how many of her friends, drowned in berets, cravats, titfers and competitive scarves, looked irretrievably flattened...

[Faye] doesn’t shirk accountability or invalidate the experiences of co-stars who say they feared her, but invites a reappraisal of the sexist notion that she was a belligerent prima donna.

Respectful if not revelatory, Bouzereau’s film gives her legacy a massage, gently probing, but also leaving her in peace.

In dodging the audience’s most obvious questions, the film only creates more. At this point in her career and diagnosis, it’s understandable that Dunaway would not wish to stoke the embers of past fires, but this leaves Faye feeling remarkably incomplete.