I was watching an old movie I never heard of, and when I looked it up, I found this New York Times review. Yes, I know it was written in 1940 — but I’m still shocked:
If ever a woman needed a beating—but good—that woman is the Susan Trexel of Joan Crawford in “Susan and God,” which arrived yesterday at the Capitol amid much jubilation of the Crawford fans, and the fact that she doesn’t get it after almost two hours of steady meddling in the lives of other folk—plus the fact that her pitiful husband, a wan and submissive Fredric March, permits her to go on and on giving him the needle while she flings her own ego around—comprises the most disappointing letdown of a generally disappointing film. In this case it certainly seems that poetic justice should have managed a violent laying on of hands. Susan spoils for it.