There are divas and then there are
über-divas, and Faye is an
über-diva. As was Joan Crawford. As all true divas are indeed
über-divas. You have to live your greatest role -- the role of
You -- 24/7, all day long, even when you're asleep and even when you're on the toilet. Perhaps
especially when you're on the toilet. Where the sheer fabulosity of You and Your Ego are at full staff at all times, publicly and privately, and if a camera happens to catch it -- let alone a movie camera -- then all the better. But it's not, by any means, a requirement.
I recall Marlene Dietrich's daughter describing her mother's final decade of life, an alcoholic on painkillers, withdrawing to her Parisian apartment at 12 Avenue Montaigne, mostly bedridden, allowing only a select few to enter her suite, Marlene in a constant and self-conscious state of delicious decay, as if a largely non-existent audience were observing unflinchingly, becoming a prolific letter-writer and phone-caller, endlessly transcribing a revisionist version of her life to be consumed upon her death.
That's an
über-diva. A level of bottomless, vulgarly poetic self-absorption even the most-shameless Instagram model today cannot possibly fathom or be expected to.