I’ve only seen her twice, but I’ve never been more in love. I fell hard after seeing her in 1972’s Fat City, a film so unrelentingly perfect, I wanted to bottle the emotion and save it for an inevitable downturn in mood. A swig of that, and I could take on all comers. It was less a viewing than a conversion: the world may burn, but good god almighty, I was alive for this. It made me a believer, wholly devoted to living anew. Born again, front and center at the Church of Susan. But while Ms. Tyrrell had secured my ultimate allegiance for a role that stands with Streep, Olivier, Tracy, and Brando in the pantheon of perfection, I figured she had more to give. Another course to chart. I gambled on love – always the ultimate risk – and took out The Killer Inside Me for an evening on the town. I didn’t know where it would ultimately lead, so I kept expectations low. Marriage, at least for now, would be off the table. Maybe a drink or two, then I’m out. A quiet corner booth with bad lighting and so-so service. I couldn’t face the possibility of heartbreak.
Thankfully, there is cause for celebration. Clearly, Tyrrell’s Joyce Lakeland is not in the same league as her singular Oma, but she’s still sniffing the big time. The overall execution is there; the mannerisms and sense of character that first sent me to unparalleled ecstasy, as well as the rock-solid determination to inhabit desperation like a second skin. Joyce, expectedly, is a prostitute, though she’s unlike any you’re bound to encounter on your daily travels. Consigned to the edge of a dying Montana town, her reputation has so enveloped the good people of “Central City” (it’s Butte, in fact) that the sheriff has been asked to pay her a visit and get her the hell out. If I had to guess, it’s less a matter of her sinful ways than the usual pearl-clutching jealously of the community’s frigid hausfraus. One too many simply got tired of whispered reports of the family station wagon being parked nearby.
And why not? As whores go, Joyce is unquestionably devoted to craft, even if she’s a little too willing to forego sanity and fall in love inside of five minutes. She’s already got Elmer hooked as all get out, even though his obvious brain damage might lead one to conclude that he’d be just as apt to marry a tree. Still, as the son of the town’s one success story, he’d make a fine husband, at least until the moment when he could be pushed off a cliff or thrown down one of many abandoned mine shafts in the area. And Joyce is no dummy. Well, she is, but she knows enough to save her finest moments for the one man who can spring her from the usual trap that grinds most women of her stripe to dust. No sentimentality here, she’s as transactional as they come. Only how to explain her feeling for the sheriff?
Thankfully, the sheriff, Lou Ford, is played by Tyrrell’s previous partner in crime, one Stacy Keach. While he’s not quite the Keach of the ’72 masterpiece, he’s enough Keach to keep us happy. Keach of the slow burn variety, and as we know – playing a schizophrenic murderer, after all – it’s just a matter of settling in and letting the killings come to us. They take a while, perhaps more time than necessary, but they do arrive in full force before the credits roll. In the meantime, we get an untold number of flashbacks, where it’s apparent that as a child, Lou did little but watch his mom fuck everyone in town who wasn’t his father. That is, when he wasn’t being slapped repeatedly in the face by psychotic parents. But Lou hides his pain with devious perfection, even managing to get a lonely teacher to fall in love with him. He’s well-respected, and seemingly the pride of the force. Until he kills. And naturally, it’s Ms. Lakeland who sets it all in motion.
You see, Joyce wants to run away with the sheriff. But only after blackmailing Elmer’s father, who just happens to be running for mayor. Joyce is covered with bruises, cuts, and abrasions, and she’s willing to have Elmer take the fall unless papa hands over $50,000 ($277,333 in 2025 dollars). Never mind that the sheriff inflicted most of the wounds himself, having slugged the living shit out of the poor lady for unexpectedly triggering bad memories. But the beating only intensifies Joyce’s devotion, which is where the inherent masochism of sex work kicks in. Joyce’s own self-esteem jumped ship somewhere between birth and kindergarten, so the inevitably of her career choice brought her to the very moment where she’d assume a fat lip was an invitation for a road trip. Still, because it’s Tyrrell at work, it’s everything but heavy duty. If I laughed once, I laughed a half dozen times during her initial encounter with the sheriff, and if it were possible to reconfigure the ass end of life as its zenith, sign this woman up for the VIP tour.
Even the small moments bring her ever closer to huggability. Take her obsessive need to have a cup of coffee before hitting the sheets. A throwaway character trait for some, but when it’s mentioned sixteen times inside of an opening conversation, it’s supremely winning. And how she responds to her beatdown while entwined with Keach’s heaving mass of sweat and insistence will bring a smile to all but the hopelessly humorless. This woman simply knows how to deliver lines. She’s so desperately fragile, yet steeled by the scars of the trade so as to never flirt with vulnerability. Even her colossal idiocy is endearing. This is one actress who could carry on about literally anything and have the audience on the edge of their seats. Everything is working at peak efficiency: facial expressions, body language, affect, and tone. It’s an absolute tragedy that her career didn’t pack her mantle with Oscars.
All I know is, I need to see more. I’ll even re-watch that episode of Starsky & Hutch to look upon her with fresh eyes. Maybe, then, her Joyce is less of an Unsung and more my inspiration to sing her praises at every opportunity. Start that long overdue biography. Create an obsessive fanboy’s devotional page, just for her. Or better yet, create a Ruthless category all her own. Whatever it is, she deserves it all and more. Two roles, less than a total hour of screen time, and I’m ready to call it a life. She’s outdone them all, making Sophie’s Choice look like amateur hour. I know I’m extending the afterglow of Fat City to this and all subsequent sightings, but I do so without illusion or apology. As I said, it’s the irrational exuberance of love. Finding a diamond late in life, before the rot sets in. Oh, and she also did a stint on Kojak. Because of course she did. And I’ll bet you a lollipop she reduced Telly Savalas to an afterthought.
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