Friday, May 8, 2026

PRESS UPDATE : DEADLINE ... MAY 8TH 2026 ..



 

    Baz Bamigboye/Deadline

EXCLUSIVE: Dame Joan Collins has fire in her belly. After a career that has spanned 75 years from post-war Rank Organisation starlet to Dynasty diva, this self-described “jobbing actor” has a hunger, ambition and energy that thespians half her age, younger even, would envy.

For the Cannes Film Festival, the legendary dame, who doesn’t care much for walking, is taking dancing lessons to enable her to glide with gusto into the Palais de Festival for the opening night gala on May 12. “I thought I want to just be able to get on the red carpet and not be a lump,” she tells Deadline in an exclusive interview.

“I’ve never liked walking. Whenever I saw that the Queen or the Queen Mother were having walks, I thought, ‘How can they do that? How boring?’ The only time I want to walk is when I’m walking around Selfridges department store,” she declares.

French actor Laurent Lafitte (The Count of Monte-Cristo, Elle) will escort her past the phalanx of photographers, up those tricky steps and on into the Grand Auditorium to witness Lord of the Rings filmmaker Peter Jackson receive an honorary lifetime achievement Palme d’Or and then to watch Pierre Salvadori’s romantic comedy The Electric Kiss.

Choosing to take Lafitte’s arm rather than take her husband Percy Gibson’s is deliberate.

The dashing Frenchman plays a key role opposite Dame Joan in My Duchess, a searing drama once it gets into its stride, directed by Mike Newell from a script by Louise Fennell. It reveals the tortured final years of Wallis Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor, the American divorcee who found herself thrust between king and country when Edward VIII renounced the British throne to be with “the woman I love,” as he famously put it in his abdication speech.

In her day, the Duchess, draped in exquisite couture gowns, oozed élan, so it’s perhaps appropriate that she be portrayed by an actress who matches her in the glamor stakes.

But Dame Joan does more, much more, than just parade around as the Duchess: She inhabits her.

Joan Collins as the Duchess of Windsor in ‘My Duchess’Rory Mulvey/John Gore Studios

My Duchess, the first film produced by John Gore Studios, the film company established by Broadway powerhouse John Gore, will have market screenings at Cannes, then on May 13, Gore will host a luncheon party for Dame Joan and Isabella Rossellini, who plays Maitre Suzanne Blum, the Duchess’s lawyer, who, instead of caring for her client, chose instead to taunt and torment her.

In the film, Blum’s psychological cruelty unravels the Duchess mentally and physically, causing her to wilt before our eyes. Dame Joan captures that downward spiral by stripping herself of the countenance of glamor that made the Duchess so striking. Dame Joan had no hesitation, she says, in allowing the film’s “glam squad,” as she fondly calls the hair and makeup department, to peel away her allure. 

Ordinarily, no one but her messes with the face, her bread and butter since she enrolled at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in 1950. But for this film, which she has pushed to get made for 30 years, she insists, “I didn’t care how I looked.”

For the first time ever, she handed her visage for others to deface in the name of art. “I didn’t do my hair or my makeup. I just laid back and they did it,” she says. “They put me in the clothes. I had no say in anything. I just said, ‘You do what you want me to look like.’ I put myself totally in the hands of the glam squad.” Collins adds that over the years she had pored over “thousands” of photographs featuring the Duchess, sharing her spoils with three-time Oscar-winning costume designer Sandy Powell, who co-designed the film’s costumes with Charlotte Law.

“I knew exactly how I thought she should look, but I also agreed with Sandy that she was now in her declining years, so she wouldn’t have been so glamorous. She was also a stick insect, honestly Baz. There’s some movie film of her in a bathing suit. It looks like she just came out of a concentration camp,” she says, lowering her voice.

Isabella Rossellini and Joan Collins in ‘My Duchess’Rory Mulvey/John Gore Studios

With the Duke of Windsor’s death in 1972, the film traces his widow’s lonely last years. It’s chilling to see how Blum treats her when she’s ill. She says that during the filming of a scene where Blum is being abusive toward her, ”I had to remember that this bullying woman is being played by Isabella Rossellini, who is Ingrid Bergman’s daughter! Off set, she was marvelous.”

“You see, nobody knows that she had a stroke,” Dame Joan reports. “She lay there in bed. All of her jewelry was gone. All her paintings were gone. Everything. The house was falling apart. It was Miss Havisham. And she lay there deaf, dumb, blind as well. She was blind and nobody came to see her for eight or nine years. How shocking was that? They stopped everybody going to see her. All of these things are true, and it’s elder abuse of the worst kind, of the worst kind,” she hisses.

Dame Joan says: “I know people whose parents have been robbed, literally robbed because all the people are not into all of the phones and the online banking, all of that. My kids, Tara and Alexander and Katy, they were all raised at school. I can’t fucking type. I had to do Siri. And of course I’ve got the nails, so I can’t easily type,“ she says, displaying her crimson-painted talons. 

“Luckily, Percy’s expert at all of that,” she continues. “I can’t do any of this, but most people over 60 can’t. And there’s a lot of us.”

She says that m

ost people over a certain age in London are fearful of going out. ”It’s a pretty scary world, isn’t it?”

Yet, Dame Joan never has struck one as being fearful of anyone or anything. There’s a warrior woman underneath the pricey cashmere that adorns her.

Nodding, she responds that she’s not “a fearful person. I think I’m very street-savvy and knowledgeable about things. I’ve been there, done that, got the T-shirt, as they say.”

I’d arrived early for our tête-à-tête at London’s posho Peninsula Hotel, located on Hyde Park Corner, a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace — because Joanie, as my Brit editor in Los Angeles likes to call her, doesn’t suffer fools, and I’d rather not incur an icy glare.

Dame Joan and Gibson, who’ll soon celebrate their silver wedding anniversary, live around the corner in Belgravia, and they’re clearly regular patrons, judging by how low the head waiter genuflects when her name is cited. He leads the way to a banquette discreetly nestled by a huge picture widow that looks out to a splendid view of Wellington Arch with its equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington erected on top of it.

Joan Collins as the Duchess of Windsor in ‘My Duchess’Rory Mulvey/John Gore Studios

The dame and I have a little history too, having covered, not always kindly, her late-1970s particularly “crappy crap” years, as she terms them, with The Stud and The Bitch, both based on her late sister Jackie Collins’ bonk-busting books. Later, when based in New York, Kelvin McKenzie, my then-editor at The Sun, had a habit of ringing me up at 3 a.m. full of madcap ideas like jumping on a flight to take Joan Collins flowers because he’d heard she has a cold. Well, by this time she was huge as Alexis, so any excuse to get her in the paper.

The fun one was being dispatched to Saint-Tropez to seek an interview about her acrimonious split from Swedish singer Peter Holm. “Oh, the Swede,” she says with a venomous edge. “Michael Caine called him the Swedish comedian, about as funny as this glass,” she trills.

Later on during that assignment, I encountered her on a private beach. Flowers were presented, a withering quote about the Swede was uttered, and a suitable photograph was taken. She was happy. 

Stephen Sondheim’s Follies number “Good times and bum times, I’ve seen them all. And, my dear, I’m still here,” has her written all over it.

What accounts for the longevity of her career, I ask as she sips an Americana — with cold milk — and toys with a plate of smoked salmon, slices of avocado and fries (my fries).

“Well, first of all,” she begins, “I don’t think you have to want to be famous. If you want to be famous, you’re going to be miserable. I don’t care about being famous. When I was extremely famous, it was when I was doing Dynasty, it was OK. I got mobbed. I couldn’t go and look at the bras in Bloomingdale’s without somebody coming up and saying, ‘Can I have your …’ We didn’t have cell phones then. And I found it a bit irritating, but I thought, ‘This will pass. It ain’t gonna last,’ and then I can go back to just being a jobbing actor, which I did. And so I’ve had very fallow periods in which I’ve been able to live a really great life.”

Chewing around that statement for a millisecond, Dame Joan adds that when she thinks about it, she’s also had “some really horrible experiences,” such as being sued by Random House, and she’s endured “terrible divorces in which my husbands have said horrible things about me and asked for money. And Katy’s accident [her daughter Katyana survived a horrific car accident when she was 8], but I have a great family now. I have great friends, and I have a wonderful husband.”

There are no stars in her eyes, however. “Well, I mean, I don’t consider myself a film star. I consider myself a working actress, whatever epithets they want to say. I’ve done so many things. I’ve done so much TV. I’ve done so much theater. I’ve done a lot more theater than people realize. Not that I care what people realize really, but we have …”

She wants to take the stage show she performs with Gibson back on tour, and she has the chops for it. I’ve seen her many times on stage, but I remember her as the scheming socialite burglar Fay Cheyney in Frederick Lonsdale’s The Last of Mrs. Cheyney at Chichester Festival Theatre, before she transferred with it into the Cambridge Theatre. At the first-night party, she spoke of a new show she’d filmed in L.A. called Dynasty. Not long afterward, I was in NYC, and Collins’ face graced every magazine cover and she appeared night after night on the talk shows. 


In the early 1990s she visited the 14-room villa on the edge of in the Bois du Boulogne that once had been home to the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.

She was shown around by Bahamian-born Sydney Johnson, a former valet and major-domo to the Windsors. “He showed me around, and the place was immaculate. It had all been redone by these people. And he showed me to the the Duchess’ bedroom, bathroom and closet,” she says, pausing to add, “And he opened the closet and showed me some of her dresses, and in the closet were two mannequins, one of the Duchess and one of the Duke.

“He was wearing a kilt. She was wearing a very chic sort of dress, and they were teeny. They were both about 5 foot. And I said, ‘Is this their size?’ And he said, ‘Well, more or less.’ And then he said, ‘Do you want to see her lingerie?’ In the drawers were these exquisite panties and camisoles, all of a sort of very soft satin peach and cream,” she explains.

All this was a prelude to what Johnson had to tell her next. ”He said, ‘I was there, and Madame Blum came in and she destroyed the Duchess after the former King died. And so he told me all these stories.“

She divulges that Johnson worked for Mohammad Al-Fayed — the father of Dodi Fayed, who died with Princess Diana in the Paris car crash — who had taken on the ownership of the Windsors’ former home in the Bois de Boulogne. ”I know one isn’t supposed to mention his name, is one? He was the owner of Harrods then. Yes. I know he’s sort of unmentionable, but anyway, he was the one, and I went with my friend Jeffrey Lane,” she adds referring to her longtime friend and communications adviser. 

Intrigued, she read every tome and article and watched every documentary on the Duchess and her lawyer. Years went by, and the writer Louise Fennell was one of many she’d spoken to about the Windsor story. “She said, ‘Oh, I’d love to write that.’ And so she started writing an outline. And then you know how it is, you’re doing other things and it was on the back burner, but it was always in my mind.”

Fortuitously, she was seated next to John Gore at a King’s Trust dinner and asked if he’d like to read a script. “I was really hustling!” The likes of  Netflix boss Ted Sarandos, had “humored” her, she says, only never to be heard from again.  

(C) Venetia Scott

A year or so later, Gore, who’d just set up John Gore Studios, called for the script.

He rang her, she says, and “he said, ‘I think I want to do this.’ It is miraculous that this happened so fast, even though I’d been sort of thinking about it and pushing it and having this sweat for more than 30 years.”

Gore tells us that he wondered beforehand whether or not Dame Joan has the same “vivaciousness” she displayed in her Dynasty days. “I saw all the magic in action,” he recalls, “and I was thinking maybe offering her something in a Hammer film because we own Hammer, and she did lots of Hammer stuff.And then she said, “But I’ve been working on this idea for a long time…” And I said, “You’re too good looking for Wallis Simpson.Doesn’t make any sense. “Then she said,”You’re going to see everything come away,no makeup” And that’s when I thought ,okay, this is going to be something unique and special.”

Having read how potty she is abut the Duchess, are the stories true that she acquired a sapphire and diamond broach that once belonged to the Duchess at an auction in Geneva? “No,” she shoots back. Then she smiles and says: ”A friend of mine gave me a scarf of hers that he bought at auction, a beautiful black and white silk scarf.”

 I had queried the broach because I once worked on a newspaper, the Daily Mail, and they felled forests to tell the world about every item of jewellery the Duchess ever possessed. 

“No, I can’t afford that,” she says of the precious gemstone that was never hers.

Was it Hermès,I enquired of the precious neckwear in question.  

“No, it’s not, but it’s exquisite,” she says revealing that it was a gift from Mark Rozzano, a friend of hers, who produced another recent film, A Murder Between Friends, and he’s also “obsessed by the Duchess.”

Giggling, Dame Joan shares that she does have “a complete copy”  from Butler  & Wilson of the broach designed for the Duchess by Cartier in 1940.

“It’s pink and sapphires, but it’s a fake.But it’s a beautiful fake,” she assures.

There were all kinds of rumors about the Duchess,Dame Joan says. “I mean, there’s so much stuff about her. I had to refine it in my mind,” she says brushing imaginary crumbs from her cashmere, cowl collared coat.

Leaning closer over the table, she drops her voice. “I think he was obsessed by her, and I think his obsession was … He was very funny. He had great pep, he had enormous style, and I think that she was the only person who ever made him hot. You know what I mean? He was able to do that,” she says ripping off a piece of bread and popping it in her mouth, which is perhaps something she wouldn’t have been taught to do when she attended Francis Holland School for Girls in Regent’s Park.

Crikey!

 We move onto a safer topic.Is it unfair that the Duchess’s name been maligned all this time, I ask her?

“ So much, so badly,” is her immediate response.

“That’s one of the things that when I was reading about her, and I’ve been reading on and off for a long time, and I always thought, ‘Oh my God’, the hatred that this woman brought upon herself  for something that was not her fault. And so in some way, I hope that this film will make people see her in a different light, that she wasn’t the monster bitch that everybody thought. And the family, I mean, particularly the Queen Mother was really horrible,” she splutters. 

“I do have the line, which I say Prince Charles was the only one who ever was nice to me,because he was, and he would visit her,” she adds.

She believes in karma and exercise, she says as we move away from the poor Duchess. “I believe in karma and I think you get the face you deserve. I mean, if you booze and smoke cigarettes and eat the wrong food, you’re not going to look so good when you’re over 60 or whatever I am,haha,” she chuckles. “And I do take care of my skin and I do exercise. And I do wear makeup.”

What exercise? Is it yoga?

“Well, I did it this morning. It’s a lot of floor work. It’s balance work and walking,” and she’s training with choreographer Paul Robinson [he was in 42nd Street at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane,way back when with Catherine Zeta Jones] who also showed her some moves for the movie and for the Cannes red carpet.

Joan Collins and Isabella Rossellini in ‘My Duchess’Rory Mulvey/John Gore Studios

When I ask about recent big-screen movies she’s liked, she goes all coy. “Well, I don’t want to be horrible,” she says with a laugh.

Oh, please do,I beg ever so humbly.

“No.No, I’m not going to,” she decides firmly.

But,she pipes up, they went to see Baz Lurhmann’s EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert at BFI IMAX.

“It looked phenomenal, but it made me really sad because I knew Elvis, not very well, but I met him when I first went to Hollywood. He was so beautiful. And they put all these closeups of him sweating and fat. I said to Percy, “ I can’t bear watching the disintegration of a real person.” And he only lived to be 40 something,” she exclaims.

Excessive eating didn’t help,she suggests. “Fried banana sandwiches. Not a good idea,” she tuts just as I reach for another chip.

She relents ove the “horrible” movies and tells me that she didn’t care for The Naked Gun starring Niam Leeson who she “loves.” That film “came and went,it was very disappointing,” she sighs.

Dame Joan loved the films of the ’80s and ’90s. Especially “the Tom Hanks and the Meg Ryan comedies.”

She reckons that she’s watched Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather “about a hundred times,” never tiring of it.

What she enjoys about  watching classic movies is the chance ‘to study the actors” and watch the picture over and over again. “Each time I’ll notice something new that the actors have chosen to do.”

Recently she screened Preston Sturgess’s  1941 screwball The Lady Eve with Barbara Stanwyck and “Henry Fonda to do a Cary Grant, she was fantastic Barbara Stanwyck.”

What about Barbra Streisand? “She’s great. I met her when she was 19. I was getting married to Tony [Newley]  and he was on Broadway and everybody said “You’ve got to go and see this nineteen -year-old girl at this club, and it was Barbra.”

Bette Davis? “I worked with Bette Davis on The Virgin Queen.She scared me to death. It was my first American film and she kicked me across the set.”

She loves Meryl Streep and Emma Thompson, adores Alan Rickman’s films. “He was such a superb actor where he had to do little, because his face said everything,” she marvels as we chat about Rickman and Thompson in Love Actually. Hugh Grant is on her “wonderful” list as is Brad Pitt. “I think Brad’s a great actor.I think  he doesn’t get what he deserves because of his looks.”

She’s a huge fan of Kate Winslet’s.”She’s fantastic! So brave!I couldn’t do that.Stand in a film totally naked,no way,” she says referring to Winslet  in Francis Lee’s underrated masterpiece, Ammonite

I gently argue that Dame Joan has herself been in similar states of undress.“Let’s not go there,” she guffaws.

How much sleep does she get,I venture to ask? “About eight or nine hours,” she replies, except she often wakes at three in the morning and reads a book or scrolls Instagram looking at the images avoiding the comments although she occasionally spots a hate-fuelled missive.

Is she hurt  by any of the nasty things that are written on social media? “My children could hurt me. Percy could hurt me but I’m not going to hurt by some keyboard warrior,” she snorts.

This defiant warrior dame sure does rock!


Thursday, May 7, 2026

PRESS UPDATE .. BRITISH VOGUE .. MAY 2026 ..

“Fame And Glamour Are Ephemeral… I Never Chased That”: An Audience With Dame Joan Collins..


In the last years of her history-making life, Wallis, the Duchess Of Windsor, was a widow locked in a château, fading from sight under the control of a malevolent lawyer. Now Joan Collins is set to play her, alongside Isabella Rossellini, an array of dazzling outfits and a pack of pugs. 
By Hayley Maitland. Photographs by Venetia Scott.

Wallis, Duchess of Windsor: one thinks of the sapphires and the Schiaparelli couture; seated dinners, for 16, on Sèvres porcelain; the Beaton portraits, the Belvedere parties, the pugs. One doesn’t, in the main, picture an isolated invalid, wasting away in her powder-blue bedroom above the Bois de Boulogne while a malignant attorney pilfered her Cartier Panthères, ousted her private secretaries and threatened to publish her letters to King Edward VIII without her consent.

“Only that,” Joan Collins says flatly, “is exactly what happened.” We’re shuttered in a plush study of the dame’s stucco Belgravia home, watched over by several dozen other Joans: her feline gaze stares out from a novelty Joel & Son cushion, patterned with 1950s glamour shots of her (“They made one of Sophia Loren, one of Brigitte Bardot and one of me”); from silver-framed snaps with her fifth (“and forever”) husband, manager and producer Percy Gibson; from shelves lined with the six memoirs she has written, the indexes of which are better reading than most actual biographies: “Major, John – JC advises upon spectacles and sex appeal”; “Minnelli, Liza – a gauche tendency”; “Moore, Demi – her thighs”.

Leaning against a vintage sable throw, the real Collins, bare-faced and wig-less, sits beside me in Adidas trackies and a diamond-encrusted crucifix roughly the size of my palm, having just completed a session with her personal trainer. “If you don’t wind the clock up, the clock’s not going to work,” she tells me of her attitude to fitness, her voice that crisply enunciated, faintly anachronistic RP. And the clock needs to work. Collins, who, among her many unusual roles, steered mega-soap Dynasty by the shoulder pads for much of the 1980s and about to star as the ur-American divorcée to embitter the grey suits of Buckingham Palace and nearly dismantle a monarchy.



Directed by Four Weddings and a Funeral’s Mike Newell and written by Louise Fennell – wife of “King of Bling” Theo, mother of Saltburn’s Emerald and a dear friend of Joan’s from Bollinger-fuelled nights at Tramp 1.0 – My Duchess is part royal biopic, part psycho-biddy horror, with a touch of erotic thriller and a whole heap of camp; What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? meets Single White Female, but with a victim who precipitated an abdication crisis, a villain played by Blue Velvet’s Isabella Rossellini, and a screenplay full of gags about “vodka-based” diets and a benzo-wielding médecin known as “Dr Death”.

It’s a film Collins has been trying to make since 1989, when she first toured the Duke and Duchess of Windsor’s neoclassical pile in the 16th arrondissement, and began to reassess what HL Mencken once called “the best news story since the Resurrection”. If you think the recent travails of the royal family have bordered on existential, try 1936, when, just months before his formal coronation, King Edward VIII was given an ultimatum: the Sovereign’s Orb or his twice-married, Baltimore-raised mistress. He chose Wallis, despite her begging him to do otherwise, marrying her at a Loire Valley château and spending the rest of his life in languorous exile with “the woman he loved” – an accident of history that transformed the nature of the British monarchy in perpetuity. (Wallis and Edward, with their penchant for café society and Place Vendôme, would have been rather different royal majesties to their replacements, King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, later the Queen Mother, who spent the war wearing out their country tweeds at Balmoral and shooting rats for target practice while the Luftwaffe swarmed.)

When Edward found himself demoted, post-abdication, to a mere duke, he and Wallis still lived in gilded splendour as if in their own make-believe court; before his death in 1972, Villa Windsor was filled with so many Aubusson rugs, Limoges bibelots, Viger clocks and Augsburg unicorns that an eventual Sotheby’s auction of their possessions lasted nine days. When Joan visited the Paris villa, the mansion still had the feel of a museum, if not a mausoleum; there, preserved as if the Windsors had just stepped out for a stroll in the Bois, were Edward’s imperial seals and regimental swords, Wallis’s Molyneux suits and monogrammed negligées. (“Well, of course, I loved the Duchess from the moment I laid eyes on her satin knickers,” says Joan.) Conspicuously absent, however, was any account of the Duchess’s life in the 14 years between his passing and her own. “So I asked their valet, Sydney, ‘What happened to her?’ and he turned sorrowful, and said, ‘Well, she got close with a lady who took control of her, but I really don’t like talking about it.’”


No one much did, so Collins began her own research into Suzanne Blum (Rossellini), a Hollywood litigator who represented the likes of Cary Grant and Jean Cocteau, won Rita Hayworth her divorce settlement from Prince Aly Khan, and whose relationship with the ailing Wallis was memorably described by one royal biographer as that of a “necrophiliac”. In truth, no one is entirely certain what motivated Maître Blum’s machinations in the Duchess’s twilight years – not least because, under Blum’s watch, scarcely a soul made it past Villa Windsor’s crumbling façade. Yet the accepted facts have a gothic cast to them. In 1973, frustrated with Lord Mountbatten’s (Charles Dance) attempts to retrieve the Duke’s possessions for the royal family, Wallis made Blum, less than two years her junior, her sole legal representative – a position expanded, as the Duchess’s health deteriorated, to include power of attorney. Subsisting on iced spirits, in and out of the American Hospital of Paris, and slipping into senility, Wallis had no way of preventing Blum from acting on her “behalf”: holding clandestine sales of the Duchess’s Louis Vuitton cases and the Duke’s jade-handled daggers, barring everyone from Mitford sisters to Martin Charteris’s royal envoys from visiting her, and donating auction proceeds from her Burmese rubies and cabochon emeralds to the Pasteur Institute.

And so the idea for My Duchess began to form in Collins’s mind. “It was 10, 20, 30 years ago, when everybody said, ‘Oh, there are no roles for women over a certain age. You have to find your own subject.’ So I thought, ‘Well, surely this is a good subject.’” Still, it would take until 2023 to find a producer through – of all possible connections – His Majesty King Charles III, the Duke of Windsor’s great-nephew. “One day I sat next to this really nice gentleman at a dinner for The Prince’s Trust at Claridge’s, and told him the story,” she recalls, “and he said, ‘I’ll think about it, blah, blah, blah,’ and then I never heard from him again.” Until she did. The nice gentleman was, in fact, Broadway linchpin John Gore, he of the 25 Tony wins, who had just launched his own namesake film studio in London. Within 72 hours of reading Fennell’s script, he decided to greenlight it. “Well,” says Joan, “Louise and I were jumping up and down like schoolgirls.” (King Charles, whose primary impression of Villa Windsor was that it contained “the most dreadful American guests I have ever seen”, has since received a letter of thanks.)

So began a forensic recreation of the Duke and Duchess’s “Arcadia in Paris”, at Ealing Studios and a Palladian seat in Hertfordshire, with the château’s 14 rooms and fragrant gardens reimagined as they would have stood in the years when Diana Vreeland and Cole Porter were among the so-called dreadful Americans who joined the Windsors for sous-cloche savouries and Steinway singalongs, bombes glacées and baccarat. (Coincidentally, the real Villa Windsor will open as a tourist attraction next year and might well take cues from the My Duchess set, down to Wallis’s snuffling grumble of spoilt pugs, each of whom, naturally, had to pass a chemistry test with Joan.)


When, last June, I drop by during filming, I find Rossellini delighting in the minutiae of the library. “Oh!” she cries, lifting an imitation Meissen lapdog from the mantelpiece, “this one has a sort of toupee. Handsome, handsome.” Rossellini speaks in an ecstatic tone familiar to anyone who watches her social media dispatches about the heritage breeds she keeps at her Brookhaven, Long Island, farm (a Jacob sheep named Greta Garbo, a Poland rooster known as Andy Warhol). Her manner is so jubilant it’s actually quite startling, a short while later, to see her transform into the menacing Blum, glowering over a corpse-like “Wallis” in a gilt-framed bed, Collins’s face peeping wanly above the moiré silk coverlet. “An NAI scene for me,” Joan tosses after Newell shouts “Cut.” She explains: “No Acting Involved.”

In Rossellini’s hands, the more violin-screech moments of My Duchess are, by turns, horrifying and hysterical. “It’s very original, the script, in terms of the tone, but also because these two old ladies are in their 70s,” she enthuses back in her dressing room, still in Gertrude Stein-inspired tailoring that, along with Joan’s Dior-esque shifts and diamond brooches, were sourced by three-time Oscar-winning costume designer Sandy Powell (Shakespeare in LoveThe AviatorThe Young Victoria). Although Rossellini stresses that her character’s behaviour is more grounded in thespian fantasy than historical reality, she’s given endless thought to what triggered Blum’s “psychological obsession” with the Duchess, one composed of attraction and repulsion in equal measure. (Apart from anything else, the Jewish Blum, who had to flee to America when the Nazis invaded France, can’t have thought much of Wallis’s confidante Diana Mosley, a fascist sympathiser played by Miranda Richardson.) As a prominent lawyer from the 1920s onwards, Rossellini points out, Blum would have been forced to repress her more “feminine” traits just to keep herself in work, “So her falling in love with the Duchess, who everyone says was incredibly seductive, was probably also her falling in love with her own femininity,” albeit through the questionable method of eyeing up Wallis’s Mabé pearls and Maximilian sables. “We’ve discussed a lot, ‘Is she a lesbian?’ but to me it’s more complex than that.”

The complexity is welcome. As much as Rossellini (and the Academy) enjoyed her seven minutes of screen time as Sister Agnes in Edward Berger’s 2024 papal drama Conclave, it’s a relief “to finally be able to play a meaty role instead of a supporting one”. Even for the daughter of Ingrid Bergman and the muse of David Lynch, it’s been more challenging to find parts with real heft to them past middle age – though she’s achieved considerable recognition for the ones she’s landed, including a first Oscar nomination aged 72. “Go figure,” she notes drolly. (For her part, Joan was delighted with her “ball-of-fire” costar – though, “I did have a moment of pause when I had to tell Ingrid Bergman’s daughter to bugger off.”) “After 50,” Rossellini continues, “whatever you do, you’re asked the question, ‘Why do you do it?’ and the answer is: ‘Well, because I like to work.’ Or people say: ‘How do you age gracefully?’ Well, I haven’t aged gracefully or ungracefully; I’ve just aged. Everybody ages. You can do plastic surgery, or not; you can dye your hair, or not; you can manoeuvre it however you like, but you’re going to age.” In fact, it’s My Duchess’s warnings about the dangers of ageism that sold Rossellini on the project. Strip away Wallis’s Harry Winston hardware and Blum’s Hollywood Rolodex, and the story is grimly familiar. “We’ve all known a person who’s gone into decline at the end of their life, and there’s been someone taking care of them, and at first you think, ‘Oh, thank God,’ and only later you find out, ‘Oh no, oooh dear…’”


For all its macabre comedy, My Duchess begs the question: how could one of the most notorious figures of the 20th century be abused to such a degree without anyone stepping in? “I, who had sought no place in history, would now be assured of one,” Wallis lamented post-abdication. “An appalling one, carved out by blind prejudice.” She was right. For the next 36 years, the press, variously adoring and abhorring, reported on every detail of the Duchess’s existence: which cattleyas she kept on her Rococo consoles; how long she mourned the death of her Cairn terrier, Slippers (“at one time the best known and most photographed dog in Britain”, the New York Times eulogised solemnly); what featured on her dinner menus (lobster salad, pommes de terre Ritz, cold raspberry soufflés) – only for her to disappear from public view in the mid-1970s, her body and mind failing, almost without comment.

For most royal watchers, the saga of “that woman”, as the Queen Mother called her, ended the day she attended the duke’s funeral at St George’s Chapel, stoic beneath her Givenchy veil. Without Edward or any family to protect her, she became a historical footnote while still alive, blamed for the abdication she tried desperately to prevent, with a touch of schadenfreude accompanying reports of her decline and isolation.

“I’m always fascinated by women who everybody says are nasty people,” Collins reflects when I bring up this particular injustice in her study. “And when you strip it all off, you find out that they’re not really.” She could, of course, be speaking about herself. A hazard of being watched by 80 million Americans on Dynasty is that Collins has never quite been able to shed her “superbitch” Alexis Carrington persona; for many casting directors, she will forever be wrestling Linda Evans’s Krystle into a lily pond or boxing with Diahann Carroll’s Dominique over “burnt” Champagne. “If I’d ever met Wallis, I could have commiserated with her about how the press treated me while I was playing Alexis,” she adds. “I mean, when [Dynasty producer] Aaron Spelling said, ‘Joan is Alexis,’ that haunted me for so long. I said, ‘Aaron, why did you say that? You know that’s not true,’ and he said, ‘Honey, it gets headlines.’”

She’s never had a major Hollywood role since, despite being one of 20th Century Fox’s more lucrative studio girls in the 1950s: starring opposite Bette Davis as a ruffed courtier in The Virgin Queen and leading the Ben-Hur-esque epic Land of the Pharaohs, complete with a screenplay by William Faulkner and 10,000 Egyptian extras. Yet her own typecasting and sexualisation, both on and off screen, began long before Dynasty, starting, in fact, at Ealing Studios, where she found herself christened “Britain’s Bad Girl” after shooting a few J Arthur Rank pictures as an ingenuous 17-year-old.



Now, 75 years and more than twice as many acting credits on, she’s back on the same lot, still working. Yet even now, the first sentence of her Encyclopaedia Britannica page includes the word “sexpot”. Surely that sort of pigeonholing grates? Collins summons a withering stare. “[In the ’90s], I did [a BBC adaptation] of Noël Coward’s Tonight at 8:30, where I played eight different roles, ranging from the elderly hag to the socialite to the abused housewife – but it doesn’t matter what you do. They have this image of you.”

Although her Miss Havisham-like turn in My Duchess might finally shatter that image. “Oh, for at least half the film I’m a wreck,” she crows, visibly thrilled. “Just more and more hideous: ageing make-up, long, grey hair, straggly nightgowns.” Did she find that hard? “No.” Really? “Fame and glamour are ephemeral… I never chased that. I always chased being a good actress, and work, because I was the breadwinner for most of my life. I still am.”

And, in fact, she tells me politely, she really has to be getting on. Tomorrow she’s off to Beverly Hills, before decamping to Cancun, then it’s on to Saint-Tropez at some point (“Our villa there’s like Fawlty Towers – there’s so many guests coming in and out”). Oh, and she’s got another film starting production; and her three children and 15 godchildren to see (“though Cara’s difficult to get ahold of – Cara Delevingne”); and a seventh memoir to finish (working title: The Collins Dictionary), plus red carpets to prep for, though she finds those quite hard going now. “You have to get your face done. You have to get your eyelashes on. You have to choose the right dress. It’s just endless, before you even go.”

She’ll do it all, however – the face, the lashes, the dress, even “the selfies” – for My Duchess. A member of the Silent Generation and a child of the Blitz, Collins is given neither to introspection (“Certainly I don’t analyse myself”) nor sentimentality (“Oh no – no, no, no”), but she will admit to a certain pride in this film. “I absolutely hate watching myself,” she insists. “I always have done, but, you know… ” and here Joan Collins, Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire, leans in and turns almost bashful. “I thought I was rather good, actually.” She pauses, straightens up, adjusts her crucifix. “This was my passion project and it came to fruition. My other passion project, which never did, was Cleopatra.” A resigned sigh.

“And then my friend Elizabeth Taylor got it.”

Main image: costumes (throughout), by Sandy Powell. Joan’s hair and make-up: Niall Monteith-Mann. Isabella’s hair and make-up: Nadia Stacey. Nails: Imarni. Digital artwork: May Global.


 

Wednesday, May 6, 2026

EVENT UPDATE : THE SHOOTING STAR CHILDREN'S CHARITY SUMMER GALA ... THE IVY CHELSEA GARDEN .. MAY 5TH 2026 ..

(c) Dave Benett

 

Joan as patron of The Shooting Star Children's Charity, attended a special Summer Gala evening to help raise much needed funds for the charity. The event held at The Ivy Chelsea Garden was also
attended by Brenda Blethyn, Andrew Pierce and Winelia Forsyth.

Joan with Winelia Forsyth & Brenda Blethyn  (c) Dave Benett


Thursday, April 30, 2026

PRESS PROMO UPDATE : GOOD HOUSEKEEPING ... APRIL 30TH 2026 ..

 

Dame Joan Collins launches M&S rosé season – 

They really rolled out the pink carpet!

By 



M&S has officially declared it rosé season – just in time for the first May bank holiday.

And who better to mark the moment than icon and legend Dame Joan Collins..

The retailer rolled out the pink carpet for its M&S Food Ambassador 

(that’s a good gig, isn’t it?), who announced it was time to switch to pink.

‘Rosé season has arrived, though I’ve never been one to need permission to pour a glass,

’ Dame Joan said, adding, 

‘Who needs the South of France when you can simply glide into your local M&S Foodhall 

and find the finest rosé right there? You don’t need a riviera postcode, just impeccable taste… 

preferably chilled.’ Quite.

It’s the biggest M&S rosé range to date, with the brand reportedly selling 

a bottle of blush every two seconds during peak period.

Channelling our inner Joan, we’ve cherry-picked a few of our favourites from the range.

La Balconne Organic Provence Rose, £16, 75cl


Both Dame Joan and I agree this organic blush is sophistication personified...

Elegant and dry, with notes of white peach, sun-kissed strawberry and Provençal herbs, 

it’s the ultimate aperitif. Cheers!


Classics Côtes de Provence Rosé£10, 75cl

If you buy just one, make it this – the bestselling rosé in the M&S Foodhall.

A classic Côtes de Provence, it’s every bit as crisp, 

delicate and dry as one could want. 

Bursting with juicy strawberries and redcurrants, 

it’s a dream with seafood salads and a steal at just £10.


Best under £10: Lisboa Bonita Rosé£8, 75cl

It’s not all about Provence pinks, however. 

If you’re looking for great value, head to Portugal. Bright, 

light and crisp, 

we love the combination of red berries with a touch of 

refreshing watermelon. 

This is the one to crack open with your picky tea.

Best for parties: Italian Rosato Pouch, £12, 1.5 litres

For larger gatherings, make hosting a breeze with this 1.5-litre wine pouch. 

A blend of Syrah and Merlot, this fresh Sicilian pour is full of cherry and raspberry. 

They’ll all be going back for another squeeze – trust us.