The Eyes of Tammy Faye

There is a specific kind of architectural engineering required to keep Tammy Faye Bakker’s eyelashes from collapsing under the weight of her own sincerity. In the 1980s, those lashes were a punchline—a symbol of the gaudy, tear-streaked excess of televangelism. But in Michael Showalter’s The Eyes of Tammy Faye, they become something else entirely: a shield. I watched this movie on my laptop while eating a bowl of cold cereal because I’d forgotten to go grocery shopping, and honestly, the sugary crunch of the Froot Loops felt like the most appropriately 1980s way to digest this neon-soaked tragedy.

Behind the Mascara

The film is essentially a delivery system for a career-best performance by Jessica Chastain (Interstellar, Zero Dark Thirty). She doesn’t just play Tammy Faye; she inhabits the woman’s skin, which, as the film progresses, is increasingly buried under layers of silicone and paint. The prosthetics are so thick I half-expected the movie to be categorized as an animated feature, yet Chastain manages to emote through the rubber. She captures that high-pitched, Midwestern "golly-gee" optimism that made the Bakkers stars, but she also finds the profound loneliness of a woman who just wanted to love everyone in a world that demanded she only love the "right" people.

Opposite her is Andrew Garfield (The Social Network, Tick, Tick... Boom!), who plays Jim Bakker with the twitchy, desperate energy of a man who is constantly one bad sneeze away from a nervous breakdown. Garfield is terrifyingly good at portraying the kind of "holy" ambition that is really just greed wearing a cheap suit. Their chemistry is a fascinating train wreck; you’re watching two people build a kingdom on sand while pretending the tide isn't coming in.

A Modern Saint in Neon Polyester

What makes this movie feel so relevant now—despite being set decades ago—is how it handles the intersection of religion and politics. We live in an era of extreme polarization, and watching Vincent D'Onofrio (Full Metal Jacket, Daredevil) as a cold, calculating Jerry Falwell is a chilling experience. He plays Falwell like a mob boss for God, slowly squeezing the joy out of the Bakkers’ ministry to replace it with a hardline political agenda.

The film’s emotional peak isn't a scandal or a court case; it’s a simple interview. In 1985, at the height of the AIDS crisis when most of the religious right was treating victims like pariahs, the real Tammy Faye interviewed Steve Pieters, a gay minister with AIDS. The movie recreates this with heartbreaking tenderness. It reminds me that in our current era of "culture wars," Tammy Faye was a weirdly progressive figure who practiced the radical empathy her peers only preached. She was messy and over-the-top, but she was kind.

The $2 Million Oscar Winner

It’s strange to think of an Oscar-winning film as "obscure," but The Eyes of Tammy Faye suffered a bizarre fate. Released in late 2021 as theaters were still struggling to find their footing post-pandemic, it grossed a measly $2.4 million. It’s a film that essentially vanished from the public consciousness the moment the awards season ended. I suspect it was "too biopic" for the blockbuster crowd and "too tacky" for the high-brow critics.

There’s a bit of Michael Showalter's indie comedy roots (The Big Sick) visible here, particularly in the early, puppet-filled years of the Bakkers’ romance. However, the film occasionally trips over the standard biopic formula, rushing through the inevitable "downfall" act with a bit too much haste. It’s a movie that deserves to be rediscovered, not as a history lesson, but as a character study of a woman who was too much for her own time.

Apparently, the makeup team had to use a special adhesive because the prosthetics would start to melt under the hot studio lights—much like the Bakkers’ empire melted under the glare of federal investigations. It’s those little details, like the way Chastain’s voice slightly cracks when she’s singing to a camera, that keep the movie from feeling like a caricature.

If you can get past the initial shock of the makeup—which, let's be honest, looks like a person wearing another person's face—you’ll find a surprisingly moving story about the cost of being genuine in a fake world. It’s a film that celebrates the fringes and the weirdos, anchored by two powerhouse performances that make you forget you’re watching a movie about people who sold "heavenly" timeshares. Give it a shot on a rainy Sunday; it’s much better than the box office numbers suggest.

***

Jessica Chastain and Andrew Garfield deliver performances that transcend the heavy-handed biopic tropes, turning a kitschy 80s scandal into a resonant character study. While the pacing in the final act feels a bit rushed, the film's empathy for its subject makes it a standout in the modern era of true-story adaptations. It’s a colorful, tragic, and ultimately redeeming look at a woman who was much more than her makeup.