In hindsight, it is surprising that Bette Davis was ever a box office star. For an eight year span in the '30s and '40s, she was queen of the Warners lot, and her vehicles made a lot of money. Never really a glamour star, although Variety's review of The Man Who Played God (1932) called her 'a vision of wide-eyed blonde beauty,' not a strong comedy player, although she took part in the raucous slapstick of The Bride Came C.O.D. (1941), she was also a limited singer, although she steps out in Thank Your Lucky Stars (1943) and performs a smashing 'They're Either Too Young or Too Old,' complete with a display of jitterbug dancing.

What she had was artistic ambition and the ability to suggest internal tension. At her best, she charged the screen with energy. She was unpredictable. When Bette went on a rampage, someone in the story was about to receive some shrieking invective (Of Human Bondage), a slap upside the head (The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex), or a full clip of pistol shot (The Letter). Davis was the embodiment of Warners' high-energy house style.

Here are some favorite moments of pure Bette energy. Fair warning: spoilers abound, although Bette's classics are well-known to most film buffs.

Of Human Bondage (1934)

Bette's portrayal of Mildred was a game changer, a bold artistic statement startling critics, audiences, and the Hollywood establishment. Seen today, it has some limitations. Mildred is so crass, dim-witted, and spiteful it is hard to believe that sensitive Philip (Leslie Howard) would consort with her. Some of that mismatch exists in the source material. Mildred's cockney accent is another matter. Davis had an Englishwoman stay at her house for eight weeks so she could learn the nuances. But she doesn't hold on to the accent consistently; at times it sounds practiced, and in a few spots she loses it.

This matters little when Mildred shows her true nature midway through the film. Her tirades against Philip ('You gimpy-legged monster!') are also an assault on the audience. Few leading ladies would play such an unsympathetic character. Mildred doesn't just scream insults. In one unforgettable scene, she returns to Philip's apartment alone and trashes it. She knifes one of his paintings and, with a clumsy overhand toss expressing her rage, hurls it against a wall. We cringe as she finds the bonds that will pay for his medical studies and burns them.

This scene, in one of her relatively early films, shows Bette's headlong energy. She often stated that an actress must do anything a role requires, and she proves it. The fact she was not typecast in this kind of role points to the range of her talent (and also that there are very few Mildreds in screen stories).

The Letter (1940)

Bette's pistol-blazing walk-on in this William Wyler classic is, hands down, her best entrance in a film. For fun, try imagining all of her films opening this way. She plays Leslie Crosbie, a plantation manager's wife, who puts on an elaborate act of innocence to cover up adultery, murder, and evidence tampering.

There is a pivotal scene in which her lawyer, Mr. Joyce (the short-lived James Stephenson) shows her the letter proving her guilt. Davis shows us the unbearable tension afflicting Leslie. Her eyes blaze with guilty knowledge as she tries to prop up, then embellish, her story. Almost everything she says is a lie, even after she admits to writing the letter. Stephenson is superb, shifting from aplomb to barely suppressed contempt. Both characters act a role-play around the true nature of Leslie's crime, observing the social code. It's unsettling. We do not admire Leslie, but we can't look away as she moves closer and closer to disaster.

The Little Foxes (1941)

Bette's portrayal of Regina Giddens has been criticized as overly cold and brittle. In Davis' hands, Regina is a woman whose outlook has been warped to a chisel point of greed and social ambition. Regina is alienated from her equally grasping brothers, from her husband Horace (Herbert Marshall), and ultimately, from her child (Teresa Wright).

In the famous strongbox scene between Regina and Horace, Bette is wonderful. This is one of director William Wyler's textbook-perfect scenes, with beautiful shot composition and precision editing (the cinematographer is Gregg Toland and the editor is Daniel Mandell.) Notice how the lid of the strongbox cuts across the screen like a transitional edit as the mood intensifies.

The scene runs seven minutes and unleashes its dramatic power, jolt by jolt. Davis registers consternation at the stolen bonds, glee when she realizes her brothers have done it and she now holds the whip hand over them, and scorn when Horace tells her he will not denounce them. Then, as Horace suffers a coronary attack, Davis has one of her most famous moments on film. She freezes. Her face betrays it all: if she does nothing, her husband will die in front of her and she can go after her fortune. It's stunning. It's a perfect example of the actor's power of withholding.

Other reasons to revisit this classic film: Patricia Collinge as the pathetic Birdie, a hilarious turn by Dan Duryea as the runtish Leo, Charles Dingle as oily brother Ben, and Teresa Wright, luminous in her film debut.

Now, Voyager (1942)

This is a hit 'women's picture' from the peak of Bette's career. She gives a generous, sympathetic performance and plays some of Hollywood's most quotable love scenes with Paul Henreid ('Don't let's ask for the moon....') Some of the best scenes fall outside of the Davis/Henreid romance. In the long prologue, Davis plays the frumpy 'ugly duckling' phase of Charlotte, with combed-back hair and heavy eyebrows, dressed in dowdy frocks. Her emergence from her shell under the care of a psychiatrist (Claude Rains) is carefully paced. It's a Cinderella plot, but it sweeps the audience along.

Later comes Charlotte's power struggle with her mother (Gladys Cooper, Oscar nominated here, as was Davis). We expect a Bette blowout, but Davis underplays while Cooper rages. Later, she breaks up the boring man her mother expects her to marry (John Loder) as if she's dismissing a servant ('Let's not linger over it').

It's easy to see why this pleased the largely female audience that saw it in late 1942. It's about a woman finding her adult voice, moving out into the world, and liking it. I'm taken with one exchange between Rains and Davis.

Dr. Jaquith: I thought you came here to have a nervous breakdown.

Judith: Well, I decided not to have one.