In Todd Haynes’ new lesbian melodrama, Carol, the cinematic luminosity that is Cate Blanchett demurely eye-fucks her way through mid-century American oppression as the glamorously tortured centre of action. Stuffed with fur clad elopements, erotically charged cocktail olives, and semaphored cigarette smoke, Blanchett’s performance raises the bar for high-femme tops everywhere, by at least 20 cm. In honour of her glorious turn in a titular role, I have selected some further seminal performances from cinema history in which the craft of the “HFT” becomes art.

1. Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman in Batman Returns

Was there ever a transformation such as this? From frazzled, put-upon secretary to super-kink vigilante in the space of one (failed) assassination attempt! It’s remarkable, really. You might think Catwoman would be too busy plotting Batman’s downfall to bother with glamour, but you’d be wrong. Never without her vicious red lippy, Pfeiffer’s Catwoman is an unassailable bastion of high-femme gorge. When her mask is ripped off, she’s kohl’d to the Heavens, with a tousled hairdo that threatens to upstage Christopher Walken entirely. This high-heeled, high-kicking, fast-quipping villainess seduces Bruce Wayne, only to turn down Batman’s affections in order to make time to kill her boss. Which she does with a kiss (and a taser).

2. Faye Dunaway as Diana Christensen in Network

Diana Christensen is a TV network boss who will stop at nothing to pull in viewers in unprecedented numbers. Sociopathic perhaps, magnetic undoubtedly, Dunaway’s character is so hell-bent on glory that murder seems reasonable, and marriages are ripped apart like red Rizlas. In seducing her rival Max Schumacher (another necessary power move), she uses him like a toy, riding him to orgasm whilst still spieling out her megalomaniac plans for next season’s TV schedule. Once she has cum, the game is over, and pretty soon Max is discarded permanently in a heap of Diana’s old silk blouses, with nothing but the taste of resentment and the last traces of her perfume for comfort. And that’s all before her breakfast meeting.

3. Joan Crawford as Helen Wright in Humoresque

From her decision to ditch her husband and take on a toy boy, to her resolution to chuck herself into the ocean at the end of it all, Helen Wright knows what she wants (mainly, booze and boys). Haughty, elegantly emotional and miraculously coiffed, Crawford lights up the screen as only a black-and-white beauty can, drinking her way through cases of whisky and throwing the glasses against the wall when challenged – demonstratively queen bitch. Poor old John Garfield is inescapably second fiddle as the violinist Crawford falls for, and whom she ultimately walks out on. High-class, high-altitude and high-femme, Helen Wright is top dog.

4. Liz Taylor as Maggie the Cat in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

Iconic, oft quoted and heaving with dramatic intent, Taylor’s big Tennessee moment is a high watermark for queer sexuality and ravenous family secrets. Hurling herself from doorway to doorway, Maggie is an undulating vortex of frustrated desire, doomed, it seems, to a sexless marriage, damned to an eternity mooning around in the sweltering southern heat, ignored by her melancholic husband, Brick. Until, of course, she manages to manipulate the whole family with one opulent lie, a falsehood that has the effect of reviving her husband’s libido instantaneously. Brick calls her upstairs, and takes an authoritative tone, but we all know that’s just a little bit of switch play. As she locks the bedroom door behind her, we know Maggie the Cat is the one calling the shots here.

5. Mae West as Leticia van Allen in Myra Breckenridge

The septuagenarian sexbomb appalled critics and moviegoers alike with her undulations and blue wisecracks when she returned to the screen in 1970. Minute but resplendent, West plays a talent scout whose uses her casting couch as chainsmokers use their ashtrays. When asked by van Allen how tall he is, one aspiring man replies, “Six foot, seven inches, ma’am,” to which she replies, “Well, never mind the six feet, and let's talk about the seven inches.” Such is the workings of this bejewelled siren, who, after draining one victim dry, tells him, “You impressed me immeasurably… I’ll keep you in mind as a summer replacement.” Insatiable and delighted by the fact of it, West proves that age ain’t nothing but a number when it comes to that divine combo of sexual aggression and press-on nails, which make up the essential DNA of the HFT.