The Uncomfortable Relevance of Billy Wilder's "Sunset Blvd."

What is the value of contributing yet another review of Billy Wilder’s legendary film noir/black comedy/character study, Sunset Blvd.? In light of the current state of cinema, or the culture surrounding it in the United States, I feel that the movie is more relevant than ever. At the time, its cynical, sharp-witted script offended the sensibilities of modern filmgoers, especially the executives signing all the checks in Hollywood. Today, where cynicism can be found everywhere, including even animated features, there is the temptation to claim that the movie has lost its bite. But on my very first viewing tonight, I found Wilder’s masterpiece to be just as incisive as it always was.

            Some people have called the movie the greatest film about Hollywood, and I tend to agree. Rather than focusing on an optimistic, young starlet like in the films Singin’ in the Rain or The Artist, instead the central character is the faded, silent film star Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson). After her successful career took a nosedive upon the introduction of talkies, Norma holed herself up in her mansion for two decades, planning not a comeback, but a “return,” as she would have it. In order to make this happen, she enlists struggling, young screenwriter Joe Gillis (William Holden) to ghostwrite the mammoth screenplay she has taken “years” to compose.

Under the watchful eye of Norma’s stoic, taciturn butler, Max (Erich von Stroheim), Gillis toils away, slowing becoming more aware of how ensnared he truly is by Norma, as well as how that idea sits quite well with him. This tension becomes even more complicated when a bushy-tailed newbie screenwriter, Betty Schaefer (Nancy Olson) falls for Gillis while they co-write a movie together in secret.

There is no need for me to emphasize the towering achievements of the performances, Oscar-winning screenplay, or any of the other superior technical aspects of Sunset Blvd; other writers have done so before me, and probably much more eloquently. I am more curious as to why this movie has achieved its longevity. Perhaps it is because we as consumers never tire of witnessing the antics of washed-up celebrities. After all, is that not what half of reality television is for? I think of shows such as Celebrity Apprentice, Dancing with the Stars, and even programs like American Idol and The Voice, which are becoming havens for talented stars who can no longer find a popular avenue for their craft. And who hasn’t thought of what those old, washed-up actors have been doing lately?

Sunset Blvd. understands that distinctly American yearning for rather pointless, but fascinating knowledge. Norma’s melodramatic whims, sincere disregard for money, and desperate cries for attention all ring just as true today as they did in 1950. The difference is that the people in the present are most likely half Norma’s age, and somehow already at the end of their rope.

In terms of William Holden’s character, the struggling writer Joe Gillis, his troubles can certainly be generalized to represent the plight of the current crop of young people in the United States. I’ve always thought of Hollywood as a microcosm of the rest of the country, despite its glamorous façade: there, actors and other creative types vie for their unlikely shot at success, while the bigwigs carelessly use people and summarily cast them aside—sound familiar for our current economic situation? Of course, Holden and Wilder’s script make Gillis more than a cinematic Everyman. His narration reminds me of the way the hard-bitten Sam Spade talks in The Maltese Falcon. Even though Gillis is only around twenty-five years old, he still behaves as though he has seen it all already. The disturbing truth is that constant failure and rejection has become almost all there is to see, anymore.

When the film was released, Wilder’s tell-all approach to this story about Hollywood struck a bit too close to home for many people. In several ways, the film was quite autobiographical for both Swanson and Stroheim—except without the suicide threats and grotesque sitting rooms. For me, I found a sad resonance between Gillis and myself: however much I’d like to deny it, I wouldn’t mind selling my soul for the easy life. What writer would actually refuse the opportunity to drink all day, surrounded by splendor?