My View of Sunset Boulevard

  As a pretty serious film buff, there have been a few major movies that I have not yet seen.  Since this list contains movies made forty, sixty and even eighty years ago, and this list of movie titles does not grow, I have not gone out of my way to watch them all quickly in order to strike them off the list.  I have time to work through them slowly, opening each one like a gift, knowing that these are special movies.  Some of these movies do not live up to their hype, but these are rare.  Most of the time I discover that their pantheon status is well-deserved.

Sunset Boulevard (1950)

  I'd passed on the chance to watch Sunset Boulevard earlier in life for several reasons, the most prominent being that it just seemed to be about an old lady who was unhappy with having lost her popularity as a silent film star.  It just didn't sound too thrilling, and when I was younger I tended to look for more thrilling movies than ones that were not.  And although I loved William Holden in Stalag 17, I had never heard of Gloria Swanson, and so I felt no compulsion to watch a movie in which she was the female lead.  Back then I was more interested in Kathryn Hepburn, Grace Kelly, or Kim Novak.

  So after being bedridden with the flu, I found Sunset Boulevard on Netflix and decided it was time to give it a chance.  After all, it was rated as one of the top films ever made about Hollywood.  It has been included in the Library of Congress' first list of 25 films that are "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant."  It had been nominated for 11 Academy Awards.  (Not always a good indicator, mind you.)  It was a Billy Wilder classic, which could be a good thing, and could be a bad thing.  I like Wilder, some of his movies top my favorites list.  But some of his top my most disappointed list as well.

  And so, like Gloria Swanson's character in the movie (though I did not know it at the time), I settled in to watch an old screen legend on my in-house movie screen.

  From the opening shots, we see two corpses:  one of a man lying face-down in a pool, one of a monkey lying in state, the silk sheet drawn back to reveal its death-mask.  The first image tells us this is going to be a noir-thriller.  The second tells us it is going to be anything but common; it is, in fact, going to be a Gothic, macabre tale.

  Joe Gillis, played with William Holden's usual laconic dry humor, is a struggling Hollywood hack who desperately needs to make some dough.  Sure, he's behind in his rent, but his big concern is losing his car, which as any man will tell you, symbolizes his freedom.  Unable to scrounge up a job, he ducks his car into what appears to be an abandoned garage on Sunset Boulevard while running from the repo-men.  Sunset is known for lavish, wealthy estates populated by the original stars of Hollywood, most of whom, at this time (1950) are living in seclusion, having dropped out of the public eye since the introduction of sound in pictures twenty-three years earlier.  Most of these stars, once the most envied by the public, were nearly forgotten in the wake of the unprecedented explosion of Hollywood's popularity.

  To Joe's unnerved surprise, the house is not empty.

  Here's where I began to enjoy this movie.  The house is presented as something close to Dracula's castle.  No, it's not a castle in the conventional moat-and-drawbridge sort of way, but this Italianate mansion actually has a creaky gate, bizarre decorations, and wide, open rooms that certainly give us that Castle feeling.  The butler, with his gargoyle-like stony expression, adds to the classic-horror feel as Joe is told he is "expected".

  Oh boy, don't walk in that gate!

  A woman's throaty voice calls out from the top of the stairs.  "You're late.  Come up here!"

  Oh boy, don't go up them stairs!

  The butler tells him, "if you need help with the casket, just call me."

  Excuse me?

  At the top of the stairs, he hears that same woman's voice say-- "In here."

  Oh boy, don't go in there.

  "He's right here."  She draws back that silk sheet to reveal the dead monkey.

  How does Bill Holden get out of this with only some dry humor and good looks?

Gloria Swanson's iconic portrayal of Norma Desmond

 And so begins this tale, of a man who discovers a silent film star, Norma Desmond (Swanson's role), who is living in some sort of Boris Karloff unreality, and decides she wants Holden to stay with her.  Holden's Joe Gillis, who doesn't flee as any right-minded man would, thinks he can exploit her for a job and some easy dough.  Well, why not?  If had acted as a right-minded man should, it would not have been a movie.

  From here on in, like Joe, we begin to learn of a Hollywood that no longer exists.  Of card games played by former stars: Gloria Swanson was actually a silent screen film star, and she gets old friends Buster Keaton, H. B. Warner, and Anna Q. Nilsson to join her at the card table.  What a delight it was to see Keaton in this cameo!  Her old friend and director Cecil B. Demille gets to play a significant part in the story, and even that old gossip Hedda Hopper shows up for the fun.  We are allowed to see the back-lots and offices of Paramount Pictures, as well as the sound stages.  All of which would make this a fun, cheery picture, except for the fact that these sights are only dressing added to the main story in that macabre house of Swanson's.

  Director Billy Wilder does this on purpose.  He wants to show us this hidden, sad layer of Hollywood, but he knows we won't buy it if it is done without the heavy involvement of the real Hollywood.  If Demille's role had been a generic, fake director, it would have made the movie just look like a farce.  So bizarre is the world that Wilder is showcasing that he must use these elements of truth to get us to agree to come along for the ride.

  Not all of Hollywood was thrilled at Wilder's depiction of their universe.  Many of the older stars complained about it.  But that had to be sheer vanity, since Wilder does a great job of highlighting one woman's loss of sanity, without condemning the entire industry along with her.

  There are some fascinating images used in this movie.  None of the doors in the mansion have locks, all of them have been removed, leaving holes in every door.  Oddball beauty treatments resemble something out of Phantom of the Opera.  The lavish, downright hokey decor in Swanson's house is great, especially when you find out that the set decorator actually designed similar houses for actual stars like Mae West.  Should anyone be surprised that Hollywood stars might have bad taste?

  The plot is not too original.  But it doesn't have to be.  It is simply a take on how Hollywood, with all of its money and glitz, can seduce a man who wants to do something good with his talent.  This is illustrated by the contrast between the glamorous Swanson and Holden's sweet love-interest, played by newcomer Nancy Olson.  (Boy, even her name reeks of sweetness.  She's almost too pure to be believable, looking and acting like one of those innocent college girls in a Superman comic book.)  A special gem in the movie is Nancy's friend Arty, played with enthusiastic joie de vivre by the unlikely Jack Webb.  He's so young, and so full of expression, I had to look him up on the Internet to figure out who he was.  I knew he looked familiar, but I would never have guessed Joe Friday could be so...smiley.

  There is so much I'd like to say about this movie, but can't, for fear of ruining it for the few out there who have not seen it.  (It seems unlikely, given its status, but I hadn't seen it until just the other day, so I have to assume there are others.)  All I can add is that once you've seen it, read up on the history of the actors involved.  Pay particular attention to the butler (Eric von Stroheim) .  His role is full of wonderful irony that is even more so when his real life is taken into consideration.

  Holden gets all the witty, cynical lines, as when he responds to Olson's comment that she had heard he had some talent--"That was last year.  This year I'm trying to earn a living."  But it's Swanson who gets the best lines.  When Holden threatens to leave her, she holds that movie-star profile high and says "No one ever leaves a star--that's what makes one a star."  But what Wilder makes so painfully clear is that though the stars may light up the sky for a time, stars also fall.  And when they do, it is fascinating to watch them plummet from the sky. 

My View of Hitchcock's Coffin

  Living with a poet, I am exposed to a great many books of poetry.  With so many of them lying around the house, and with my habit of picking up and reading anything I find near at hand, I can say that I've read a great deal of poetry, though I rarely ever set out to do anything of the kind.  Now, let me be the first to say that I'm not drawn to poetry.  Most of it leaves me wondering what I've just read, or worse, it leaves me with the faint impression that the poet has just insulted me or at the very least judged me and found me lacking.  That's a bit of an old joke with my dear wife, who has often showed me a new poem of hers, which after reading I'll say: "Well, that's obviously about me, and you're mad at me."  She usually insists that I'm wrong, though I have a feeling that's not always true.

  If you have read any of my posts you'll know that I'm a big movie buff.  Sure, I enjoy modern movies, but nowhere near as much as older movies.  So you can imagine how intrigued I was to find a copy of Kim Bridgeford's latest book, Hitchcock's Coffin on our living room coffee table.  Hitchcock anything will catch my eye.  The subtitle, sonnets about classic films, transformed the intrigue into a full-blown plot line.  Like a character in a Jules Dassin Noir, I surreptitiously slipped the book behind my back and tried to make my way out of the room without attracting attention.  (Cue the Dmitri Tiomkin mood music.)  I failed.  My wife asked, "Are going to read that?"  There was a pause; I'd been caught attempting to take a book of poetry.  "Well, yes.  It seems this is all about old movies, and Alfred Hitchcock, and Billy Wilder," I mumbled.  "You'll love it," she said.  The only thing left unsaid was the fact that I was actually going to read a book of poetry.  I tugged at the collar of my trenchcoat, glanced furtively along the street, and disappeared into an alley, still clutching the book in my sweaty palms.

  All drama aside, I did in fact sit down to read the book.  And while I'm no professor of poetry, American literature, or even a professor of Gilligan's Island, I would like to take this opportunity to say a few things about Ms. Bridgford's book.

  

As the lights went down, the curtain came up, and the titles flashed across the screen, I was immediately taken in by the first sonnet in the book.  Simply titled Hollywood, it let me know right away that Bridgford is a true fan of film.  Like me, she too sits "alone, outlined with dark," and that together--

     ...we believe: in large imagination,

     The swell of orchestra, the railway station,

     With lovers kissing in the hissing steam;

     A moment's sadness is recast as dream.

  That was all I needed to know I'd like the rest of the book.

  There are three sections to the book.  The first focuses on Hitchcock, the second on Billy Wilder, and the third takes a look at close to twenty of the American Film Institute’s 100 Best Films; a journey that takes the reader from suspense and terror to love and comedy and finally ending with greatness.

  In one of the strongest poems in the first section, Hitchcock and Poe prods us to recognize that this book is not just about movies--it is also about artists who were just as creative and important as the literary giants of the past.  The author makes this clear when she says, "They want to reach inside, to seize the heart/They want the pounding restlessness of art."  There are wonderful commentaries here on Hitch's most popular films: Psycho, The Birds, and Vertigo.  Among the other choices she pleasantly surprised me by choosing The Wrong Man, a movie I'd recently seen.  Don't look for her to highlight the more sensational details of Hitchcock's work.  Instead, most of her focus is on the man behind the camera.  Something we might have thought a magician like Hitchcock wouldn't have liked, since he was always trying to keep the audience from paying attention to the man behind the curtain with all of his smoke and mirrors.   His cameos, Bridgford notes, indicate this is not entirely true.  As she states in her sonnet Hidden, "He hid himself in order to be found."

  The next section, on Billy Wilder, continues to look at the artist more than his art.  A friend once remarked that it always seemed as if Wilder's films wandered off course towards the latter parts and he never got the ending right.  Bridgford's view throughout this section can be summed up in the opening lines of her sonnet The Fortune Cookie:

     This movie is both smart and cynical,

     And it's the latter thing that gives us pause,

     For while we know he's right, it doesn't sell.

     We feel too bad.  We wince from Lemmon's lies.

  Perhaps some of his cynicism has worn off on the poet as she asserts in Billy Wilder's Grave that the throngs at his funeral did not just come to see the witty epitaph on his marker.  Rather, "Marilyn's the one the bereft/Come to see: extravagant and late,/Her skirt a lavish orchid gone adrift."  Wilder could not have shot that scene any better.

  The last section touches on so many great films (To Kill a Mockingbird, A Streetcar Named Desire, Citizen Kane, to name just a few) that I won't try to comment on most of these satisfying sonnets.  There were a few that I was not expecting a female poet to take a shot at.  But she did.  And I'm glad she did.

  The Third Man is a favorite of mine.  It stars one of my favorite actors, Joseph Cotton, and it is one of the most iconic film noirs you'll ever see.  Bridgford beautifully captures its dark intrigue and bleak ending.

  In Lawrence of Arabia, she again displays the power that film has over those of us sitting in the dark:

     It is about the way we want a film

     To take us by the eyes and overwhelm,

     To take our little lives and stretch them thus,

     So that each moment is miraculous.

     For those who'll never ride in vivid color;

     For those for whom the moments are far duller.

  I can still remember such a feeling as a seven-year-old sitting in the dark as that first, awe-inspiring Star Destroyer flew over our heads in the opening scene of a little sci-fi movie that once had the simple title Star Wars.  Grand movies like David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia certainly do overwhelm.  Bridgford's commentary on Lawrence's tragic end manages to do the same: "And even he, our hero, in the end,/Is not so beautiful, and starts to blend."

  The biggest surprise in the book was the sonnet written about one of my favorite westerns of all time: Unforgiven.  As if saving the best for last, the second to the last sonnet in this book really puts a bullet through your heart.

     Clint Eastwood in a role of hesitation

     Confuses us.  We want to watch some justice;

     We want some blood, the carnage that released us

     As a nation.  We want our liberation.

She deftly reveals not only the subtleties of this anti-western, but she turns the camera around and points it at all of us watching; all of us who yearn for Eastwood to throw off his cloak of guilt and newfound religion, all of us who want Dirty Harry to just get on with the killing, all of us who weren't ready to follow Clint down into this ambush of our personal desires of vengeance that had been forged in the Hollywood of old.  But she joins us in the end, sitting there in the dark, the camera on her as well as the rest of us.

     We're meant to think about the Western's cost.

     Yet we'd prefer to revel in what's lost.

  I've had to give the book back to my wife now, since it is, after all, her copy.  But like any classic movie, I'm sure I'll enjoy catching it again late at night when I can't sleep.  I hope that Ms. Bridgford realizes that there are still over eighty titles left on the AFI's list of 100 Best Films about which she could write.  If she did, I would look forward to the chance to sit yet again in the dark and watch more moving pictures with her.