#78 (tie): 'Sunset Boulevard': The Reveal discusses all 100 of Sight & Sound’s Greatest Films of All Time

Billy Wilder's 1950 film explores Hollywood life on the other side of fame.

On December 1st, 2022, Sight & Sound magazine published “The Greatest Films of All Time,” a poll that’s been updated every 10 years since Bicycle Thieves topped the list in 1952. It is the closest thing movies have to a canon, with each edition reflecting the evolving taste of critics and changes in the culture at large. It’s also a nice checklist of essential cinema. Over the course of many weeks, months, and (likely) years, we’re running through the ranked list in reverse order and digging into the films as deep as we can. We hope you will take this journey with us.

Sunset Boulevard (1950)
Dir. Billy Wilder
Ranking: #78 (tie)
Previous rankings: #63 (2012), #83 (2002), #107 (1992).

Premise: As the film opens (not counting a short prologue), struggling screenwriter Joe Gillis (William Holden) seems to have hit bottom. He’s behind on his rent and repo men have their eye on his car. While trying to evade the latter, Joe takes shelter at a crumbling, seemingly abandoned mansion on L.A.’s Sunset Boulevard. Before long, however, he meets its owner, the now-forgotten silent screen star Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson), who lives an isolated existence alongside her faithful butler Max (Erich Von Stroheim). With few other options, Joe agrees to rewrite a script Norma has fashioned as her comeback vehicle, the story of the biblical temptress Salome in which the 50-year-old actress plans to play the starring role. As Norma’s delusions curdle into a more destructive sort of madness, they become lovers.

Keith: It’s probably inaccurate to suggest that Billy Wilder and co-writers Charles Brackett and D.M. Marshman Jr. invented the Hollywood gothic with Sunset Boulevard. The idea of the movie business having a dark side is probably as old as movies themselves, but I can’t think of an older film that tied that dark side to Hollywood history. Norma Desmond is, as Joe remarks early in the film, a kind of movie star Miss Havisham, forever stuck in the moment when life turned its back on her. Her wardrobe, home, and personal style remain frozen in the waning days of the silent era, though “frozen” might not be the right word. What’s frozen doesn’t rot. The decadence of Norma’s heyday has transformed into simple decay.

But Norma’s story isn’t just of a woman who’s lost her way. Shortly after meeting Joe, she lays out her problems with talkies. Words, words, words just get in the way of what movies do best: stories told with faces and emotions, not dialogue. When she says “I am big. It’s the pictures that got small,” it serves the dual purpose of suggesting how out-of-touch she’s become and delivering a critique with plenty of merit. Movies took a technological leap forward when Al Jolson opened his mouth in The Jazz Singer, but that leap involved shedding elements of what made the previous era so magic.

Maybe it’s because I’m much closer to Norma’s age than when I last watched this movie that I found myself struck by how sympathetic it is to her while still keeping its darkly comic edge. Even beyond her criticism of the sound era having some merit—a rich observation for a filmmaker known for his witty dialogue to make—I found the sequence where Norma visits the Paramount lot to visit Cecil B. DeMille to be remarkably moving. The guard at the gate and the veteran grip are delighted to see her and DeMille treats her with much tenderness and affection, despite the awkwardness of Norma pinning her comeback ambitions on him. And when the spotlight returns to her, quite literally, so does the glamor of old. Norma’s grotesqueness has nothing to do with her looks. She’s still a striking-looking woman. It’s just that she still sees the 25-year-old star when she looks in the mirror, not what the rest of the world sees.

There’s pointedness to the sequence, too. DeMille is older than his erstwhile star but remains a powerful and sought-after director. The old Paramount hands who recognize her are also men older than her, but grips and guards don’t depend on changing tastes. That makes Hollywood easier to survive. And it’s worth noting that Norma has survived. She might speak of days working alongside Mabel Normand and Marie Prevost as if they were just yesterday, but at least Norma’s still among the living.

There’s a lot to talk about here, but let me throw a couple of questions your way as starters. Why can’t Norma let the past go? (Swanson did, shifting into theater, radio, and television in the years before Sunset Boulevard and returning to them when the film’s success didn’t translate into a big screen comeback.) And is it the same force that keeps Joe from giving up and going back to—horrors—Dayton, Ohio. (When I saw this movie screened in my hometown, those references got hearty laughs.) Sunset Boulevard is something of a poisoned love letter to Hollywood history and the movie business glamor that plays like a horror movie as often as it does a noir. But what’s the true monster here?

Scott: Why can’t Norma let the past go? I think about Norma sometimes whenever I consider the lengths people will go—particularly jettisoned cable-news hosts or politicians—to keep appearing on television, no matter the cost to their integrity and dignity. And while I certainly view Norma in a more affectionate light than, say, Tucker Carlson or Don Lemon, the allure of being in the spotlight and drawing that level of attention and interest is clearly a powerful force. With Norma, too, there’s the addition feeling of belonging to the entire studio family, which is specific to an era in American filmmaking where companies like Paramount had a stable of stars, writers and directors under contract, occupying the small offices that were once dressing rooms for Norma and are here a space where Betty (Nancy Olsen) and Joe work on their screenplay together. You often hear film productions described as unique “families” that come together and form sometimes-powerful creative and personal bonds, only to have to break apart when it’s time for the circus to leave town. That’s Norma’s situation writ large. 

There’s something here about legacy, too, about being remembered. That may not be at the top of Norma’s mind, because she’s so obsessed with returning to the life she lost. But Sunset Boulevard frequently notes whether or not people even know who Norma Desmond is, despite her being a huge movie star 20 years earlier. Joe recognizes her, but also knows her as a type, one of the silent-movie icons who are tucked away in one of these immense mausoleums for celebrities who have gone on living after their career is dead. On the Paramount lot, however, you have a generation gap between young people who don’t know her at all and old-timers who completely revere her. Wilder is reminding us that Norma isn’t blowing smoke about her fame (“I am big. It’s the pictures that got small.”), but she’s a star that’s flickered out more quickly than we might assume. And that’s probably especially true of the silent era: The talkies ushered in a total realignment of the system, abruptly canceling out idols who couldn’t transition into what was suddenly a totally different medium, requiring performers with a different skill set. As you say, Keith, there are filmmakers who survived that transition, like Cecil B. DeMille, but it wouldn’t be the same for the Gloria Swansons of the world. 

What do you make of Joe Gillis, Keith? There are elements of noirs like Wilder’s standard-setting Double Indemnity in Sunset Boulevard, and it starts with Joe, who famously narrates the film as a dead man floating in a pool. And not just a dead man floating in a pool, but “a movie writer with a couple of B-pictures to his credit,” deposited in the pool he always dreamed of having when he was a cub writer from Dayton, the dregs of America. (Sorry, Keith. Robert Pollard was not born until seven years after this film.) Wilder does not go out of his way to make Joe a sympathetic character, like some misunderstood writing genius whose work has gone unappreciated in new Hollywood. He’s a hack. And a lazy hack at that, not showing enough promise even to secure a $300 loan from his agent or land a half-decent story idea to the one studio connection still willing to give him a chance. He’s a little like Fred MacMurray in Double Indemnity, a hard-bitten noir character who’s nonetheless weak enough to be taken for a ride. 

At the same time, it’s fascinating to watch the phases of Joe getting drawn into Norma’s web. We start with the practical problem of him needing a place for him (and his car) to hide out from his creditors, and it’s his idea to talk Norma into allowing him to put a polish on the enormous turd of a screenplay that she’s written for herself. But the more time he spends around her and Max, the more he feels like he can never leave, which is suffocating right up until New Year’s Eve, when he thwarts Norma’s advances, heads off to Artie’s party, and winds up rushing back to the mansion when he hears of her suicide attempt. From there, a certain amount of Stockholm Syndrome sets in: He feels duty-bound to stay with this sad, lonely, deluded woman and so he ends up surrendering completely to the situation. 

How do you see Sunset Boulevard fitting into Wilder’s filmography, Keith? I mentioned Double Indemnity, but Norma’s suicidal ideation recalls Wilder’s masterful The Apartment a decade later, when Shirley MacLaine’s loneliness also leads her to overdose on pills, which is shattering to witness, but doesn’t throw the film off tonally. Wilder likes to confront humanity at its darkest, but he’s not unfeeling. This isn’t the sort of pitch-black comedy that he would pull off a year later with Ace in the Hole. There’s a degree of sympathy, even reverence, he holds for Norma, despite her delusions and madness. 

Keith: When I think of Billy Wilder, it’s the comedies that come immediately to mind, and that’s not really fair. Sunset Boulevard and Double Indemnity aren’t exactly outliers or minor works. But it’s also understandable. Wilder’s wit defines his movies, whatever the genre. So while Sunset Boulevard could easily be classified as a noir that borders on horror, its sensibility aligns it with Wilder’s films in other genres. It’s not what I’d call “funny,” though it has plenty of dark chuckles, but it’s unmistakably a Billy Wilder movie.

To answer your question, I think Joe has a lot to do with that. Wilder sometimes gets accused of cynicism, which I don’t buy. A movie like The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, to choose one example, is more concerned with lifting the veil on Holmes’ psychology than deflating his myth. Also, Wilder made The Apartment. Case closed. But his films often feature cynics, and I think Joe matches that definition. I’m a little less quick to dismiss Joe’s talent, not because I think we’re supposed to believe he’s brilliant, but because I don’t know if we get enough information to pass judgment. He does seem brought to life by his collaboration with Betty, but this could easily be read as Betty doing all the heavy lifting while not having the confidence to go it alone without a male creative partner. But hack or untapped talent, he’s clearly burned out on Hollywood and has come to see the whole business as rotten except for the lucky few.

There’s a simplicity to Joe on the surface, but I don’t know that his actions support that impression. Is it Stockholm Syndrome that makes him stay, or some other allure? He reluctantly becomes Norma’s lover, but is it possible he sees in her something of the enchantment that drew him to Hollywood in the first place? In a town full of phonies, here’s a real star. Is that what makes him stay? Is this what keeps Max in the picture? Norma’s pathetic in many ways—never more so than when she’s calling Betty in an attempt to sabotage her relationship with Joe—but she’s also an undeniable force.

It’s interesting that you bring up the bottom rungs of celebrity because that was on my mind while watching it too. Sunset Boulevard has an unforgettable ending and the story doesn’t need to be stretched any further. But, assuming she can get past that inconvenient murder charge, Norma could have enjoyed a rich second life in the 21st century media world. If you squint a little, any camera can be Cecil B. DeMille’s camera, just as long as it keeps rolling.

Speaking of camerawork, I know that the hardcore auteurists don’t find a lot of room for Wilder in the canon because of a perceived lack of visual style, but this film is filled with unforgettable images, starting with our dead narrator floating face down in a pool. When I think of the movie, I think of the smoke wafting up through the projector’s light in Norma’s private screening room and Norma staring through the blinds, as if she’s been lying in wait for the right person to enter her property, not just keeping watch for the chimp burial service. While we’re talking images, we should give a tip of the hat to cinematographer John F. Seitz who, like Norma and Max, started out in silent films. Any thoughts on the way this film looks or Wilder’s visuals in general?

I’d also love to hear your thoughts on one of my favorite scenes, the bridge game with the waxworks featuring real silent screen stars, including Buster Keaton. And I’ve brought up the final moments, which I find chilling no matter how many times I watch this movie, so let’s get into that, too. There’s a lot to talk about here! But let me throw in one other question, one I think connects to the issue of Joe’s character in some ways: What is this movie’s attitude toward movies?

Scott: You’ve left me a lot to unpack here, but let me start with the imagery. I feel like the auteurists would tell you that Wilder has a lack of identifiable personal style, but his strengths are certainly not limited to the page—or, at least, he’s capable of thinking in images. You mention that opening that ends with the shot of Joe face-down in the pool, and the pool comes back in so many striking ways throughout the film. When fate brings Joe to this grim mausoleum and his room above the garage, the pool is empty and darkened by the overgrowth that’s swallowed the entire exterior. (Max can only do so much domestic and emotional upkeep, apparently.) But one practical yet visually striking thing that Wilder does later in the film is have Joe illuminate the pool when Betty visits and he’s showing her around, and then it’s still lit later when he’s shot and stumbles into it. An elegant continuity of staging, I think. 

The approach to Norma—and Gloria Swanson’s performance—is similar in syncing narrative strategies to visual ones. Norma (like Swanson) was a star in the silent era, where so much emphasis had to be placed on an actor’s face to convey emotion. And at this point in her life, her delusions are so outsized that everyday moments can feel like a performance, especially when someone like Joe is watching. Wilder keeps the close-ups of Swanson coming, which feeds into an extremely uneasy feeling about Norma, who’s at once pitiable and mad, playing her every waking moment as a show that only Max cares to see anymore. We talked about Stockholm Syndrome, but maybe Joe is becoming more like Max, in that he cannot bring himself to shatter his keeper’s illusions. As for Swanson, I found myself thinking, “Damn, she’s really laying it pretty thick here” at times before reminding myself that she’s playing a woman tragically out of her era yet encouraged to still think of herself as an idol. 

The bridge game with the “waxworks” is humbling, isn’t it, given that Buster Keaton is among the silent relics at the table? That’s a hard assessment of bygone stars from someone like Joe, who would seem to know enough about Hollywood to look more kindly on his cinematic forebears. Perhaps it just figures into the film’s general suggestion about the hard line between the silent and sound eras, which wasn’t a transition so much as a brick wall for the stars of the past. (And hey, if you want to see real contempt toward a silent star who’s not cut out for talkies, Singin’ in the Rain was coming around the corner two years later.) That take seemed to be shared by Damien Chazelle’s Babylon, too, of this extravagant bacchanal of wealth and booze and sex that ends on an express train to obscurity.  

Which leads me to your last question: What does Sunset Boulevard think about movies? I think with Wilder, there’s always a cold splash of water with regard to how the world works. The film he made after this was Ace in the Hole, one of the most unsparing satires about media and human nature we have.The Wilder film Sunset recalls strongest in look, tone, and narration is Double Indemnity, which defined the post-war cynicism that we associate with the genre. And so naturally, Wilder is going to look at Hollywood with a jaundiced eye, all the way through to an ending where the distinction between fame and infamy becomes meaningless. This is not a story with a happy ending for anyone involved, and perhaps you can argue that its pessimism informs a dark attitude about the movies themselves. 

And yet, I don’t think that’s the case. You already mentioned those nights where Max screens Norma’s movies and Joe seems genuinely taken by them, despite the vanity involved in Norma always wanting to watch her own work. There seems to be some respect on Wilder’s part that something was lost when the movies introduced sound: “I’m big. It’s the pictures that got small” seems like a true statement on her part, validated by her treatment by the old hands at Paramount and by the admiration that Max and DeMille show for her. (Though DeMille does give you that tough moment when he has to redirect the spotlight away from Norma and to the movie he’s currently directing.) I’m curious, Keith: How would you answer your own question about Wilder’s attitude about the movies? Any other standout moments or touches before we close this one out?

Keith: I think Norma is the embodiment of movies’ allure and the lies that allure can mask. She’s cracked but also entrancing, drawing those around her into her orbit and, at the same time, her madness. Forgive me if I’ve referenced this before and I’ll undoubtedly reference it again, but I can’t help but think of the Club Silencio scene in Mulholland Dr. (a direct descendant of this film), where the emcee informs the audience that everything they’re about to see is an illusion, then illustrates that statement. Then Rebekah del Rio performs “Crying” with so much emotion the film’s heroines—and those watching the film—can’t help but get swept up in the moment anyway, so much so that when the illusion gets exposed it comes as a shock, like waking from a dream. 

We give ourselves over to these illusions at our own risk. Maybe that’s just a long way of saying it’s hard to nail down Sunset Boulevard’s attitude toward movies, and Hollywood. It’s pessimistic but not purely cynical. Or, at the very least, its cynicism allows a fraction of an inch of space for movie magic.

As for standout moments, we’ve touched on so many, but I love Norma’s private performance for Joe, even if it makes me cringe. When she dresses the part of the ingénue, we see the full distance between how she sees herself and how the rest of the world sees her. And yet, she still has the moves and her Chaplin impression isn’t bad at all. Again, there’s not a moment in this movie that invites a simple reaction, which is what makes it so powerful and so rewarding to revisit (even if it means coming to the uncomfortable realization that you’re now in Norma’s age bracket rather than Joe’s, though that may not apply to everyone). How about you?

Scott: How about that New Year’s Eve party? It gets set up earlier in the film when Norma takes Joe to her tailor and insists on buying him a tuxedo of a conspicuously retro vintage. (When his friend sees him in it later, he jokes, “Who’d you buy all that from? Aldolphe Menjou?”) Then he turns up at a lavish party without guests, other than the musicians who are hired to keep on playing, even after Joe leaves and Norma slashes her wrists. (When Joe returns after hearing what happened, Max sneaks him into the house and tells him, “Don’t race upstairs. The musicians mustn’t know what happened.”) You then get this heartbreaking scene where Norma chides herself for falling in love with Joe and Joe tries to reassure her that she’s the only person in “this stinking town” that’s been good to him. As Norma sobs, we can hear the musicians ringing in the New Year with “Auld Lang Syne” to an empty room. A pretty bleak start to the new calendar. 

Speaking of bleak, we’ve finally reached the Mount Everest of cinephilia, Béla Tarr’s seven-and-a-half hour Sátántangó, which will finally spring us from this seven-way tie for #78 and, well, lock us into the three-way tie for #75. If you’re playing along at home, carve yourself out a long weekend day with plenty of fluids and supplemental oxygen, or chip away at the 12-part structure. See you then! 

Next: Sátántangó (1994) 

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