the voice from the body lying face down in the pool
by Douglas Messerli
Charles Brackett, Billy Wilder, and D. M. Marshman, Jr. (screenplay), Billy Wilder (director) Sunset Boulevard / 1950
There is perhaps no better example of a voice
speaking from the dead than the man lying face down in the pool at the
beginning of Billy Wilder’s film Sunset Boulevard (1950), a voice which,
despite the murder of the body it inhabits, proceeds to “narrate” the rest of
the movie. Few films
Sunset
Boulevard continues, moreover, in a manner that alternates between film
noir and the macabre and absurdist works of Tod Browning two decades earlier.
In between these extremes, writer-director Wilder, along with Charles Brackett
and D. M. Marshman, Jr., conjure up fairly realist episodes of ordinary folk,
fellow writers and other young people whose lives are subject—both financially
and spiritually—to the whims of studio heads.
William
Holden (the actor embodying the narrating corpse, Joe Gillis) portrays a near
has-been scriptwriter, trotting out stale plots and story lines to fulfill his
understandably cynical reaction to his chosen profession. Real-life MGM head
Irving Thalberg once described writers as “necessary evils,” and Joe recognizes
that audiences as well “don’t know somebody sits down and writes a picture;
they think the actors make it up as they go along.” Having just been visited by
creditors in search of his unpaid automobile he must also face the fact that he
hasn’t long to survive in Hollywood. Perhaps he should return to the small town
newspaper for which he previously worked, admitting defeat. As fellow
scriptwriter Betty Schaefer says, “I’d always heard you had some talent." Joe’s
answer: “That was last year. This year I’m trying to make a living.”
Having
ditched his car in a nearby parking lot, Gillis attempts to make a getaway
until he can scare up enough cash to leave. In the process, however, he is
spotted while driving down Sunset Boulevard by the creditors, and is forced to
speed away in escape. The viewer hardly recovers from the implausible
coincidence of Joe’s being discovered in a city of such vast spaces, when
Wilder presents his character with the apparition, among some of the wealthiest
properties in the world, of a seemingly abandoned mansion with an open garage
perfect for his disappearance.
Thus begins an ongoing series of incredulous events that make this film such an improbable masterwork, a work that has often seemed to me, at least, far less appealing than most of Wilder’s other movies. Watching the film this time around, however, I perceived that the seeming improbabilities and strange mix of genres of Sunset Boulevard are, in fact, intentional challenges to the credibility of the work.
As
if the accident of the two previous incidents was not enough, for instance,
Wilder ups the ante, so to speak, as his heroine Norma Desmond—whom we soon
discover is a former great silent film star (played by the former great silent
film star Gloria Swanson)—and her butler/former husband Max van Mayerling
(performed by the great former director of Swanson, Erich von Stroheim, who,
after Louis B. Mayer and Irving Thalberg severely cut and reedited his last
films, was never able to direct again) appear to have been awaiting Joe’s
arrival: “What took you so long?” the imperious Desmond demands to know of
Gillis. Before we even have time to recover from the multiple mirrored images
of fiction and reality Wilder has set into play, Gillis is led upstairs to what
appears to be a waiting corpse—“I'd like the coffin to be white, and I want it
specially lined with satin. White... or pink. Maybe red! Bright flaming red!
Let's make it gay!” Desmond babbles—the body of which we soon after discover
is her recently deceased chimpanzee. Without missing a beat, Joe parlays his
mistaken identity into a job to rewrite Norma’s dreadful comeback script of
Salome! It’s significant to note that absurdist playwright Eugène Ionesco’s
first play, The Bald Soprano, was first performed the very same year, and that
his The Lesson and The Chairs appeared over the next two years! The events and
interrelationships of the actors with their characters in Sunset Boulevard, if
not the dialogue, seem to parallel, almost, the French playwright’s daffy
thematics.
Indeed,
Wilder created in Sunset Boulevard a drama that—just as von Stroheim’s
slightly insane rendition of Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue”—pulls out the stops. To
Joe’s offhanded dismissal of her attentions, for example, (“…I’m all wrong for
you. You want a Valentino, somebody with polo ponies, a big shot.), Nora
histrionically reacts: “What you’re trying to say is that you don’t want me to
love you. Say it. Say it! [slaps him hard across the face].” The wild gestures
and eye flutterings of Swanson’s Norma Desmond evidently resulted—according to
a Paris Review interview with Wilder—in a “strong reaction,” as actress Barbara
Stanwyck “went up and kissed the hem of Gloria Swanson’s robe, or dress, or
whatever she was wearing” the night of the film’s preview. It is, in fact,
quite extraordinary, a performance I cannot help but think of as what later
would be described as “high camp.”
Throughout
the film, Wilder and his fellow writers keep the story at high boil with their
verbal wit: (DESMOND: My astrologist has read my horoscope, he’s read DeMille’s
horoscope. GILLIS: Has he read the script?). But it is Wilder’s continued use
of real individuals destroyed or ignored by Hollywood that lends the film
another dimension that is both poignant and hilariously satiric: among
Desmond’s regular visitors, characters Gillis refers to as her “waxworks,” are
the lyricist and composer team Ray Evans and Joe Livingston, who throughout the
late 1940s and 1950s wrote songs such as “Buttons and Bows,” “Mona Lisa” (the
same year as Sunset Boulevard), “Que Sera Sera,” and “Tammy”;
Swedish-born actor Anna Q. Nilsson, another true-life star of the silent films
whose career went into sharp decline with the advent of the “talkies”; H. B.
Warner, a silent film actor who performed Jesus Christ in Cecil DeMille’s 1927
epic King of Kings, and went on to play character roles in notable
movies of the 1940s such as You Can’t Take It with You, Mr. Smith
Goes to Washington, and It’s a Wonderful Life; and the great Buster
Keaton, one of the most renowned of silent film actors and directors, whose
career was destroyed by his decision to sign on with MGM in 1928.**
In
short, as the spider-like Desmond weaves her web around the increasingly
trapped young writer, Wilder and his co-writers weave their own web of
relationships and circumstance around their actors and the fictional beings
they portray, helping us to understand exactly how the studios entrapped and
continued to hold their actors and actresses, gradually sucking them into an
unreal world from which they could never again return to the normality of
everyday life.
Gillis
tries to recapture his artistic aspirations and his manhood through his
innocent relationship with co-writer Betty Schaefer, but to do so he has to
hide that friendship and later love from Norma, and, in turn, keep the fact of
his life with Desmond from Betty. It's somewhat like hiding the fact that you're really into elderly women or that you're actually gay. Ultimately, he has no choice but to reveal
the brutal truth to both women: because of the web of lies he has lived he can
offer little to either, living the life of an asexual gigolo. The thought of his actually making love to Norma is terrifying.
Is it any wonder studio executives were outraged, Mayer loudly yammering at the movie’s screening, “We need to kick Wilder out of America if he’s going to bite the hand that feeds him.”? (Paris Review interview with Wilder)
Wilder
and his co-writers have presented us in Sunset Boulevard a tragic satire
about filmmaking—its writers, actors, and directors whose lives were destroyed
by the Hollywood system—seemingly so exaggerated that, strangely enough, it
reads as a somewhat credible depiction, as if that celluloid being had cried
wolf so many times that we have no choice but to believe in the worst. But then
that voice of the man lying face down in the pool begins to speak all over
again and we recognize this is, after all, an artifice, another imitation of
life.
*One is reminded here of the abandoned mansion
in Nicholas Ray’s 1955 masterwork, Rebel without a Cause.
**Swanson had also invited William Haines to
perform with her in the movie, but he declined. Haines, often described as the
first openly gay Hollywood star, was a major silent film actor who, after his
arrest for picking up a sailor in L.A.’s Pershing Square, was given an
ultimatum from studio head Louis B. Mayer to choose between a sham marriage
(often called a “lavender” marriage) or his relationship with Jimmy Shields.
Haines chose the latter, leaving filmmaking to become a designer for Hollywood
clients such as Joan Crawford, Carole Lombard, Marion Davies and William
Randolph Hearst. In 1936 he and his companion were assaulted by members of the
White Legion, wearing hoods to hide their faces, who dragged the men from their
home and beat them. Among his later clients were Nancy and Ronald Reagan.
***(FIRST ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: [about Nora
Desmond] She must be a million years old. CECIL B. DEMILLE: I hate to think
where that puts me. I could be her father.)
Los Angeles, April 9, 2008
Reprinted from World Cinema Review (April
2008)
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