Book Review: "Sunset Boulevard" (BFI Film Classics)
Steven Cohan's newest book is a timely investigation of one of Hollywood's most enduringly popular films.
I remember very clearly the first time that I watched Billy Wilder’s classic film Sunset Boulevard. I was in a film noir class for my master’s program, and it was one of the first things we were assigned to watch. By this time, I already knew that I truly loved noir as a genre/sensibility/mode, because there was just something infinitely compelling about these films and the ways that they explored the more sinister side of postwar American life. I would repeatedly return to the film, and I often used it in teaching, usually to give students an introduction to classical Hollywood (and to the history of the industry more generally). It’s a magnificently layered film, with a blend of melodrama and noir elements, and this is precisely what makes it so re-watchable.
Given my fondness for the film, I was very pleased to get the chance to read noted film scholar Steven Cohan’s newest book, Sunset Boulevard, released as part of the BFI’s Film Classics series. As always with Cohan’s work, I was amazed by the extent to which he was able to introduce me to new aspects of this film that I hadn’t noticed (or at least hadn’t fully appreciated) during my earlier viewings. Though Sunset Boulevard is quite a short volume, Cohan manages to pack in quite a lot of context and analysis. In the first chapter, he gives us a snippet summary of the film, as well as demonstrating how from the beginning, the film was a success, managing to accrue significant box office earnings and critical praise.
Having set the stage, as it were, in the second chapter he focuses on the extraordinary working relationship between Billy Wilder and Charles Brackett, two men who, despite their significant differences, nevertheless managed to forge one of the most successful writing partnerships in the history of the movies. This chapter will be particularly useful for those who may not have a firm understanding of how films were made in the late 1940s and early 1950s, as the studio system was beginning to crumble but while it still held onto some of its old methods. Among other things, we learn that the film’s beginning was initially very different, with William Holden’s Joe Gillis, already dead when the action starts, narrating his demise in a morgue. Fortunately, this was jettisoned when test audiences found it more amusing than sinister, which is hardly the response one wants from those watching a noir.
In the third chapter, he drills down into a rich and textured analysis of the film. In addition to highlighting just what it is that allows us to read Sunset Boulevard as a quintessential example of film noir, he also shows how skillfully the film exposes (and critiques) the ageism of the Hollywood film industry. As Cohan reminds us, though William Holden’s Joe Gillis might be the “hero” of this story (and though the film is narrated by him, though he is dead when it begins), it's Norma who continues to capture our attention and, strangely enough, our sympathy.
What I particularly appreciated about this chapter was how skilled Cohan is at the fine art of close reading. As I’ve written here before, there is a particular pleasure to be had in paying close attention to the details of a film, such as how Cohan draws our attention to the way that Sunset Boulevard juxtaposes the darkness of Norma’s home with the bright light of the outside in order to make her more menacing even as, at the same time, the mise-en-scene of her home heightens the sense that she has used her vast home as a cushion protecting herself against the fact that the industry, and the world, has forgotten her. Later in the chapter, Cohan also potently remarks that the supposedly more “authentic” romance between Will and Betty is, in fact, just as artificial as any other, taking place as it does within the dream factory of Hollywood. As Cohan goes on to point out, part of the film’s overall appeal lies in its ability to demystify the industry itself.
In the final chapter, Cohan turns his attention to the film’s afterlives and how, unlike many other films from Hollywood’s golden age, Sunset Boulevard has remained a true classic. In his discussion, he also draws our attention to a later Wilder film, Fedora, which is something of a twisted mirror image of Sunset Boulevard, focusing as it does on an aging star who uses her own daughter as her stand-in in order to make sure that she stays relevant in a changing world. In a further bit of echoing, it also stars Holden, though in this case he is a producer rather than a mere writer. He also usefully draws attention to the film’s subsequent reception, as well as the later careers of its stars.
One of Cohan’s greatest strengths as a writer is his ability to make you feel as if you are watching the film right along with him, like he is there beside you helping you to see and understand and appreciate aspects that might not have been obvious before. Even though I’ve seen Sunset Boulevard many times in the past, Cohan’s book allowed me to see it in new and exciting ways, thanks in large part to the obvious love and affection with which he regards the film. He has that knack so rare in the academic writer: the ability to convey complex ideas in a fashion that is accessible even to those not trained as film scholars.
As a result, Sunset Boulevard serves as a timely reminder of why it can still be valuable and illuminating to study the films of the classic Hollywood period. Though they have been pored over by generations of scholars, their richness continues to amaze us, allowing us to appreciate what Thomas Schatz has referred to as “The Genius of the System.” Cohan’s work on Sunset Boulevard is a must-have for anyone interested in classical Hollywood, Sunset Boulevard, or Billy Wilder.
Full disclosure: Steven Cohan is a good friend of mine and my former dissertation adviser. However, he in no way prompted me to write this review.