Noir (pt. III)

Sunset Boulevard

Sweet Smell of Success

What’s shaking, readers? Is anyone else burnt out from a hectic Halloween and an overbooked October and, in general, an overwhelming Autumn? Maybe you’re not as dead as I am after spooky season—it is my Christmas, after all—but you may be slumping into November with a similar sense of exhaustion and boredom. I, personally, feel a bit of sadness post-Halloween season, but I’m thankful that this melancholic mood always arrives just in time for Noirvember. Noir is a realm of cinema that I nervously avoid labeling as a “genre” because the film nerds deem that impossible, and while this is only my third noir-specific double feature, it has popped up many times on this blog randomly. Each time I dive into a salty, sultry noir, I am exposed to different levels and layers of the depravity that humanity is capable of, and for that reason, it feels like noir keeps spooky season going. Tonight’s noir excursion features classics that I’ve been needing to cross off my list ever since I deemed myself a film fan, and they both coincidentally deal in the dark and dirty underside of show business. Up first was a 1950 Billy Wilder film noir that you likely could quote with ease, even if you haven’t seen it yourself, because it is simply that famous: Sunset Boulevard. Sunset Boulevard follows film writer Joe Gillis (William Holden), who is currently down on his luck. He can’t get Paramount to show any interest in his latest script, he can’t get in touch with his agent, and his car is in danger of being repossessed by loan sharks. When said loan sharks spot Joe driving said car, a chase ensues and forces Joe to duck out into a random driveway on Sunset Boulevard—in a garage of a decrepit, seemingly-abandoned mansion. Joe wanders around the outside of this clearly once-glorious estate, a place that Joe describes as “the kind of house crazy movie people made in the crazy 20s.” But when Joe is spotted by a mysterious woman in a window and her frowning butler at the door, he learns that the house is not abandoned at all, but inhabited by the once-famous silent film star Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson.) At first, Norma mistakes Joe for a funeral manager or mortician and requests that he bury her dead friend—a chimp—in the backyard, but when she learns that he’s a film writer, she instead requests that he take a look at a script she’s been writing. Joe is appalled by how bad the script is but is still kind to Norma, who plans to star in the film and make her long-awaited comeback to Hollywood—despite her disdain for the talkies and their cursed dialogue. Joe, with little options in terms of income and a residence not stalked by loan sharks, agrees to help Norma, and she insists that he move in right away. At first, Joe only experiences the expected bizarre quirks of Norma Desmond—her long walks down memory lane, her forced-watch parties of her old films, her crazed eyes that somehow read as excited and disgusted—but he soon becomes exposed to the lengths of Norma’s obsessiveness, and to the depths of her fame and isolation-induced insanity. All the while, Max the butler plays jaunty songs on a piano that is out of key, making this already-creepy scenario all the more unnerving. Sunset Boulevard may not have been the first film to explore the power-hungry darkness of the film industry, but it is one of the most distinct and iconic showcases of Hollywood harshness, and is quoted to the fullest extent possible. I’ve heard “I’m ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille” and “I am big, it’s the pictures that got small” more times than I can count and in more episodes of Drag Race than I can recount. So that’s why it’s all the more wild that so many actresses turned down the role of Norma Desmond before Gloria Swanson landed it. Actresses like Clara Bow (the og it-girl flapper), Greta Garbo, and Norma Shearer were offended at the idea of playing an unhinged Hollywood has-been, but not only did Gloria Swanson inhabit the role with ease and a magical lunacy, she was the perfect fit because the role did somewhat resemble her life—give or take a few quirks. Because this film’s reputations precedes it, I had very high expectations for Sunset Boulevard. And I wouldn’t say that it let me down, but I’m not sure if it’s that memorable beyond its handful of quippy quotes. And maybe I’m jaded because we’re living in harsh, hardboiled times ourselves, maybe it’s because I’ve seen my fair share of film noirs, but Sunset Boulevard just didn’t blow me away like I wanted it to. I think like Stand By Me, it opened the door for an entire category of film based on its specific setting and archetypes and arcs, but functions better as a door-opener than it does as an entertaining experience. All of the films that reference Sunset Boulevard are better for its existence, and I mean no disrespect to this dark film about the darkness of film stars, but I had perhaps too high of expectations. But just when I was becoming concerned that my disinterest was drifting into malaise territory, I watched Alexander Mackendrick’s 1957 New York noir: Sweet Smell of Success. I was intrigued to watch Sweet Smell of Success not just because it stars heartthrobs Tony Curtis and (birthday boy) Burt Lancaster, but because I had read that this film is one of the rare, few noirs where no one dies. I wondered, how on earth could this noir possibly be riveting if there’s no intentional or even accidental murder? But within moments of witnessing its jazzy, shiny, chaotic New York City backdrop and its jazzy, shiny, chaotic characters, I was sold on Sweet Smell of Success. The film follows Sidney Falco (Curtis), a small-time Manhattan press agent with tons of charm and no morals whatsoever, who operates his business with the help of J.J. Hunsecker (Lancaster)—a powerful and even more morally bankrupt media kingpin who writes positive press for Sidney’s clients in his famous column. In reality, it’s a slimy, symbiotic relationship where Sidney creates the scandals and J.J. prints them. J.J. is an intimidating force to be reckoned with but has an odd, downright pervy connection to his kid sister, and he feels strangely threatened by her new boyfriend—an up-and-coming jazz guitarist named Steve Dallas (Martin Milner.) J.J. tasks Sidney with breaking up this young couple but when he fails to do so, J.J. freezes Sidney out of his column—a vital resource to Sidney’s business. The rest of the film follows Sidney’s chillingly cold-blooded means of earning his way back into the all-powerful J.J.’s good graces—which involves blackmailing, backstabbing, and pimping out a friend to Mr. Larry Tate from Bewitched—just to name a few. The effortlessly handsome Tony Curtis embodies this charmingly maniacal role with a freaky amount of ease, and to see the broad-shouldered, booming-voiced Burt Lancaster go toe-to-toe with Curtis’ twisted tendencies was nothing short of thrilling, and terrifying. I loved the blistering pace of this film and the way the light was used to furrow every man’s brow, casting shadows that confirmed their villainy. And I loved how Tony Curtis was constantly referred to as “pretty” and “eyelashes” like they’re insults. The TMZ’s and Perez Hilton’s and Deuxmoi’s of today think they’re the all-knowing authorities of celebrity gossip, but they’ve got nothing on the ruthless and ferocious fellas of Sweet Smell of Success. I was endlessly entertained by this deeply dark noir, which featured some of the most creatively-puzzling, increasingly-confusing noir-speak I’ve ever heard like: “If you’re funny, I’m a pretzel” and “My right hand hasn’t seen my left in thirty years” and “You have the scruples of a guinea pig” and “Starting today, you could play marbles with his eyeballs.” The more out-there of an insult or proclamation that came out of either lead’s mouth, the more I laughed with delightful, truthful bewilderment—which is one of my favorite things about noir. Sweet Smell of Success is the epitome of a pitch-black noir, complete with all of the corruption and crime and carnage you would want, and while there is no blood in this film, there is still plenty of blood on the hands of our… protagonists? If you can even call them that. Part of what is so enjoyable about film noir is its ability to transport you back in time, but still be twisted and cruel in a realistic, timeless way. Humanity being terrible isn’t unique to this generation or century or era, it’s just that in film noir, it is expressed so much more fashionably. Thanks for reading along this week, toots, and for putting up with my post-October deliriousness. Until next time, happy November and happy 110th birthday, Burt Lancaster!