Hollywood’s Betrayal: The Rise and Fall of a Star

Paper by Hannah Gary. Viewed on DVD.

“We are neurotically haunted today by the imminence, and by the ignominy, of failure. We know how frightening a cost one succeeds: to fail is something too awful to think about,” (Louis Kronenberger qtd. in Camp 371). This statement may provide the greatest description and reasoning for the rise of duality in the film Sunset Boulevard (Wilder 1953). Sunset Boulevard is a fascinating film noir, directed by Billy Wilder, about the triumphs and tribulations in Hollywood. Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) is plagued by her past success during the heyday of the glorious silent era in Hollywood. However, it is her failure to have enduring fame through the “talkies” that contributes to the downward spiral and eventual two-sided persona that she displays in the film. The disturbing side of Hollywood is depicted in the movie as well as the problems that form when a star-like mentality becomes overwhelming after the town both creates and destroys someone when their peak of public love and fame have past. Sunset Boulevard’s prevailing theme of duality is at once evident in narrative elements as well as specific characters’ likenesses to reality. Norma’s character, in particular, displays her two-sidedness through a conflict between her “real self” and “ideal self” which battle it out for dominance in the final scene of the film as seen through the various cinematic elements like cinematography, editing, mise-en-scene, sound, and acting. This very duality elicits a two-part reaction in the viewer, which, taken together, give the film significance in the broader sense of Hollywood.

Leading up to that fateful final scene, other narrative elements throughout Sunset Boulevard lead the film through various instances of dual-sidedness, particularly in specific characters’ links to reality. The film centers on the concept of Hollywood, mostly on the agony and destruction it causes in its wake as it holds the power to create and destroy its stars. This is, first and foremost, a Hollywood film about Hollywood. In an odd way, the very knowledge of this fact can create two competing reactions in the watcher; on the one hand, who would be better qualified to speak about Hollywood than Hollywood itself? However, it also means that the film’s potential for subjectivity skyrockets as the possibility of bias in the depiction of such a tricky subject increases, initiating caution and prudence on the part of the watcher. Perhaps, more important to the basic story, is the two-sided nature of the title of the film and its relation to the information being depicted. The very idea of a “sunset” is an allusion to a dual-sided natural occurrence. The sun rises and sets in a regular rhythm and one cannot occur without the other. The cycle moves from darkness to light, and lightness to dark in an unending fashion. Similarly, the film centers on the symbolic “sunrise” and “sunset” of the two main characters’ careers. Throughout the entire film, Norma, the star that became a wayside victim of Hollywood’s march towards “talk,” desperately desires to return to the silver screen and have a sort of “rebirth” of her image and fame. By the end of the film she has achieved this goal through a murderous act, despite it being similarly synonymous with the decimation of her freedom and, by extension, her career. Just as “the fallen star annihilates her Self, she ultimately resurrects her screen idol image,” (Towbridge 295). She effectively ends her own life but simultaneously revives her career, if only for a moment. Joe’s (William Holden) life, the protagonist and man who Norma effectively destroys, is most blatantly finished, but his enduring career goal of screenwriting fame is likewise achieved. As Katelin Towbridge so cleverly points out in her article on Sunset Boulevard, “while all of [previous] circumstances sabotage his artistic freedom, his death finally empowers him, as a literal ‘ghostwriter,’ to author his own story,” (295). He is able to voice-over and describe the odd occurrences that marked his doomed life, creating a story that remains prevalent in its infamy. Thus, just as the cycle of the sun has two different parts within its regular rhythm, so the ending of the film creates a two-sided conclusion to each character’s life.

Characters of the film contribute to the duality of the picture through the tinges of truth that are created by their personas onscreen. These little morsels of reality intermixed within fiction fashion a sort of duplicity that aids in the overarching theme of the picture. Dramatic film entertainment, namely pictures that are inventions of a screenwriter, in its basic essence has actors that play other people. It is what is expected and understood; there should be a set distance from truth. A sort of anticipation ensues, as they should portray someone besides themselves. Yet, by creating similarities to reality, and allowing backstories and histories to become jumbled, this film makes it difficult and, in some cases, near impossible, to separate fiction from truth. This is what creates the duality: the portions of validity layered behind fabrication. It is not harmless because it creates an unsettling atmosphere as the general “rules” of acting and characters have been completely violated. In line with this duplicity, several actors’ roles in particular fulfill this mix of truth and falsehood, including: Norma Desmond, Max Mayerling (Erich von Stroheim), Buster Keaton, Cecil B. De Mille, H.B. Warner and Hedda Hopper. As indicated, for some of them, no attempt has been made to conceal their authenticity as they retain their real names and positions, despite being placed in a fictitious story. The ones that do have different names, however, are still particularly akin to the actors that play them.

Erich von Stroheim, who plays Max Mayerling, Norma’s ever attentive Butler, contributes greatly to this duality onscreen. His role in the film is that of a downtrodden director who, after directing Norma in her silent film days, became her husband, then her servant. This actually crosses the line from fiction to fact as Stroheim “was one of actress Gloria Swanson’s greatest directors in the early days of the movies. His career, like Gloria Swanson’s, ended abruptly around 1930 – making the film semi-autobiographical,” (Dirks). In fact, it is believed that the use of “Mayerling” as his last name is yet another allusion to a murder (or suicide) “of the Crown Prince of Austria-Hungary and his young Baroness mistress occurred in 1889” (Dirks). Even others who watched Erich playing Max were aware of the odd sense of duality as, during the final scene in Nancy Olsen’s words (she played Betty Schafer, Joe’s love interest, in the film), “‘It was a mob scene, reporters and photographers, and Billy was directing everybody – but Erich von Stroheim was also directing Norma Desmond for the newsreel cameras,’” (qtd. in Mazur). In using Stroheim’s real name instead of his fictional one, she even seems to recognize his status on set is not simply an actor, but also a “director.” This enforces the feel that Erich was not merely playing a part, but also playing himself. As this blending of truth and fiction intermix in the film, another problematic reaction occurs, besides the acting “rules” being breached. It causes a confusion as to where plot begins and reality ends; the duality is so clouded and grey that it creates moments in the film that seem and feel genuine despite retaining their fictitious story.

Gloria Swanson, who plays Norma Desmond, was a major film star during the silent days who was, like her character, often directed by De Mille and Stroheim. In fact, her character’s name even a holds a glimpse of reality as it is a combination of two major Hollywood stars from the silent era, “comedy star Mabel Normand, and silent-film director William Desmond Taylor (Normand’s lover),” (Dirks). Even more eerie in this duality is the symbolism that occurs with the use of this name as William Desmond Taylor “was murdered in 1922. There was an intensive investigation but his murder case went unsolved,” (Dirks). The name used for her character is not only a duplicate of old stars, but the frightening connotation symbolizes the nature of the film and foreshadows future events. Actually, this little tidbit is not the only allusion to an unsolved murder case in the film, as Artie (Jack Webb) makes a reference to the Black Dahlia case of “Elizabeth Short, a 22 year-old aspiring actress known as the ‘Black Dahlia’ because of her black hair and attire” who was murdered and “found cut in half and nude in a vacant lot near Hollywood,” (Dirks). This creates a “connection to Joe’s own brutal, gruesome, sensationalized murder in the show-biz town,” (Dirks). Not only is it a connection, it is another piece of the film that directly points towards the cruelty of Hollywood and the futility in escaping its grasp. It makes the film more believable and seem more realistic because the audience has something blatantly truthful provided for them to compare it to. These elements are not hidden, but are open for interpretation and a constant reminder that there is truth behind the basis of this story; that corruption and destruction are no strangers to the actions in Hollywood. By understanding and finding truth behind a piece of the film, even if it is just symbolic, the film creates an even greater web of duplicity.
In fact, because of the murky duality present in the film, Gloria Swanson was actually unable to get out from under her role as Norma. She describes it as “‘Hollywood’s old trick: repeat a successful formula until it dies. I could obviously go on playing it in its many variations for decades to come, until at last I became some sort of creepy parody of myself, or rather, of Norma Desmond – a shadow of a shadow,’” (qtd. in Mazur). Surprisingly, just as Hollywood was unable to let Norma go free within the film, Gloria herself was unable to escape its grasp once the film was completed. Thus, the film not only depicted a Hollywood character with intrinsic similarities to reality, but it also gave birth to a reaction, sparking an outcome that provided dual significance and meaning to the characters of the film.

Although Gloria gave basic authenticity to her role, Norma herself is oozing duality for the duration of the film. Norma, the fallen screen idol, has two levels to her character. In fact, this dilemma seems to be synonymous with psychoanalyst Karen Horney’s view of the “real self” and the “ideal self,” with a person having the “potential, under proper circumstances, to continue to develop in the direction of a real self,” but, through “fear, exacerbated by social circumstances, [it] detours the neurotic individual from its natural program of self-realization,” thus introducing a “split” which is “represented by the subordination of the real self to a fictitious self endowed with imaginary surplus value,” (Rendon 160). Norma’s two-sidedness begins with the “ideal” part of her: the person who smiles in the pictures that litter her walls throughout her mansion. It is the part of her that has never left the camera and has always desired to return. This “screen self” is a faulty, superficial, and two dimensional side that gives her confidence and a reminder of the love and adoration of her youthful “silent” days onscreen. The other part, her “real self,” is the truth. It is aged and decrepit as it is unable to stand in the spotlight and is incapable of holding up the desperate desire of the “screen self” to return to that camera frame. This “ex-celebrity’s habit of forgetting her present obscurity by becoming her own fan underscores the fact that the celluloid reproduction of herself, the screen idol, represents her ego-ideal, an ideal which lends her Self an illusory wholeness,” (Towbridge 298). The images, thus, not only provide remembrance and a shrine to her past “screen self,” but also give her other, authentic persona satisfaction that time has not lost her face within the frame. Katelin Towbridge claims that “Norma’s fanatical devotion to her own image renders the rift between her Self and the ego-ideal nearly unbearable” and “whenever her true status as a washed-up actress begins to overmaster her mind’s capacity for self-deception, threatening to obliterate the image of Norma Desmond, the movie goddess, she attempts suicide,” (298). Norma’s self-centered behavior is not just an extension of screen self, however, because it is also what comforts her and gives her that needed antidote for her fear of reality, and, by extension, that authentic persona from creeping into her mind. That screen image, or framed picture is, even if for a moment, able to mask the ever-present and aching wound of truth.

However, as some are quick to point out, Norma is the villain. As, historically, “the villain is a close relative of the actor. To put it more accurately, performers have long been marked as inherently deceitful and immoral,” (Taylor) which describes Norma herself. Yet the duality of her nature does not singularly make her the classic femme fetale who is “willing to protect herself and her freedom at all costs” (Lewis 204) because the very protection she desires is, in fact, to shield her screen self from the truth, her “real” self. When the truth continually overshadows and threatens that screen self, she fights against age in order to maintain her sanity. The passing of time is constantly displayed in her old image, which makes her fight and battle not against some external foe, although it may seem so with her murder of Joe, but against her own self. She is not looking for the “freedom” characteristic of the worldly femme fetale, but a sense of security and comfort that she is not old or withered with time, but still the celluloid image of a once-great star. The dual-nature of her character that is ever present throughout the film is displayed in its finality through the last scene of the picture. Killing “the man who, for Norma, embodied the treachery of language, the actress severs all ties to a reality beyond her imaginary realm…by allowing madness to devour her own identity…[she] revives her ‘celluloid self,’” (Towbridge 301). It tells of the triumph of her screen image over her real, authentic self.

This final scene of the film is cluttered with symbols and representations of Norma’s dual nature, as shown in the cinematography and visual camera effects and their implications. One of the most prevalent camera techniques throughout the film is the use of a subjective, non-omniscient, camera view. In numerous instances the camera seems to “hide” from Norma in her less-powerful states (like when she is distraught after a New Year’s party gone bad; she is seen only through a mirror until she recovers herself) or viewing her fully when she is completely in control. This scene follows the pattern, enforcing the understanding of the camera doing double-duty as a standard observer and a subject with its own identity. This is especially evident in the use of camera angles. During the early portion of the scene, when Norma remains in her bedroom, two camera angles are used. At one height, it is equivalent to the eye-level of the surrounding policemen in the process of interrogating Norma. This creates a high-angle view of Norma as we appear to be looking down on her sitting figure at the table. However, there is another, conflicting view at Norma’s eye-level, which make the policemen appear to be looming above her from a low-angle. There are point-of-view shots of the policemen taken from Norma’s perspective, making them appear to dominate the screen in a static, menacing stance. Because there is fairly equal time spent on both perspectives, Norma seems to still be balancing her two selves at a fairly equivalent status. The two camera angles seem to symbolize her two personas; one is the meager and feeble “real self” as depicted from the high-angle policemen, and the other “screen self” is stronger but still less threatening at an eye-level view. As the scene progresses however, the camera angles become more pronounced. After hearing about the cameras downstairs, she is displayed looming over her balcony in a distinctly conspicuous low-angle. Her power over the screen has grown, and she is suddenly threateningly large and dominant. Yet she is not just expressing power over the characters, she has also mastered the audience as she continually stands above them. Even while she makes her final, long trek down the stairs, she is still slightly above the camera (in a low-angle), triumphantly walking towards her director and towards complete suppression of her authentic sense of reality, and the literal rising of her screen self.

The use of camera angles are not the only pieces of cinematography in this sequence depicting duality as the final soft focus technique at the end of the scene is another powerful piece of camera work. Once Norma has made her speech to the “crew” of her picture, and the audience, she is ready for her “close-up.” She actually breaks the fourth wall two times by directly looking at the camera, walking towards it with twisting claws, an up-tilted face and a manic, wide-eyed expression. As she does so, the camera initially turns her image into a soft focus view, or the “blurring out of focus of all except one desired distance range” which “can also refer to a glamourizing technique that softens the sharpness of definition so that facial wrinkles can be smoothed over,” (Giannetti and Eyman 443). Consistently used in the days of silent films, this initial blurring of Norma that should, in its usual sense, display an ethereal and wrinkle-free vision of beauty suddenly morphs into a completely blurred, distorted image that subsequently dissolves into black. This editing technique, in an intense display of finality, signals the end of her career onscreen and her life as she knows it. The “film simply fades away. It literally seems to disintegrate, echoing Norma’s rapidly deteriorating mental state,” (Mazur). However, there is more to this than a simple indication of her mental state as it also portrays the utter dominance of her screen self. It takes over the frame of the cameras within the film, and the audience’s camera view of the situation. The very fact that she has a close-up in a fashion similar to the silent days is an indicator of that past, ideal screen self taking over. Norma, the true, real, authentic Norma is no more; all that remains is that briefly disturbing and deformed image. That very screen self that she so strove to retain and bring back is finally depicted, locking her identity in place but also taking it away forever.

Aside from the final dissolve, other editing in the scene also emphasizes duality and the subjectivity of the camera, pointing towards an intuitive watcher. In terms of basic shot lengths, despite maintaining the continuity through a consistent axis of action, the scene focuses a drastically larger portion of its time on Norma. This contributes to a dual-effect with the audience as Norma’s screen image not only takes over the cameras within the film, but she also is capturing the near continual attention of the audience. For example, while the brief shots of Hedda and Max watching Norma’s literal descent into madness take around six seconds, Norma’s walk down the stairs and speech gives her a full minute and twenty seconds of screen time. She is not only dominated by her screen self, that image is consequently commanding the audience’s attention. Particularly indicative of the camera’s subjectivity is its depiction of movement. While Norma is sitting at her crowded makeup counter with mirror in hand, the camera abruptly switches from a medium shot of two policemen to a new one walking in. It almost seems as if the camera is suddenly distracted, a very human trait, by catching a bit of movement at the corner of its eye and suddenly changing position to see what it is. The subjectivity, however, does not point to Norma’s duplicity as much as it displays the dual-sidedness of the camera. Because Joe is narrating the film and it is through his perspective the audience is involved with the story, the human-esque bias in the camera displays his point of view more than anyone else’s. Thus, we are not viewing what is going on through a single lens; we are watching it through a double-paned glass, one being the camera frame, the other Joe’s visual field. Perhaps the best use of editing to develop the theme of duality is in its method of assuring the audience that what they see, Norma’s decline, is not only obvious to them, but to other characters onscreen as well. Norma’s transition towards complete domination by her screen self is reflected in the pitiful and mournful faces of her friends. While she walks down the stairs, the camera quickly switches to the pained expressions of Max and Hedda in quiet recognition of Norma’s madness and her sad descent towards the love and adoration of the camera. Through these cuts, the editors, Doane Harrison and Arthur P. Schmidt, reassure the audience that their opinion of Norma’s declining mental state is accurate. The audience is no longer alone, others, even her friends, maintain a similar sense of sadness, disgust, and pity.

Although other stylistic elements contribute to the theme of duality in the scene, mise-en-scene may provide the most insight into Norma’s situation. Several elements create the sense of duplicity, particularly the use of mirrors. Initially, when Norma is in her “sunken boudoir,” the audience is unable to tell how far she has retreated into her screen self. However, through the scenery and props, they are at once made aware that one part of her personality is beginning to overpower the other. The frilly, lacy sheets on her bed that symbolize authenticity and truth, the girl behind the mask of superficiality, have become littered with police hats. The innocence and the beauty of the simple sheet is overcome by the darkly colored hats carelessly thrown across the bed. Oddly, these dark hats which should symbolize the “law” or the “good,” come to mar the simplistic beauty of her quietly girly sheets. A little further into the scene, when Norma is depicted sitting at her makeup stand, a light is shown above, also with an innocent, girly feel and fringe, and a set of roses has been placed in front of an accompanying mirror. These, again, seem to indicate that small part of reality that once lived within Norma, but they are at once disturbed by the number of darkly clad policemen and their objectively stagnant stances as well as another, rather curious prop. Behind two of the policemen there is what looks to be a rake or some sort of gardening tool that has been misplaced in her bedroom. Even if the object itself is not a rake, the shadow it throws across the wall certainly resembles one. In reality, it echoes the tools used by the policemen to fish Joe’s dead body out of the pool after his murder. Just as it signified his undoing, it could also be a marker of her growing insanity and the overpowering side of her faulty screen self. These elements in her boudoir could, in actuality, be the finale of her authentic persona and indicate its slow conquering by her celluloid image.

While Norma sits at her desk, there are bottles and bottles of perfume and other cosmetic items scattered across her triangular display. Makeup, as well as other facial and body complementing products, is usually meant to “enhance” a person’s beauty. However, the myriad of bottles signifies something different. In this situation, the bottles are instead pointing to the “enhancing” of Norma’s other self, her faulty, screen image that is only made possible by layer upon layer of fallacious creams that distort the age displayed on her visage. Just as makeup can be taken to the extreme in order to create a wholly different person, the bottles’ placement tells that Norma has become a mask of falsity as the war between her selves is in the final stages.

Arguably, however, the most important piece of mise-en-scene in this sequence is the use of mirrors. In total, there are four in her boudoir; two are standard, basic mirrors, while one is handheld and the other lit from behind. There are several meanings behind the use of these pieces, one of which could be a display of Norma’s “‘self-absorbed narcissism,’” as “‘the woman [who] gazes at her own reflection in the mirror, ignor[es] the man she will use to achieve her goals, [and chooses] self-interest over devotion to a man [which] is often the original sin of the film noir woman,’” (qtd. in Mazur). Yet is Norma this kind of woman? Her self-interest is not so much a depiction of her overriding “devotion” to a male as much as it is a way of feeling a sense of security that her screen self is as it should be and not marred by the side that recognizes and understands reality. Others have similarly argued that a “personal morality” develops by Norma becoming “transfixed by her reflection in a mirror,” (Taylor). In this idea, Norma is displaying her selfishness and her obsession with her own face through the use of the mirror. Although this is plausible, in this set of shots, her state of mind runs in a different direction. Not only is she “transfixed,” but she is also using mirrors as a way to see her past self, the one that is in those celluloid pictures scattered throughout her house. Granted, her face by no means holds the amount of beauty and grace that once shone through her silent screen image, but the very act of looking in the mirror reminds her of those pictures. It gives her the illusion of a frame of a camera, with definitive edges that encircle one of those “faces” that enraptured audiences in the olden days. Further evidence of this is in Norma’s actions while she uses this mirror. As Norma grasps her handheld mirror, she does not talk into or towards the reflection, but looks away to speak. This is just what she did in the silent days as “talk” had not yet been spilled, and silence still ruled the screen. Thus, this again throws back to the theme of duality: Norma sees who she wants to see, her image from long ago, yet she remains an older woman within that frame.

In terms of attire, this scene also portrays a sort of deceptive duplicity in Norma’s outfits. As Norma sits at her desk, she wears the same black dress she wore when she killed Joe; it is plain and basic, a minimally expressive piece. Black, even in the earliest days of cinema, is usually associated with evil, just as her outfit in the scene indicates her guilt in the murder. However, once she learns of the cameras downstairs waiting to capture her on film, she changes into a shimmering, white ensemble with sparkles littering her cheeks, hair, and shoulders. In a deeper sense, the basic, true black (guilt) that should be indicative of her true character, her authentic self, morphs into a sparkling, luminous ensemble. This creates deceptiveness, as, logically, white and light clothing should define someone who is innocent, or who believe themselves to be. The side of her that longs for that celluloid image is overpowering, and the reality of Joe’s death has disappeared; she is entranced by the “cameras” and the possibility of her complete return. Yet, the very use of cameras as a piece of scenery also aids in the theme of duality. As they sit at the base of the stairway, slowly panning as they follow her figure, they are what finalize Norma’s descent into a single, screen persona, no longer held in check or hindered by those brief yet potent moments of reality.

The lighting, another mise-en-scene piece, is also indicative of Norma’s dual nature and final transition. The scene is initially illuminated in low-key, shadowy lighting that pervades the whole of Norma’s boudoir. As she sits at her desk with policemen crowded around her and mirror in hand, a single light illuminates them from above. This creates the illusion of an interrogation with shadowy faces and an abrupt contrast between lightness and darkness, goodness and evil. However, once Norma hears the mention of “cameras,” a close-up is displayed of her face with that handheld mirror in front. A band of light is thrown across just her eyes and the bridge of her nose while the rest of her body is still darkened by the surrounding low-key lighting. In its most basic sense, this piece of light is synonymous with her realization that her dream is coming true (like the figurative “light bulb” going off above her head, the cameras have arrived to capture her once again), yet it functions in a deeper sense as well. It depicts the slow decent into insanity, the rising of her screen self. In fact, the lighting technique is continued even further after Norma walks towards her stairway balcony in her white and glistening attire and a blast of illumination suddenly washes out her face from below. Instead of that single strip across her eyes, the light is suddenly magnificently highlighting her entire figure through an intensely bright set of lights. This very transition also indicates how far gone she is from reality and how much her screen self has asserted control.

Overall, however, the use of light seems to be a metaphor for her state of mind; she at first is intrigued when alerted to the possibility of achieving that screen self once more, and, once fully illuminated, the domination of her screen self has become apparent. In fact, this idea can be extended more fully when, at the bottom of the stairs, as she makes her speech to the “people in the dark.” She is still fully lit from the front, but a man behind her also holds up a lighting device, at once shedding a conspicuous backlight onto her. In fact, this lighting technique was used by Cecil B. De Mille, both the director Norma mistakenly believes herself to be talking to (she is actually talking to Max, her butler) and a real-life allusion to one of Gloria Swanson’s most famous directors during the silent days. His use of “Rembrandt lighting, focusing a very ‘hot’ (powerful) key (front) light on a subject’s face while the rest of the frame is dark, became something of a signature style in the silent era. The effect is at once flattering and mysterious,” (Lewis 63). Although this is a slightly distorted use of this lighting scheme, with the backlight behind her, and it may not be a particularly “flattering” image of Norma, the shadowy side of her face is indicative of this technique and yet another tidbit of truth or reality. This three-fold sequence of light symbolizes the death of one self, and the emergence of the superficial other.
The use of sound in this scene, particularly diegetic dialog, is another indication of duplicity. Non-diegetic sound also provides some notable moments and brings a small sense of reality to the scene, in the midst of the shallowness of Norma’s screen persona. While Norma walks out of her boudoir and towards the top of the stairs, violin strings hum in the background creating an ominous feel and a greater sense of apprehension. After light is thrown onto Norma’s figure at the top of the balcony, there is a sudden blast of trumpets as if signaling royalty. The change in these two sounds goes hand in hand with the change in lighting; Norma’s screen image is once again “returning” to life, and overwhelming her other persona, initiating a disturbing welcome in the form of a sudden flare of intense trumpeting. This is exemplified further as she walks down the stairs and a sort of clashing occurs with cymbals, strings, and wind instruments. This creates a contradiction between what the audience feels, that she is descending into madness, and what they hear, the exciting music of someone triumphantly commanding attention. Yet this very device is an elaborate indicator of that fictional, screen self, dominating once again. However, diegetic sound is also crucial to understanding these moments as Norma’s speech, and lack thereof, tells of her final downturn. As previously discussed, when she hears the term “cameras” she at once becomes transfixed and ready for her film appearance. However, in her final speech at the end of the film, she makes a very telling statement. She tells the audience, “You see, this is my life; it always will be, there’s nothing else! Just us and the cameras, and those wonderful people out there in the dark!” Not only is it now completely obvious that her “life” has suddenly been taken over by that ideal, screen self, she herself verbally affirms and recognizes it. Perhaps most telling is the final “close-up” of Norma and the very lack of sound. This emphasizes the distortion of the soft focus as a throwback to the silent days, as she remains quiet while she slowly walks towards the camera and the audience. This not only adds another piece of truth to the sequence, but it also confirms the recovery of that silent-screen self.

The acting in this scene also displays the duality of the characters, if not as much as previous cinematic elements. The men that surround Norma and appear to invade every corner of her house seem, particularly in the shot of Norma walking down the stairs, more like props or pawns than actual characters. They rarely display any motion; rather, they stand like dolls waiting to follow Norma’s lead, watching with an odd mix of fascination and complacency as she strolls towards the ground floor. To Norma, this assists and completes her perception of herself as the returning movie goddess and celluloid image of long ago. People do not stand idly inattentive, but adore her every movement. In reality, however, they are both pitying and disgusted with her transition. Again, this demonstrates just how unable she is to comprehend any part of the reality behind the situation. That part of her has disappeared; all she sees is a clustering of entranced men, perhaps a part of the “picture” she is working on. The men’s faces reinforce the audience’s understanding of the downfall of Norma’s sanity.

Norma’s acting is also particularly meaningful as it demonstrates duality through the difference between reality and her perception of herself. Early in the scene, she is gazing wide-eyed and dazed into a mirror, placating herself within a framed image. Once she hears about the cameras, however, she is no longer captivated by her own face, but instead excited by the image she will become. This is evidenced by her gaze on the balcony and her slow claw-like movements, theatrically paying attention to “De Mille’s” directions. Once she knows what to do, understanding that the cameras are focused on her, she walks down the stairs with stiff prowess while eyeing, presumably, those objects capturing her figure in their celluloid strips. Just as we are mesmerized by her image, she is entranced by the knowledge that she is once again onscreen. Aaron Taylor has claimed that, for villains, the “aim is predatory bedazzlement,” and, although she certainly aims for “bedazzlement” its purpose does not come from an aggressive or predatory objective. Rather, she desires to blind the audience with her “face” and make them love her once again for that ideal, screen self.

Not only does the scene and narrative provide elements of duality, but the actual reaction of the viewer can, in fact, be two-sided. As mentioned above, Norma becomes the villain and the victim in this sequence through her contrasting motives and actions. Most certainly, she is the villain of the film as she is the one that leads the protagonist, Joe, on his ceaseless downward spiral and eventual death. Yet, within this figure of evil, there is a part of her that remains free from being helplessly tied to that screen image and persona. This tiny part is only evident at points of weakness, but it is still there forcing her to face the truth. First and foremost, however, the defensive mechanism she puts on the outside as protection against that ever-clawing real self, is to put on an act and simulate that onscreen, false persona. Norma is an actress who seems to be playing a role nearly every time she gets onscreen. Yet, as Aaron Taylor eagerly points out in his article on the villainy in Sunset Boulevard, “her incessant performativity represents a barrier to the formulation of genuine sympathy: she would be a piteous creature and the film could be an uncompromising study of an aging, discarded celebrity were it not for its subject’s inability to cease playing for some unseen camera.” However, the problem with this viewpoint is that it makes no attempt to explain or analyze where Norma’s “performativity” comes from. She does not do it to merely placate her unseen audience, but as a way of resisting the truth. In effect, her final killing of Joe is not so much a display of villainy as much as it is her superficial self’s response to a threat to its illusion of reality. Furthermore, he points out that “the apex” of “dramas occur at the moment of the character’s public self-nomination, when he or she unmasks and declares, in the homiletic interests of moral clarification, unrepentant villainy,” (Taylor). The problem is that she never truly reveals herself as that character of complete and utter villainy. Even after she kills Joe and her screen self takes over, she never reaches that “moral clarification” necessary to transform her into a complete, satisfying villain. She may admit to the dominance of one of her two-part persona, but even that self is so transfixed by acting and the onscreen image that it does not even seem to recognize, much less admit, to a moral dilemma. It was merely acting on a threat to its reality.

Much discussion has been created by Norma’s villainy, particularly the association with her and the classic, film noir “femme fetale.” As Matt Mazur points out, “the femme fatale, whether it is her actual profession or not, must always be the ultimate actress, and the actress must always be a femme fatale in order to succeed.” This may be the case with Norma, but she not only contributed to Joe’s demise, but to her own. She morphs into both the victim and the villain as her authentic self becomes completely overwhelmed and extinct while her evil, ideal self becomes triumphant. In their article on the quintessential femme fetale, History Television describes the woman as one who “represents the liberation and power gained by females throughout the Second World War: she is sexy, duplicitous and often ruthless,” (“The Femme Fatale throughout History”). Norma is most definitely duplicitous, yet would one categorize a person so wrapped up in an illusion and false vision of themselves as “ruthless?” A person who “yearns to be seen” but “also fears the gaze of the outside world, which would ‘remind her that time has passed,’” (Towbridge 299)? In most cases, this would create a reaction of pity rather than anger or frustration at her character’s destruction of Joe. Perhaps in manufacturing pity, she is effectively tricking “the bemused spectators out of their usual or learned moral responses to immoral situations,” (Taylor) yet the basic fact of her mental state proves that she is at once trapped in a world she created.

Duality is not only a large theme in this film, but the little morsels of truth that litter the film in relation to the film industry also make this theme important to Hollywood itself. What does this film with its focus on a decrepit, dual-natured movie star say about Hollywood? Her downturn and desperate desire to be loved, which leads to her destruction of Joe certainly provides a glimpse into the “star” mind. Another dual reaction occurs in this instance as well, as some have seen it as a “‘a 110-minute punch line’” (qtd. in Mazur) while others, especially those associated with the movie industry itself, seem to be much less appreciative. As Louis B. Mayer “roared” to Billy Wilder after the premiere of Sunset Boulevard, “You have befouled your own nest…You have disgraced the industry that made and fed you,” (qtd. in Mazur). Whether taken as a joke, or taken as an insult to the industry, Sunset Boulevard does tell a great deal of the agonies and trials associated with work in Hollywood, and the need for love. In fact, Norma’s incessant desire to return to the screen could be an exaggerated version of ostracism. To be “shunned – given the cold shoulder or the silent treatment, with others’ eyes avoiding yours – is to have one’s need to be belong threatened,” (Myers 371). This is Norma’s situation; she, mainly her identity, feels threatened because she is no longer “seen” by her fans. This is, in a large part, what the duality seems to say about Hollywood; it distorts and manipulates a person to become overly needed or loved and when that has disappeared, the actor can become split between their past and the truth. They become helpless in the endless cycle of hopes and dreams that Hollywood manufactures; just as one can rise to fame, they can, perhaps even more easily, fall into the realm of obscurity.

Sunset Boulevard is a film centered on the concept of duality, both in the characters portrayed and the narrative itself. Norma’s character has an internal conflict between her “ideal self,” or the part of her focused on that fateful screen image from long ago, and her “real self” which has become worn with age and time. In a way, the pieces of reality underlying the film, like Erich von Stroheim’s connection to his character Max’s directorial duties, makes Norma’s descent into madness seem more truthful. However, the final scene, with the contributions of various cinematic techniques, not only describes her two sides, but the overwhelming control that the “screen self” maintains while the weaker, authentic part of her withers away completely. It has been said that the director, Billy Wilder, had the “faultless instinct for detecting the hypocrisies of others,” (Giannetti and Eyman 145). It seems that he was not only adept at identifying the falsities of people, but of the very industry that created him: Hollywood. This polarizing talent not only led to a film riddled with cynical humor, but caused yet another dual-edged sword. In a broader sense, the film plays on the audience’s inherent duality: their hatred for the potential destruction Hollywood can wreak, contradicted with their love for the stories and entertainment it provides.

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