Postmodern cinema tends to refuse the single narrative, often to choosing to tell many stories about different characters than one tale about one protagonist. A trend within this trend is telling different stories about one character with different identities. Such is the case with Teddie/Andrew in Shutter Island (2010) and Betty/Diane in Mulholland Drive (2001). The best example I can think of is another David Lynch project, Twin Peaks: The Return, a television show in which actor Kyle MacLachlan plays four different roles to portray a character’s four different identities.

Jordan Peele’s Us (2019) continues this tradition, following a doppelganger plot reminiscent of Invasion of the Body-Snatchers (1956). The narrative explores the concept of evil shades of ourselves rising from the depths to take our places. These figures are beast-like reflections of us. Though they look human, their attempts to imitate human behavior are exaggerate and fall short. They are truly unnatural.

But nevertheless, they do manage to act similarly to their more civilized counterparts. This is where the actors’ performance becomes key. Not only do they need to act like animals, making growling and howling noises, but they need to show signs of mimicry, as in semblances of “normal” activity. Otherwise, their goal of experiencing life above the ground like their better-off counterparts is lost on the audience.

To accomplish this, the actors inject subtle nuances into their performance. Winston Duke as Abraham feels his counterpart Gabe’s curtains when he first enters the hose, amazed by this luxury. He continues to call upon this curiosity when he takes Gabe’s glasses, childishly amazed by them. Duke could have simply played Abraham as a lumbering beast but by playing the role with this wondrous awe for a better life, the audience can see early on what the Tethered want.

The Tyler family also has some key performances. Tim Heidecker as Josh’s doppelganger saunters around like a dad at a barbecue. When his family takes Adelaide into their home, he waves them off nonchalantly to pursue Gabe, as if to say he’s got this. Elizabeth Moss as Kitty’s doppelganger has her subtle acting details as well. When she is applying the lip gloss, it is done so delicately, after years of observation. Once she is done, she smiles ecstatically, proud she has accomplished her goal of mimicry.

And of course there is Lupita Nyong’o’s Red, whose movements are robotic but swift. This decision to move in exaggerated but deliberate fashion not only illustrates a jarring impersonation of “normal” life, but adds to the horror of the film’s chase scenes. Her movements are unnatural but fast, giving her performance an eerie feeling.

When Red explains the Tethered’s existence to Adelaide near the end of the movie, the viewer sees eerie performance upon eerie performance as the Tethered try desperately to mimic life above the ground on the boardwalk. If any scene perfectly sums up the significance and excellence of performance in this film, it’s this one.

Us is another postmodern film dealing with issues of identity, challenging its actors to play different versions of the same character. Discussing the root of this doppelganger plot is for another day (Red’s weighty line “We are Americans” hosts so many implications that I wouldn’t even know where to start). For now, understanding how this plot was achieved is significant. Alongside a powerful narrative, the actors are able to play foreign shades of “normal” people, acting like beasts. Yet, their howls and shrieks are not the scariest part of their performance. It’s how they attempt (and often fail) at acting human. Their facial expressions and body language are stilted exaggerations of “normal” behavior, creating a chilling effect and adding to the film’s horror. Is this supposed to illustrate mankind at heart are all animals? Or the harm of mimicking or multiplying American normalcy? Should we feel bad for the Tethered or are they unsympathetic enemies?

Like I said before: that’s a discussion for another day.

Shutter Island (2010) is either the film with the most gas-lighting or the most unreliable narrator, depending on how the viewer looks at it. The fact that it chooses neither is what makes the movie a Gothic masterpiece. No narrative is completely true, nor is either side completely right. Although Teddie plays the role of the Gothic hero trapped in a decaying building faced with numerous gas-lighting Gothic tyrants (from Chuck to Cawley, you choose), he isn’t completely absolved of his flaws. Even if his side is true, he’s still prone to angry outbursts, making him appear to be unreliable. On the other hand, the asylum is in poor condition with ex-Nazi doctors in charge of innocent mentally ill individuals, making it out to be a devious and lying institution. The lack of a definite good or evil present in the narrative is what provides the audience to map the story out themselves in a postmodern tradition also utilized in Michael Haneke’s Cache.

The reason this film excels at providing the viewer freedom lies within the evidence that is gradually spoon-fed to them over the course of the story. Every scene, a new detail is revealed or a new piece of the puzzle is introduced. A flashback illustrates Teddie’s war trauma. A conversation reveals the institution is funded by HUAC. An observation notes that the warden is an “ex-military prick.” A dream suggests a possible past where Teddie carries his dead daughter, alluding to a bigger untold story. A new character is seamlessly introduced into the narrative to suggest a different angle that certain characters like Chuck are not to be trusted or that hospital is drugging Teddie. Underneath the twists and turns of the film is a purposeful structure that serves as a flow chart spanning in several different directions. Whichever direction is true is up to the viewer.

Shutter Island denies the traditional narrative in weaving its own mystery and playing with the concept of memory. What we remember is the foundation of who we are. Things happen to people that shape them, and people commit actions that define their personalities. This is why Teddie is such a frantic character throughout the movie. He loses track of his story and is left distraught and desperate for answer. In the end, he’s given a choice: to die as the good man Teddie or live on as the monster Andrew. Like the viewer, he must choose one narrative or the other. Clearly, Teddie chooses the former, because even with such little time left alive, he wants remember himself as a good man.

Whether or not the viewer thinks the same is their choice.

In the Mood for Love (2000) is to the brim with monotony, from the score recurring constantly in the film to certain scenes being played out in near identical fashion. While this repetition at first appears to be boring and filler in what is frankly a short movie, it serves the purpose of realistically portraying the development of a relationship. These recurrences also prove to be the better option than the alternative scarcity, as depicted by Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan’s respective partners.

By scarcity, I am referring to how little of the characters are shown as well as how infrequently they appear. Mrs. Chow and Mr. Chan’s faces are never shown, and their dialogue is delivered in a monotone fashion. No music plays over the few scenes they are in, letting their dry dialogue dominate the scene. These features create an impersonal feeling that justifies the development of an affair.

Contrast this to said affair’s growth. Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan encounter each other in a lot of the same ways, each of these scenes carrying many of the same attributes. The first trait many of their scenes share is the recurrence of the same audio, notably the recurring score and pop song that plays over their scenes. These scenes consist of Mrs. Chan picking up her noodles and briefly encountering Mr. Chow on the way, Mrs. Chan and Mr. Chow having dinner together, and even when the two lovers are separate, contemplating their decisions. Other notable repetitions include Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan walking home from dinner and engaging in small talk. In this case, this scene repeats with the same opening cinematography and same dialogue.

This repetition succeeds in illustrating an elapse of time, because it implies that more of the same thing is happening. The recurrence of these scenes shows the gradual development of a relationship, since making habits of small matters such as dinner and reading serials together is what makes up the lofty concept that is a relationship. In other words, this is a grounded interpretation of a romance in bloom. The romantic mood the movie carries is made believable by this grounded interpretation. Compare this to the stagnancy of Mrs. Chow and Mr. Chan’s scenes. The audience sees little of their lives whereas with their partners, the viewer is entitled to much more, even if that “much more” is more of the same.

In the Mood for Love doesn’t go for the “love at first sight” angle, preferring a slow-burn romance over the typical Hollywood romance. This is much to the movie’s benefit, as much of the journey is seeing how Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan get together, now whether or not they do. The repetition along this journey creates a mood that helps the viewer understand they the characters would even consider an affair.

In other words, the mood is the message.

Inglorious Basterds (2009) is self-indulgently fantastical. Stylistically and historically, it is an outlandish film that thrives in how outlandish it is. Hitler, Goebbels and all the other Nazi elite weren’t gunned down in a burning theater as a giant face laughed at their demise. Yet, this betrayal of history is not a drawback from the film’s appeal, but its main strength. One could argue the events are misleading and ill-informed, but that critique would only be valid if the film was educational in nature. And Inglorious Basterds has nothing to teach. That is, nothing that isn’t obvious.

Obviously, the film is not a documentary (although there are segments where an unknown narrator explains, say, how flammable nitrate film is), yet it does have a moral to teach. In postmodern films such as this, grand narratives and trite messages are looked down upon. Yet, Inglorious Basterds does have a message that resonates with Quentin Tarantino’s most well-known classic: Pulp Fiction (1994).

Pulp Fiction is an anthology movie similar to Inglorious Basterds consisting of chapters that add up to a grand narrative. Underneath the stylized violence and witty writing, they share a recurring message through each of their respective segments. In Pulp Fiction, each short story comes down to doing the right thing, no matter how inconvenient the circumstance (Most notably when Bruce Willis’s character saves his crime lord ex-boss from a gang-rape. That’s as much summary as I’ll allow that film. For an elaborate one, I’d need a book.). It answers the question Spike Lee poses in Do the Right Thing (1989): what is the right thing? Both films are full of hatred and vitriol, though Tarantino dresses it up with glamorous bloodshed while Lee prefers the realistic portrayal of uneasy race relations. Yet underneath this negativity is the answer to that simple question: empathy for your fellow man.

Inglorious Basterds also teaches to do the right thing, but the answer isn’t as easy as empathy. In fact, empathy is absent from the film’s two-and-a-half hour run-time. It’s a film in which Nazi hunters maim and murder Nazis. There’s no debate of the grey morality surrounding their actions, because it’s not as murky as that.

Nazis don’t deserve empathy. They are exempt from empathy, so no one should give them empathy. That’s the right thing.

Hans Landa seems to take issue with this claim when he negotiates with Aldo Raine, claiming he deserves some “mutual respect.” But that’s the antagonist’s argument. Landa, who has been portrayed as a deceiving charmer to this point, is not to be trusted, nor should he be. Him, along with his comrades and superiors, are undoubtedly evil men who, through their prejudices, have surrendered their right to be sympathized with. To debate this is a mistake, one Shosanna makes when she checks on Frederick’s body after shooting him. His whimpers call on her empathy, and result in her getting shot as well.

Inglorious Basterds has no patience for moral quandaries because what it has to say is so straightforward. The simplicity of the message allows Tarantino to alter the historical facts of World War II to his heart’s content. The message of shooting Nazis in World War II was that Nazis don’t deserve empathy. The message of (over-)shooting Nazis in Inglorious Basterds is that Nazis don’t deserve empathy. The message holds true even if the substance and style of the history has changed.

Is there a violence-fantasy aspect involved? Of course. Audiences enjoy watching Hitler’s face get shot to bits just as much as Hitler (in the film) enjoy a Nazi gunning down enemies for the length of a feature film. There is something to be said about voyeurism in the film, especially considering Tarantino’s appeal has often stemmed from the sensationalist sex and violence he includes in his movies. Should viewers feel guilty for playing the voyeur and enjoying Nazi balls getting blown off and Nazi scalps getting scalped?

No. Because Nazis don’t deserve empathy. Not in history nor in this film. For this reason, Inglorious Basterds is still factual despite it’s fictionalized plot and style. It manages to be fictionally factual.

Which is why, to quote Aldo’s last line in the movie, this film is a “masterpiece.”

Cache (2005) is an ambiguous film that refuses to tell the audience anything. There is little exposition in the movie, and whatever exposition there is provided by speakers like Georges who discuss their past. But even these sources are untrustworthy. Director Michael Haneke calls upon viewers to notice details and subtle implications themselves so they can piece things together. One detail I’ve noticed (and perhaps the only one I’m fully confident of) is Georges’s prejudice to nonwhite characters.

This discrimination is evident early in the film in a confrontation between Geroges and a black cyclist. When the stranger nearly collides into Georges on the street, an uncomfortable confrontation follows in which they take shots at one another, name-call, and stare each other down. When Anne steps in to calm the situation, claiming both sides should have looked where they were going, the confrontation seems all the more unnecessary.

On its own, this scene shows a man who’s tense and uneasy about the mysterious surveillance his family is under. When his adopted Algerian step-brother Majid enters the picture, however, a deeper resentment against what is “foreign” is unveiled. Georges resented Majid for disrupting his life at the youthful age of six, claiming he didn’t like sharing a bedroom with him, among other things. The final nail in the coffin was when Majid killed a chicken in front of him, making Georges uncomfortable. Georges’s prejudice is rooted in a childhood fear of disruption.

This prejudice leaks into Georges’s anxiety surrounding his stalker, so much so he hounds an adult Majid. What begins as a well-founded hunch turns into a baseless accusation when Majid proves to be innocent, timid even. Even with the mysterious recording of their conversation, Majid doesn’t appear to be selfish because of his lack of aggression. Yet, Georges relentlessly barrages Majid with accusations to the point Majid commits suicide before Georges’s eyes.

Even with Majid’s death, Georges still believes Majid is responsible through extension of his son, who politely confronts Georges at his job. Georges is constantly pitted against nonwhite characters, as those are the only characters he appears to be suspicious of. This suspicion is not founded in reason but rather out of a childhood trauma he attributes to all foreigners. Considering the continuing debate of refugees in Europe, the movie’s depiction of prejudice is subtle yet remains to be relevant.

Few things in the movie are hidden, yet Georges’s racism proves to be thinly veiled.

Spike Lee’s breakout film Do the Right Thing (1989) is tonally irreverent. There are scenes showing community and solidarity, and then following that tirades flooding stereotypical expletives and slurs. The viewer is put in an uncomfortable no-man’s land, polarized by Radio Raheem’s two rings, Love and Hate. Another binary opposition is at play throughout the film, between the ideologies of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X. The former preached righteous suffering whereas the latter advocated violence out of self-defense . These figures aren’t as black-and-white love and hate (their ideas were far more complex than that), but rather patience and aggression. Lee is quick to show these ideologies aren’t inherently against each other, though, as the movie ends with a quote from each, contrasting in their nature as they might be, and a picture of them smiling together. Love is the final image of the movie, despite its last act being wrought with hatred.

Outside of the narrative, the cinematography and editing jars the viewer as well. Dutch angles are employed several times throughout the film to communicate a sort of uneasiness. The cutting in these moments are quick, never allowing the audience to get comfortable. Sal’s confrontation with Radio Raheem and Buggin’ Out at the end of the film demonstrate this effect. Conversations aren’t always simple shot-reverse-shot, but instead, the camera moves from subject to subject, inducing a nauseating fact. This occurs when Mookie warns Sal to stay away from his sister Jade. The most jarring instance is when the characters look directly at the camera as they say a number of disgusting slurs, as if they are attacking the viewer. This isn’t to say there no smooth scenes to the film. There are several long takes where conversations transpire between characters, like when Sal and Pino have a heart-to-heart. The mere presence of such jarring content creates this clash.

The score also presents this duality between love and hate. One moment, there’s Love Daddy’s smooth jazz and the next, Public Enemy’s raucous hip-hop on Radio Raheem’s boom box. The volume of characters’ dialogue also shifts often, at times transitioning from soft whispers to rage-induced yelling. The audience is rarely content with what they hear, never knowing when there may be another jarring shift.

On narrative and audiovisual levels, Do the Right Thing displaces the viewer in the middle of the fight between love and hate. This makes the film’s titular question even harder to answer, leaving them wondering if the right thing is possible or a romantic dream. Lee leaves the audience conflicted and, more importantly, thinking. Do the Right Thing is far from a complacent movie. It prompts an audience reaction, whether it be positive or negative, and gets them to contemplate how far race relations really have revolved since before and after this film’s release.

Most importantly, the viewer is enlisted into the dual between love and hate.

Prior to the New Wave, there were no sensitive men in films. Flawed, yes. But soft? Never. Male protagonists were reserved or cynical, perhaps hardened by a tough life, like Casablanca‘s Rick. Emotions were never worn on the sleeve. To show happiness, audiences would be lucky to get a sly smile, like Sunset Boulevard‘s Joe. To show sadness…well, sadness never really was shown, except in when it was expressed through anger. Charles Kane wasn’t sad when Susan left him in Citizen Kane. He was angry, destroying things left and right. Boys didn’t cry before the 60’s in American cinema.

It’s strange to think that in the New Wave, a film about gangster life is one of the trendsetters that break this mold. Bonnie and Clyde (1967) plays with conventional gender roles in film while doubly handling the challenge any period piece brings: conforming to the gender stereotypes of the time. Bonnie is shown to have agency, often telling her fellow gang members what to do, even Clyde, her lover and the (supposed) leader of the Barrow Gang. She is no sweet angel, pure of heart, nor is she simply an object a character must acquire to further his own development. Bonnie is a character. And Clyde…well, the revolutionary thing is he has…feelings. That is, feelings outside of mild happiness and destructive anger.

Despite having lived a life of crime, Clyde is not as much hardened by his career as he is vulnerable. He’s insecure, feeling he has to constantly prove himself. The obvious example is his failure to please Bonnie in bed, something which most definitely affects his confidence. Even near the end, when they have their last tryst, Clyde feels the need to ask Bonnie if he was good, as if asking for her approval. Then, there are other instances when Clyde feels the need to assert his authority, like when he robs a failed bank and brings the teller to the car to explain to Bonnie that the bank has no money in order to save Clyde the embarrassment of leaving empty-handed. Just before this robbery, he spent a solid minute in the car, seemingly getting over his nerves. Another instance is when the Texas ranger spits in Bonnie’s face, causing Clyde to angrily lash out on him. This isn’t a controlled anger nor is it destructive. Clyde sloppily pushes the ranger around, shouting, his voice cracking. He’s a mess while trying to defend “his woman’s honor” when really he’s trying to impress her.

The key difference from previous male leads, though, is Clyde’s tears. When Bonnie tries to run away, desperate to see her mother, Clyde catches her. He cries, holding her close, genuinely scared her might lose her. After C.W reads the story of Clyde’s brother Buck’s death in the paper, Clyde angrily slaps the paper down, tears in his eyes. Clyde has fears and anxieties. He’s not just a fortress of solitude whose layers must be peeled away to truly understand what makes him tick. Clyde is emotional, vulnerable and therefore human.

There are other examples in the film. Gene Hackman’s Buck is uneducated hick who is, in contemporary terms, “whipped” by his wife. Gene Wilder humorously plays my favorite character Eugene, a timid wimp who can barely bark, not even mention bite. C.W is shown at several moments in the film to be crying, just being a kid after all. The antagonists are the traditionally toxic masculine characters. C.W’s father Malcolm tries to beat sense into his kid while the Texas ranger looks as if he’s walked off the set of Gunsmoke looking for outlaws to kill. Looking at the film’s male cast, it is easy to see how the convention of masculinity is turned on its head in the film.

Bonnie and Clyde is not an artificial movie. While it is filmed on location rather than a back lot or sound stage, the same claim can be made toward its characters, who feel like real people. The women aren’t flawless angels and the men aren’t brooding rationalists. Everyone’s weaknesses are on full display, making the film’s conflict more real to the audience. Toxic masculinity is massacred in the same way Bonnie and Clyde are at the movie’s climax. Dead. Gone. Eliminated.

In Bonnie and Clyde, yes. Boys can cry.

To this point, we have studied films in which adult male protagonists traverse professionally lit sound-stages and back-lots adhering to a dramatic script with a clear beginning, middle and end, often containing a B-story where the guy tries to get the girl. It is the clear-cut studio-era formula to film-making.

The 400 Blows (1959) spits on this hallowed recipe, starring a young boy living a realistic life devoid of the melodrama golden age Hollywood is known for. The natural lighting and lack of built sets add to this realism, as the entirety of the film appears to be shot on location. There is no phony Casablanca backdrop or constructed apartment courtyard in this film; only Paris. In regards to the story, The 400 Blows is an example of the French New Wave’s “anti-narrative” approach, to use Craig Phillips’s term. There is no dramatic inciting incident. There is no death or romance, nor is there a coincidental clashing of fates as is the case with Sunset Boulevard (1950). The story is simply about an adolescent who often gets in trouble and must deal with the consequences dealt by his aloof parents and cruel teacher. It is a movie with low stakes where things just happen. There are no grand beats dictating where the story should go, only the decisions of realistically drawn out characters in a logical setting.

The film has no room for sentimentality. None of the maudlin morals of Casablanca (1942) or the melodrama of Sunset Boulevard are present here. The closest thing to romance in The 400 Blows is the boys’ prepubescent fascination with pinups of nude women. The family dynamic presented in the movie is even more depraved, with an adulterous mother who views her own son as a mistake and a bumbling father who seems more intent on finding his Michelin magazine than he does sympathizing with his son. Moreover, the film’s turn to a rough life on the streets is even more raw, as young Antoine finds himself sleeping in printing presses and stealing milk.

All these features culminate in an open-ended finale, something absent from Citizen Kane (1941) and Sunset Boulevard, films that neatly end with the finality of protagonists’ deaths (in the case of the former, a character’s whole life story coming to a conclusion, since Kane’s death started the film but the viewer only understands the full picture watching Rosebud burn in flames). The ending isn’t a happy one either, as is the case with the hopeful climax of Casablanca or the content resolution of Rear Window (1954). The 400 Blows ends with Antoine achieving one of his dreams: seeing the sea, something he thought would be reserved for his time in the Navy. Yet, when he arrives at the beach, he does not feel satisfied, seemingly looking to the audience for answers. The movie ends with an unconventional editing technique, the freeze-frame, dwelling on the Antoine’s face. His expression, much like the ending, is ambiguous, leaving the viewer wondering that the past hour and forty minutes was truly about.

The 400 Blows was one of the influential films that opened a door for more complexity in cinema. That is not to say all movies before the New Wave were formulaic and simple. Rather, there was need for an artistic change. The studio formula was great for mainstream commercial successes but left much to be desired for artistic endeavors. Francois Truffaut provides a breath of fresh air, even now as the market continues to be and will always be dominated by formulaic commercial investments. For this reason, The 400 Blows still holds up.

In a world where the mainstream never dries up, the New Wave will always be new.

Surprises are often what makes a story compelling. The various twists and reveals throughout the course of two-hour tale are what make movie-watching an unpredictable experience. If everything were explained in the first ten minutes of a film, there’d be no reason to continue watching. Things must be hidden for the viewer to discover with the protagonist. This isn’t to say everything must be in the dark, as when the truth is revealed without any forewarning, it feels unearned. Partial obscurity is one of the key rules of design. To use a crude example from neuroscientist V.S Ramachandran, a woman who is only partially clothed is more appealing to voyeurs rather than a wholly naked woman. The promise that there is something more yet just out of reach is what makes the former image more engaging.

Alfred Hitchcock utilizes this artistic principle quite handily in Rear Window (1954) by strictly limiting himself to one strict perspective. Jeff is stuck in his apartment with a broken leg, viewing the events of the neighborhood around him from a fixed position. Not only is this convenient for budget reasons (the set is just a single sound-stage), but it also disarms the protagonist in what he can see, and in effect disarming the viewer. Thrills and suspense ensue from this limited perspective, as only so much information can be revealed from this point of view.

This restriction also feeds into Jeff’s conflict. A photographer who’s used to getting the perfect shot and doing anything he can to achieve it, he finds himself unable to do what he loves. This perfect shot is one that tells an entire story from just looking at it, i.e a racing accident or two men standing outside a plane. Jeff no longer has a perfect shot put in front of him, an issue that transcends to the level of busting a murderer. This struggle for a beneficial perspective is the source of the film’s excitement.

It’s an excitement Jeff lacks in his relationship with Lisa at the start of the film. A socialite who is living the easy life, she appears to be rather bland. This is implicitly communicated when she turns on all the lamps in Jeff’s apartment, revealing everything in sight. Contrast this to when Lisa is recovering Mrs. Thorwald’s wedding ring, a scene where Jeff is concerned for her safety as she appears in and out of sight behind various walls and in different windows. Lisa shows her true development in an exciting heroine when she hides the wedding ring from Mr. Thorwald on her own hand. She’s learned the appeal of subversive obscurity.

This partial obscurity is also showcased by Jeff’s neighbors. The dancer Miss Torso is often showed partially clothed, appearing as a direct analogue to Ramachandran’s example. The sculptor Miss Hearing Aid crafts a statue called Hunger, which has a gaping hole in its stomach. The songwriter and Miss Lonelyhearts lack a significant other, the former coming from a bad marriage according to Jeff’s suspicions and the latter convinced she’ll forever be alone, so much so she almost kills herself via overdose. This example in particular is a compelling B-plot, as the two end up completing each other when the songwriter’s music saves Miss Lonelyhearts. The resolution via completion is much more rewarding when the lack or obscurity is made prominent throughout the story.

What at first to appears to be a weakness is actually a boon to Rear Window. The viewer pieces together the mystery of Mrs. Thorwald’s death by seeing mere fragments of a bigger story, only made visible through open window-frames, or in film-making lingo, Hitchcock’s manipulation of the camera’s frame. By withholding the perfect summarizing shot that Jeff is so accustomed to, secrets and reveals can now take place, leading to a suspenseful thriller. Seeing less of the film’s full story is what makes it so compelling. The allure of Ramachandran’s partially clothed woman is at the source of this movie’s appeal.

Knowing Hitchcock’s infamous treatment of female actors, I shouldn’t be so surprised.

Sunset Boulevard (1950) is a critique of Hollywood’s artificiality and manipulation of ambitious youth trying to make it big. The obvious example is the film’s star Norma Desmond, an aged actress from the Silent Era hoping to make a “return” (not a comeback, as she’ll “reprimand” you for the slightest implication of inferiority) to the big screen. Her former the director, the very real Cecil B. DeMille, described Norma as “courageous” at the age of 17, and that it only became difficult to work with her near the end. She became too big for the screen, her ego inflated by the shallow reward that is stardom, and eventually, the industry moved on without her. In short, Hollywood ate her up and spat her out, leaving Norma psychologically scarred.

But she isn’t the only character in the film who is confronted with this conflict. At the beginning of the movie, Joe can’t sell a good script despite his writing two stories a week. He feels his ideas are no longer original, as he’s been pressured by the industry to write B-movies for most of his career, having long abandoned his older and more original work. To make matters worse, Joe has to flee repo-men because he’s behind on his payments. Here, the industry seems as if it is about to spit Joe out as it did Norma, forcing him to go back to Dayton, Ohio with only his dead dream to show for his efforts.

Until the two leads meet. Although they are very different, Joe and Norma share an abusive relationship with Hollywood. Both entered with a dream, and both refuse to leave until that dream comes true. Speaking of dreams, the couple seems to overlook a special lesson about them, even if it is written in print on a projector screen. Watching one of Norma’s classic silent movies, the two view a young Norma praying, an innocent look in her eyes. The following subtitle reads, “Cast out this wicked dream that has seized my heart.” And so the film’s antagonist has revealed itself: the wicked dream of making it big that warps people’s minds and tortures their emotions.

It is clear how the dream scarred Norma, transforming her into a grandstanding egoist stuck over 20 years ago in the past. The same goes for Joe, a weathered cynic who’s ideas no longer sell and is now scamming a delusional middle-aged woman by editing her melodramatic screenplay. Max is another example, a former director now working as a manservant to Norma while also staging perhaps one of his great fantasies: the ongoing fame of Norma Desmond. By fabricating fan letters and obeying her every command, Max seems to have lost all sense of self.

The three live in a large yet hollow palace, similar to Xanadu in Citizen Kane (1941). A perfect visual metaphor for the film industry, the house is grand on the outside but truly empty on the inside, containing only huge egos (Norma), bootlickers (Max) and manipulators (Joe). Norma’s ancient car is another visual symbol, a gas guzzling giant (“ten gallons to a mile”, Joe estimates) that, though exotic at first, is not truly worth it. Her pool is an empty abyss, its only inhabitants at the start being a few rats, whom may very well represent the inhabitants of the palace themselves. This especially is a clear indicator of the wicked dream, as Joe comments at the start of the movie that “he always wanted a pool.” That was the goal, the endgame: luxury and prosperity. At the false victory in the film’s midpoint, that pool is filled with water as Joe goes for a swim. That water is only false hope, one he eventually dies in after being shot thrice by Norma.

There is one positive character in Betty, a failed young actress turned script-reader and aspiring writer. She went through numerous trials to make it big as an actress, taking acting classes, diction lessons, and even fixing her slanted nose. However, Betty just wasn’t good enough, so she settled for being on the other side of the camera. For the film’s other characters, this would be the end for her but she persists in her pursuit of the dream. Betty starts out the opposite as Norma, an untalented actress nowhere near as “courageous” as Norma was in her youth. In fact, she’s timid, fearing she can’t write a good movie on her own. If there’s a clear analog to Betty’s character, it’s the young Norma in the aforementioned silent movie, a truly innocent girl.

However, she is imperiled throughout the film. Not by greedy studio executives or agents but by Joe as the two enter into a love affair, despite Betty being engaged to Artie. Yet another wicked dream Hollywood presents, it at first seems glamorous, as is evidenced by their walk through film sets and sound-stages portraying fantastical locations. Unfortunately, these are just that: sets, homes of fiction. Joe does what is perhaps is most noble deed in the film, breaking it off with Betty and urging her to follow a real dream. That is, her fiance in Arizona. Joe and Betty’s romance is a delusion that only hurt them.

And so Betty escapes Hollywood, leaving towards a happy ending. At least, happier than her fellow characters.

Joe is about to escape as well, realizing he can’t live from delusion to delusion, whether it’s writing scripts for executives or a crazed narcissist. He swallows his pride and packs to return to Dayton…until Norma shoots him dead.

The iconic ending of Sunset Boulevard best sums up the film’s dilemma. Norma remains forever entranced by the dream, still performing before stern policemen and hungry journalists. Max still plays along, acting as a director one more time in ordering the the cameras and lights to be fixed on her. She approaches the camera, getting closer and closer. It’s as if her words earlier in the film have come true: she truly is big, “it’s the pictures that got small.”

But at what cost? For the illusion of fame? It is tempting. Norma truly seems to be happy during her return to studio 18, when many of her old industry friends greet her. Attention sustains her. It’s a drug, one she got hooked on early in her career. And like any vice, it’s slowly led to her destruction. It has seized her by the heart.

Norma Desmond becomes yet another victim of that wicked dream.