Skip to main content

The Making of "Sunset Boulevard"

 It's no wonder that Sondheim was drawn to "Sunset Boulevard." The story of a queen without a crown is also the story of "Gypsy." But "Gypsy" doesn't end with a blood bath -- and Sondheim accepted Billy Wilder's argument that "Sunset" is really an operatic tragedy, not fit for a Broadway stage.


(Unless "Sunset" is a comedy? One critic observes that a comedy ends with the protagonists getting what they want. Norma wants a closeup--and Joe wants a swimming pool. Both dreams are fulfilled.)

The biggest treat in David Lubin's new book is its discussion of Billy Wilder. As a child in Vienna, Wilder learned that his father had a secret family; this was never "brought to the light." Wilder had a talent for storytelling but not for the English language--so he began listening obsessively to radio dramas. He wanted to train himself. Then, the dazzling highs: "Ninotchka," "Double Indemnity," "The Long Weekend." (Fred MacMurry had no issue with playing the venal criminal in "Indemnity," but he wouldn't touch the role of Joe Gillis. He thought the image of "gigolo" sex would ruin his career.) In Hollywood, you're only as successful as your last picture--and Wilder followed "Weekend" with two flops. "Sunset Boulevard" was a comeback for Wilder. ("Not a COMEBACK. I HATE that word.")

When "Ace in the Hole" failed, Wilder decided he would make only "less challenging" films. But even this resolution didn't fully tarnish his artistic genius. He was still able to release "Some Like It Hot," "The Apartment," "Irma la Douce." One error Wilder made was to swear off Charles Brackett after "Sunset." The collaboration with Brackett had been inspired, because Brackett kept Wilder's cynicism under control. (This makes me think of Fosse and Schwartz working on "Pippin." One mindset was "darker" than the other, but the friction was actually helpful; the friction lent an interesting sense of tension to the story.)

Lubin's book is just really fun.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...