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1950 was a momentous year for film — so prolific, in fact, that it engendered one of the most divisive and competitive Best Actress races in the Academy’s history. The two major contenders, Gloria Swanson and Bette Davis, boasted powerhouse performances that not only centered themselves around the industry, but happened to temporarily revive the stardom that had long escaped them both. Ironically, both ended up losing to Judy Holliday.
Left: Publicity featuring Swanson as Norma Desmond for SUNSET BOULEVARD; Right: Davis pictured as she appears in ALL ABOUT EVE, as Margo Channing
ALL ABOUT EVE secured Davis her first Oscar nomination since MR. SKEFFINGTON in 1945 — a stroke of luck, considering she was a last minute replacement for Claudette Colbert. A kinder coincidence could not have befallen Davis, who had left Warner’s after a seventeen year stint. Her appeal was waning, particularly as a woman past the age of forty. Few roles at the time lent themselves to older women — and the ones that typically did weren’t exactly flattering. Margo Channing, however, stands as a youthful beacon of sex compared to another aging diva who debuted that year –the infamous Norma Desmond, the role embodied so immaculately by Swanson in SUNSET BOULEVARD. Norma is kooky, reclusive, and has been out of favor for a considerable amount of time. She’s far past her prime, whereas Margo is just broaching the crest of hers. Unlike Norma, she is still in high demand and earning leading roles: however, she knows her time is more than limited.
Margo and Norma, then, epitomize two distinctly different phases that illustrate the parabolic lifespan of a female star. The potency of this inescapable phenomenon is so great that even variables of considerable measure — like the medium of performance in question — are ultimately rendered trite and inconsequential. Margo Channing teeters, in all her inebriated bravado, on the apex of her career. It’s a haunting limbo which Davis captures with all the brilliance and subtlety that is not so often typical of her performances. Margot is loud, flamboyant, and confident on the stage, but somber off screen moments reveal her insurmountable anxieties about what is yet to come. In a strange, counterintuitive twist, it is not the unknown that worries her, but rather the inexorable knowledge that her best days are now behind her. Temporarily suspended in a state of uncomfortable omniscience, she is all too well aware of the fact that her greatest years are long behind her.
Her ability to recognize this definitive turning point in her career’s trajectory — despite her reluctance to acknowledge it formally — demonstrates that Margo, while plenty troubled and histrionic, has at least retained enough of her faculties so as to engage with reality. Despite the damning, portentous nature of her omen, she remains clear and cognizant in her understanding of fate. It is well beyond her control, an integral part of life and death in a lifestyle in which she elected to partake. In fact, beneath the cleverly strewn rushes of snappy dialogue and moody cinematography, ALL ABOUT EVE, at heart, details the inescapable perils of aging, commenting all at once not only on the superficiality of the industry but also reaffirming that even the seemingly immortal decay with time and age. The narrative allows for Margo to undergo a fully immersive transformation in which she not only accepts the state of her career, but is able to make peace with it and conversely reappropriate her energy and focus into other chambers of her life. While Eve’s sycophantic and disingenuous persona undoubtedly creates torrents of trouble for Margo and her peers, it ultimately plays a strong role in rehabilitating her ego and obstinance. Had Eve never fatefully entered the dressing room on that cold and rainy evening, Margo may have never come to such a realization — and if she did, it would have occurred considerably later without the aid of a catalyst.
Conversely, Norma Desmond embodies the woman Margo may have become had she never confronted her mortality in any way, shape, or form. Whether this was a conscious or unconscious measure can only be inferred, but is innocuous in the grand scheme of things. Norma, unlike Margo, has taken the post purgatorial plunge, careening speedily into the moribund phase of her career. Gloria Swanson plays her with searing intensity that slowly builds until it reaches a roaring crescendo, expertly capturing her downward descent into delusion. Every gesture is hyperbolic: maddeningly arched brows, and sweeping gesticulations. Norma possesses all the grand extravagance and theatricality of Margo, with one critical divergence — she has long since lost her ability to recognize the tenuous though ultimately distinctive thresholds where reality bleeds into fantasy. Her introduction solidifies this notion, and in turn kindles the viewer’s interest by intimating that her madness, though presently existent, always wasn’t so. SUNSET BOULEVARD masterfully leaves this point cloaked in ambiguity, offering no hints or insights into what may or may not have engendered this collapse of perception.
A continual reluctance borne of ego, ageism, and the inexorable forward momentum of contemporary culture is the main culprit in Norma’s undoing. Though increasingly irrelevant, her residual wealth continues to afford her all the bells and whistles of the life she enjoyed in her prime. This financial security prevents her from ever having to fathom the possibility of a life stark of privilege, and additionally establishes her as an arbitrary figurehead. Hollywood and the outside world may have long since evolved past the days of silent pictures, but Norma’s legacy and opulence assures that she can still enjoy the lifestyle of a star, even if it’s limited to her own dystopian premises. So long as she has something, the illusion can survive and continue to prosper. The longer it runs, the more lethal its seemingly innocuous implications become. Entitlement is no longer a harmless byproduct, but a precarious variable that invokes enmity upon its renouncement or denial.
Norma’s situation is exceptionally tragic in the sense that it cannot ever truly be mitigated without complete and total self destruction. One may wonder if it is morally just to entertain her deranged visions of grandeur — as her lover-turned-butler Max does — but would the opposite prove any better? At best, Max’s capitulation is a selfless act of sacrifice and irrefutable proof that his feelings for her live on, even if it’s now more pity than love. To abandon Norma and her fantasies would unleash a vicious torrent of chaos, fortified by collision of her egomania and willful blindness in their last vain efforts to protect her innocence. On the contrary, Margo’s boyfriend, Bill, would never exhibit such deference were the tables to be turned. What, then, does that say of his character? Is his love for Margo less than Max’s love for Norma? Or can such comparisons even be drawn, particularly when the situations are hypothetical? What can be said, though, is that Bill is of a completely different temperament than Max. Nobody can say for certain how he may react if Margo were to lose her grasp on reality, but it’s a difficult reach to envision him abdicating his manhood — and happiness — just to appease his wife.
Margo and Bill (Gary Merrill)
Norma, flanked to her left by Max (Erich von Stroheim)
Though there’s no equating film and theatre aside from the fact that both serve as conduits for performance, Norma Desmond could easily have been Margo Channing in another lifetime — or better yet, Margo Channing may still lose her footing, unable to bear the growing burden of recognizing that her fame is continuing to collapse within itself, fated to diminish until it’s but one of many specks of obscurity that populate the bountiful galaxies of stars. To survive in some sense of the word, one must adapt. And adapt Margo and Norma do, though in strikingly disparate ways.
Their philosophy (and consequently, perception) of living is best imagined as a sort of inverse reflection gone askew. Margo, though inarguably drawn to the spotlight, craves the intensely human need of being seen, felt, and above all, understood. She’s had to manipulate her way through life, shaping false visages so as to appease and indulge those around her while concurrently working them to her advantage. Though her work is brilliant, she feels hollow, trapped in an inescapable realm of superficiality. Her yearning to vocalize this is hampered by her rather turgid sense of self importance, and it is this central conflict that perpetuates the misery both in her personal and professional life. Being a chameleon is her trade; malleability is her stock. Yet, she is unable to accept that these factors define an actor and not a human. Bill is as mundane as men come, alienated by Margo’s inadvertence to authenticity, and pines for a more human connection. Margo, despite wanting the same, is unable to comprehend how to rectify such a schism because she is swathed in the thick fog of her own convictions.
Margo has a moment of reckoning, sandwiched between Karen (Celeste Holm) and Lloyd (Hugh Marlowe) Richards.
Thus, Margo struggles to keep time to the rhythm of reality in a particular sense. Her devotion to her craft has served as both an outlet for escapism but also an all-encapsulating excuse that has spared her from ever having to view herself as a vulnerable, impressionable being. Fear is her core motivator in wanting to pursue a stage career, and when paired with obstinance, drive, and talent, yields a palpable pathway to fame. She has everything she desires (most importantly, control) save for the genuine ability to savor and partake in a mutually beneficial romance. She’s aware that her domineering nature complicates the issue, but still is reluctant to make any sacrifice on her end for something that may only ever amount to a failed possibility.
The skew comes into play when one examines Norma. Like Margo, she possesses the integral traits needed to succeed in the industry — ego, talent, and unbridled ambition — but a subconscious, parasitic notion that her days have long past sabotages her every action. As a result, she must be constantly desired and praised in order to propel the willful blindness that ushers her onward. Ascribing to a hermetic lifestyle, while arguably conjuring some sense of public allure, consequently denies her the affection of the public sphere. Whether she’d still inspire notoriety remains inconclusive at best thanks to the era and its relative confines in relation to media exposure. In 1950, cinema was still a very young medium, and despite having shed the skin of former phases (in her case, the Silent Era), it wasn’t quite old enough yet to develop a reflective and appreciative conscience of its own. It correlates to the great revival that befell the stars of the 30s and 40s in the late 20th century, a phenomenon that in turn was ushered in by television, a new and widespread means of dissemination.
Norma alongside unlucky houseguest Joe Gillis (William Holden). When he ultimately cannot grant her the love she desires of him, the great dam gives way to tumult.
The synergistic nature of the celebrity has undergone a wide and varied transformation from its inception (which ultimately predates cinema). A large portion of the coveted elusiveness has been lost to the increasingly invasive practices of modern media. Think of an ordinary man in 1930, where he enjoyed the freedom to exist without constantly having to attend to instant correspondence. The phone was there should he need it, but otherwise the general lifestyle of the day afforded a rather spacious window of personal maneuvering and independence. Consider that same person living in today’s world and age. Assimilation into modern society practically forbids self isolation. We function in a high tech world that primes us for instant gratification in all realms, communication amongst them. It’s nearly unfathomable to consider how a celebrated personality in today’s day and age is able to simply exist without complications. Paparazzi, yellow journalism, and interactive social media are three realms of stardom that cannot be avoided. Of course, their intensity is contingent on the star’s popularity — but had the Joan Crawfords, Jean Harlows, and Carole Lombards existed in today’s day and age, their stature would easily rank amongst the most exclusive coterie of luminaries.
Of course, the resulting environment is undoubtedly toxic for both parties, the consumers (fans) and producers (stars). However, anomalies exist and thus challenge consistent trends of behaviors. Breeding star power with interactive accessibility produces a potency that often finds itself conducive and sympathetic to big names of yesteryear. Platforms such as Twitter, Instagram, and other forms of social media allow for facile discovery and rediscovery of content with the added, fortuitous potential of “going viral.” If anything, both films offer a viscerally cutting view of the psyche’s fragility, explicit in their dissection of a woman razed by fame. Mutual desires, such as distinction, run a gamut of originating motivations. For some, it may be as simple as wanting to enjoy the craft of acting; for others, a crutch to temporarily abate a debilitating need for attention and belonging. Those who are self-actualized with a strong sense of self are able to remain grounded through the innumerable highs and lows, taking blows without complaint for they understand it’s a part of the package deal in which they elected to be. Others, of a delicate composure or undone by a gnawing sense of inadequacy, are unable to accept or confront the negatives. Stardom for them, is a temperamental drug — when it works to their advantage, it brings a high unparalleled. But when the grittier aspects rise up — and they do have to rise — it threatens the very pedestal upon which they have built to protect their inner selves. The reaction is often intense and instinctual — like a mother protecting her young, the celebrity must ensure that her persona remains intact, unmarred by influences outside of their control.
Margo is someone who is grounded in her understanding of fame. She relishes the good aspects, but also does not dispute the ill ones when they ultimately come her way. She is able to step outside her own domain and understand how her own insecurities have alienated those closest to her, and despite her own troubles, is able to achieve a moment of perspicuity. The film follows her journey to first confront, then accept the fact that her days of being a beloved institution of the theatre are numbered. Though there are several times where she nearly submits to willful blindness, she never does, and formidably trudges through a harsh and rude awakening that ultimately allows for her to grapple with her image and mortality.
In real life, Bette Davis eschewed such a route, continuing to press onward until the few weeks preceding her death at 81 in 1989. To say Bette harbored the same delusions as Norma, however, is also untrue. Incidentally, she falls somewhere between the two characters in her own personal philosophy and relationship with her fame. Davis had no objection to her mortality, and never entertained any preposterous notions that she’d achieve a grand revival — she never enjoyed the idolatry of silent stars, having made her debut in 1931, but she was unmistakably an obsolete property by the 1960s, when New Hollywood was encroaching upon the decomposing Hays Code. There would be no use for washed up, aged, Hollywood hasbeens in this new epoch of cinema — Davis saw the writing on the wall well ahead of time. Even still, she remained ever the squeaky wheel, often submitting to exploitative roles at the expense to keep herself somewhat relevant and financially afloat. It’s impossible to truly and wholly know the catalogue of motivations that spurred Bette in such a direction as she can only speak for herself, but it’s certainly an interesting thing on which to postulate.
Bette Davis in a still from WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE?
Swanson appeared to elude the collective hardships of both Margo and Norma all-together, and the bulk of the proof lies there within her casting as Norma. Casting was a long and formidable process, and with it came considerable change in direction and timbre. Originally, Wilder was set to direct the picture as a comedy, with Mae West in the titular role. Once he was no longer associated with the project, it was agreed that the comedic register would be ditched altogether in favor of a darker noir. Suddenly, the role of Norma Desmond became somewhat of an anathema, a grim representation of those that time and fame abandoned. Nobody wanted to be associated with such a role for two pivotal reasons — for fear of doing irreparable damage to their career, and for fear of becoming the woman whom they would be embodying. Mary Pickford and Greta Garbo, two legendary names considered for the role, vehemently eschewed all and any involvement. But Swanson, on the contrary, reacted differently. She, too, was one of their contemporaries — an actress who enjoyed her greatest success in the silent era, but also successfully transitioned to making sound pictures. Born in 1899 and half a century at the time of production, Swanson held no qualms about the role and any contingent implications.
Though SUNSET would garner roaring accolades all around (including Swanson’s third and final nomination for Best Actress), it failed to properly reignite her screen career. Her Hollywood swan song came just two years later, a technicolor B flop by the name of THREE FOR BEDROOM “C.” Any momentum Swanson may have garnered was quickly put to rest on account of poor scripts and unappealing roles on which she wisely passed. Aside from one prosaic Italian feature released in 1956, Swanson’s epoch as a leading lady had come to a close. While it is inarguably a tragedy that the nature of the industry and times weren’t conducive to the needs of older women (something that unfortunately still holds up today), it ultimately afforded Swanson the opportunity to preserve her dignity and legacy. The rest of her screen appearances are composed of glorified cameos such as AIRPORT 1975. It was a genius and fail-proof means of self-preservation and promotion, a way to revitalize her star persona that ensured success without compromising her integrity as an artist. Sure, such films were a far cry from being cinematic masterstrokes, but their star-studded cast both abated and distributed any consequential humiliation generated. Swanson was smart in her career ambitions until the end, choosing her vehicles wisely so as not to detract from her image. SUNSET BOULEVARD had been an unexpected boon, catapulting her back into the public sphere of admired luminaries. Such prestige was extremely coveted and for good reason — why taint it by taking on unnecessary risks that would never pay off?
Advertisement promoting AIRPORT 1975
Such a question should have been posited to Davis, who took the opposite approach in regards to perpetuating her career. Like Swanson, Davis enjoyed a cinematic renaissance after the success of EVE — various setbacks, both personal and professional, stagnated her career in the mid 1940s. At 42, she resurfaced as the glamorous Margo Channing, cynically chewing and spitting out acerbic dialogue with more edge than ever before. Davis may have been a decade younger than Swanson, but that did not spare her the perils of aging. Alas, this did not deter her from pursuing leading roles, all of which grew increasingly demoralizing with each passing year. The woman who had built her notoriety on refusing scripts and fighting suspensions was now chasing them with newfound vigor borne of desperation. Her releases immediately post Eve, much akin to Swanson’s, failed to live up to the hype of their predecessor. With options dwindling in size and frequency, Davis took to the stage. Her endeavors would unfortunately prove futile. Between poor reception and two debilitating health crises, Davis was forced to retreat from the stage and screen for the greater portion of the 50s. She would go three years without making a picture, returning in 1955 to reprise her role as Queen Elizabeth. Despite the strength of her performance, Davis continued to flounder. Her catalogue speaks for itself: aside from THE CATERED AFFAIR (1956), the remainder of her performances were parts of minimal importance. Her despondence would reach its apex in 1962, after another failed bout on stage, prompting Davis to publish her infamous ad in Variety magazine. “Mother of three .. mobile and still more affable than rumor would have it … wants steady employment in Hollywood (has had Broadway).”
The ad in question.
Davis later dismissed her actions as a publicity stunt, giving a performance on par with her Oscar-winning vehicles JEZEBEL and DANGEROUS. Whether she was fooling herself remains unknown, but it was impossible to trick the sharp-eyed and perceptive public. Her efforts ultimately helped her to land the role of the titular Baby Jane Hudson in WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE? (1962), but it would be her final hurrah. Baby Jane marked the beginning of the end of Bette Davis’ career, and only served to usher in a flurry of reductive knockoffs that ultimately framed her as the butt of the joke. Willful blindness or not, it’s impossible not to admire her gall and drive; and it is also equally important to note that Davis had a much different outlook on stardom than did Swanson and other contemporaries of the era. Davis famously decried glamour, taking pride in her nerve and ability to tackle unconventional roles. To her, relevancy was far more important than a manicured image. Originally one of the principal tenets of Davis’ career outlook, it too fell victim to the ravages of age — the impenetrable pillars that once hoisted her higher than the heavens were cracked and crumbling in a race against time. While they never collapsed in her lifetime, evidence of the façade having been broken was increasingly apparent. Increasingly self-conscious and self-critical, Davis continued to take on every project tossed her way but approached each one with increasing hesitance, the bulk of which perched upon her age. Even Bette Davis, the self-declared anti-movie star, eventually succumbed to the temptations of cosmetic surgery. But who can truly blame her, in an industry that is as damning as it is rewarding in its exploitation of women?
The greatest ironic triumph of both EVE and SUNSET is that both remain impervious to age despite obsequiously belonging to the age of yesteryear. Both were prescient and remain a poignant portrait of the collision of gender, perception, and stardom, seemingly accepting their inevitable fates of being doomed to obscurity long before anybody else could grapple with such a reality. They uniquely broach the threshold of life and art, spelling the fates of their leads in a way that is equal parts insightful and tragic. It is, above all, a not so gentle reminder that all things exist ephemerally, a common unifying thread to which everybody can relate.
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