Ryan “Professor Horror” Terry teaches film studies and screenwriting at the University of Tampa. He holds graduate and undergraduate degrees in film and media studies. He has regularly published film reviews since 2014 and has been a featured speaker at Tampa Bay Comic Con, Spooky Empire, and the historic Tampa Theatre. His work has appeared in both political and entertainment magazines.
Film scoring in the 1970s was nothing short of revolutionary. This was a decade in which composers and filmmakers experimented with sound in bold, unprecedented ways. Sweeping orchestras still had their place, but they now shared the stage with eerie minimalism, jazz-infused soundscapes, synthesizers, and even progressive rock. The result was a period of extraordinary breadth and innovation—one that gave us some of the most iconic film music ever written.
At the heart of this decade stood John Williams and Jerry Goldsmith, two composers who dominated in very different ways. Williams revived the lush, symphonic tradition and brought it back to the masses with scores that became cultural phenomena. Goldsmith, meanwhile, was the chameleon—endlessly inventive, prolific, and daring, whether working with avant-garde techniques, electronic experimentation, or lyrical orchestrations. Yet the decade was not defined by them alone. Outsiders like Goblin, with their phantasmagorical score for Suspiria, or directors such as John Carpenter, who electrified horror with nothing more than a chilling piano rhythm in Halloween, proved that iconic film music could be born outside the studio system. Jazz, soul, and early R&B also found their way into major works, mirroring the diverse cultural pulse of the era.
The soundscape of the 1970s was one where tradition collided with innovation. Bernard Hermann closed out his legendary career with Taxi Driver, a jazz-infused urban nightmare that distilled both character and city into sound. Jerry Goldsmith, the consummate innovator, moved effortlessly from the operatic choral terror of The Omen to the avant-garde dissonance of Alien and the melancholy trumpet of Chinatown—not to mention his enduring Star Trek theme, launched in The Motion Picture. Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells, adapted for The Exorcist, demonstrated that minimalist rock could chill as deeply as any orchestra. And Williams resurrected the grand symphonic tradition with Jaws and Star Wars, reintroducing sweeping themes and leitmotifs to a new generation. Taken together, these works made the 1970s both a bridge and a launchpad: honoring the past while daring to explore the future.
Audiences witnessed a resurgence of the full-bodied symphonic score, reviving the golden-age practice of leitmotif-driven composition. But while many scores channeled old Hollywood, these same scores were blazing new trails–trails that future filmmakers would tread and further develop in their own voices. Yet the 1970s were hardly a return to tradition alone. From fragmented jazz and abrasive brass to minimalist repetition that conveyed inevitability, film scores proved that music could disturb and destabilize as effectively as it could uplift. Musical expressions across a wide spectrum were represented and fused throughout the decade. This eclecticism was witnessed in the integration of jazz, rock, and popular styles into film scoring. Jazz, long associated with improvisation and urban grit, seeped into dramas and thrillers, while progressive rock and folk elements brought an otherworldly quality to European cinema.
This embrace of contemporary genres reflected the cultural currents of the 1970s, when popular music increasingly shaped the everyday soundscape. Although electronic instruments are often associated with the 1980s, experimentation with synthesizers truly began in the 1970s. By blending traditional compositional techniques with new technology, composers created atmospheres that felt immense, uncanny, and otherworldly. Horror, in particular, became the proving ground for these sonic experiments. From the satanic choral grandeur of The Omen to the eerie repetition of The Exorcist, the avant-garde unease of Alien, and the surrealism of Suspiria, horror films became laboratories for innovation—setting trends that rippled across genres.
The eclecticism of 1970s film scoring mirrored the turbulence and transformation of American life during that same decade. The United States was navigating a shifting cultural landscape—post-Vietnam disillusionment, Watergate’s erosion of political trust, an energy crisis, and social movements that challenged the norms of race, gender, and identity. Just as the nation was renegotiating its sense of self, film music was renegotiating its role in storytelling. The return of grand symphonic scores reflected a yearning for stability, heroism, and mythmaking in a time of uncertainty. At the same time, the rise of dissonance, minimalism, and electronic experimentation resonated with audiences living through an era of anxiety and rapid change. Just as the decade was defined by eclectic fashion, political unrest, and artistic upheaval, so too was its film music characterized by hybridity, boldness, and the breaking of old rules. The cinema became a cultural mirror, wherein the nation’s contradictions—fear and hope, nostalgia and progress, tradition and innovation—were set to music.
The 1970s also reasserted film scores as cultural touchstones, in ways not witnessed since Herrmann’s Psycho. John Williams work and name became instantly recognizable beyond the movie theatre, entering the cultural lexicon in a way few film scores had before. Jerry Goldsmith pushed the boundaries of what film music could evoke, Nino Rota created hauntingly elegant themes with operatic weight. Meanwhile, Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells proved that a minimalist rock piece could achieve global recognition and forever alter the sound of horror. Collectively, these works and more reestablished film music not merely as background support, but as a defining element of a film’s identity—inseparable from its success and enduring in the popular imagination.
The 1970s forever changed how we would hear cinema.
This week, on my show ReelTalk on WKGC Public Media, I sat down with music professor Dr. Steven DiBlasi to countdown our Top Ten Film Scores of the 1970s. Our respective lists both aligned and diverged, covering the wide spectrum of great, memorable film music that was the 1970s. Below, you will find our respective Top 10 lists, but for the full conversation (approx 1hr), you’ll want to listen to the episode!
More, just search WKGC Public Media in your podcast service of choice
Top 10 Film Scores of the 1970s
Mine (Ryan’s)
Dr. DiBlasi’s
10. Taxi Driver (Bernard Herrmann, 1976)
9. The Godfather (Nino Rota, 1972)
8. Chinatown (Jerry Goldsmith, 1974)
7. The Omen (Jerry Goldsmith, 1976)
6. Alien (Jerry Goldsmith, 1979)
5. Star Wars (John Williams, 1977)
4. Jaws (John Williams, 1975)
3. Suspiria (Goblin, 1977)
2. Halloween (John Carpenter, 1978)
1. The Exorcist (Mike Oldfield, 1973)
10. The Petrified Forest (Toro Takemitsu, 1973)
9. Days of Heaven (Ennio Morricone, 1978)
8. Space is the Place (Sun Ra, 1974)
7. A Clockwork Orange (Wendy Carlos, 1971)
6. Don’t Look Now (Pino Donaggio, 1973)
5. Shaft (Isaac Hayes, 1971)
4. Taxi Driver (Bernard Hermann, 1976)
3. Chinatown (Jerry Goldsmith, 1974)
2. Hurricane (Nino Rota, 1979)
1. Star Trek: TMP (Jerry Goldsmith, 1979)
Ultimately, the 1970s was a transformative decade of film music, both a bridge and a launchpad. It bridged the golden age of orchestral scoring with the bold experimentation of the modern era, while launching the blockbuster tradition and electronic innovation that would dominate the decades to come. The eclecticism of 1970s film music remains its hallmark, and its influence can still be heard in how cinema sounds today.
Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio show ReelTalk “where you can join the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry
The screenplay should be exercised of the demons plaguing the narrative. While The Conjuring: Last Rites offers initial intrigue and a moderately compelling performative dimension, what substance the story had was undercut by a proliferation of monstrous encounters.
In 1986, paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren travel to Pennsylvania to vanquish a demon from a family’s home. This case would prove to be their last.
At its outset, the film suggests a promising return to the roots of this dozen-year-old horror franchise that began in 2013, hinting at a chilling and intimate confrontation with the supernatural. The mood is suitably dark, and the premise—while familiar—has just enough mystery to draw the viewer in for what would appear to be tapping into its desire to be in the same vein as The Exorcist. For a time, it even teases the prospect of a measured, atmospheric entry into the Warrens’ saga. Unfortunately, the promise of the first act quickly gives way to a chaotic barrage of hollow frights and set-piece monsters that smother any narrative tension the film might have cultivated.
The greatest asset in the film is, without question, the lead casting of (returning) Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga and the addition of Mia Tomlinson as daughter Judy Warren and Ben Hardy as her fiancé Tony. Farmiga and Wilson remain the heart of the franchise–they are the soul reason this franchise continued for as long as it did. Their impeccable chemistry continues to play a vital role in lending credibility and weight to this story and the others in the franchise that would otherwise struggles to stay grounded. Combining Farmiga and Wilson with Tomlinson and Hardy, their collective performances carry an emotional authenticity that suggests a deeper, more resonant film lurking beneath the surface–too bad it was largely kept beneath the surface of the picture. Additionally, the supporting players, too, offer moderately compelling turns, doing what they can with material that rarely allows for nuance.
Where Last Rites falters most egregiously is in its writing—particularly in the second and third acts. What begins with threads of intrigue quickly unravels into a tangle of formulaic plot beats, ill-defined stakes, and a near-total abandonment of narrative discipline. The dialogue oscillates between expositional over-explaining and perfunctory banter, never achieving the kind of earnestness that made earlier entries memorable. By the climax, the story feels more like a theme park attraction than a descent into the occult. (Speaking of which, The Conjuring-verse would make for a fantastic Halloween Horror Nights House if an agreement between New Line Cinema and Universal Parks and Resorts could ever be reached).
Equally troubling is the film’s shallow and often misguided treatment of spiritual warfare. While The Conjuring-verse has historically dabbled in theological and metaphysical ideas, this installment offers only a cursory exploration—at times bordering on ignorance. Themes of faith, redemption, and evil are reduced to ornamental set dressing rather than being woven meaningfully into the narrative. Fundamental tenets of spiritual warfare are neglected: Scripture teaches that “demons tremble at His name” and that they cannot force a person, calling on the Lord, to take their own life or that of another—tempt, yes; coerce, no. This misunderstanding undercuts the stakes, turning spiritual conflict into spectacle rather than a profound struggle. Even William Friedkin’s The Exorcist handled these dimensions with reverence and gravity, whereas here they are clumsily exploited for empty shocks.
From a film craft perspective, the overreliance on CGI monsters is perhaps the final nail in the coffin for this horror franchise and universe. Where practical effects could have imbued the film with texture, tangibility, and dread, we are instead subjected to a parade of vapid, weightless apparitions. Without giving way to spoilers too much, there is a scene in which Lorraine is staring in to a sink that overflows with blood–CGI blood. If Kubrick could pull off the bloody elevator scene in The Shining then this movie could have used practical effects for this scene. I am not suggesting that practical effects alone would have “saved” the soul of this movies, but an increase in the degree to which practical and mechanical effects were integrated into the narrative certainly would’ve helped the movie feel more tangible. The jump scares—frequent and rarely earned—feel like mechanical interruptions rather than organic outgrowths of fear. It is horror by checklist, and it shows. By the time we arrive at the third act, nearly every scene or sequence has a series of jump scares that are predictable at best and lazy at worst. More character-driven moments and dramatic conflict would’ve been a great tool for emotional resets and plot/character development.
In the end, The Conjuring: Last Rites is neither the triumphant sendoff nor the atmospheric chiller it aspires to be. It is a film at war with its own instincts: part haunted house, part monster mash, and ultimately, part missed opportunity. All that said, it’s not a bad movie–it’s better than many of the other installments. But a franchise that needed to end with an Annabelle: Creation would up ending with an Annabelle.
Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio show ReelTalk “where you can join the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry
Lowbrow thrills, high-budget spectacle. Proof that sometimes all a B-movie needs is an A-list wallet to unleash maximum mayhem. At at one-and-a-half hours, its a fast-paced wild ride. Nobody 2 is precisely what you expect, plus you get treated to a rare appearance by big screen icon Sharon Stone.
Workaholic assassin Hutch Mansell takes his family on a much-needed vacation to the small tourist town of Plummerville. However, he soon finds himself in the crosshairs of a corrupt theme-park operator, a shady sheriff, and a bloodthirsty crime boss.
It’s as if the followup to 2021’s Nobody stumbled out of a neon-lit drive-in and somehow found itself with a blockbuster budget to burn. Where the first film offered a sly, bruised take on the “ordinary man goes berserk” formula, this sequel leans into the gleefully exaggerated: bigger fights, louder explosions, and a grin-worthy parade of bad guys to pummel. It’s still got that B-movie backbone—lean plotting, brisk runtime, and the sense that logic is secondary to spectacle—but it all works like a well-oiled machine.
While Bob Odenkirk’s Hutch delivers his outlandishly entertaining, no holds barred, logic-defying fight sequences, there’s the ace up the sleeve of Nobody 2: Sharon Stone. In a world where her film appearances have become a rare pleasure, her turn here as a campy, hyper-stylized villain is worth the ticket price alone. With every razor-edged line reading and wardrobe flourish, she seems to be savoring the role, delivering the kind of larger-than-life menace that feels ripped from the pages of a pulp novel. Stone doesn’t just play the villain—she plays with the villain, reveling in the absurdity without ever letting the stakes slip.
If the original Nobody was a gritty surprise, Nobody 2 is an unapologetic mash-up of grindhouse spirit and Hollywood muscle. It’s loud, it’s ludicrous, and it’s a fantastic time at the movies.
Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio show ReelTalk “where you can join the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry
The magic of Sunset Boulevard is still capturing the “eyes of the world” from all those “wonderful people out there in the dark” seventy-five years later.
There is little question that Billy Wilder’s masterpiece Sunset Boulevard still captures the eyes, hearts, minds, and souls of audiences seventy-five years later. It continues to stare unblinking into the soul of Hollywood—and, perhaps uncomfortably, into the faces of all those people out there in the dark. Billy Wilder’s mordant masterpiece starring Gloria Swanson as Norma Desmond endures not only because of its sharp wit, noir elegance, and unforgettable performances, but because it remains a mirror for an industry—and an audience—forever tempted to trade substance for novelty. Its barbed satire of fading stars, disposable talent, and a studio system eager to discard the past feels eerily prescient in an era when algorithms decide what stories are worth telling and studios recycle intellectual property like celluloid scraps. Watching it now, one realizes the film is not merely a relic of old Hollywood’s cynicism—it is an indictment of the complacency of contemporary audiences and the short-term greed of the modern industry. Sunset Boulevard has not grown old; it’s the world around it that has refused to grow up.
Since its release on 10th of August in 1950, it has been the inspiration to countless films. But what does it mean to you? What makes it special or stand out to you? Perhaps you just see it as an iconic film; or just maybe, you see it as representing something personal to you. From classic noir cinematography to some of the most quoted lines of all time, Norma Desmond’s spirit lives on. So much for Joe Gillis’ line about her “still waving proudly to a parade that has long since passed her by;” she is still as alive today as she ever was. Serving as a mirror to the current state of Hollywood, Billy Wilder’s film shed light on the darker side of celebrity that still haunts to this very day. This timeless movie provoked Hollywood to take a cynical and honest look at itself, and the dangerous price of stardom–especially when the star is fading into obscurity. Poignantly arriving near the end of the Golden Era (or Studio System), this cinematic masterpiece continues to be the epitome of a Hollywood and anti-Hollywood film for all eternity. Beyond what it meant historically or industry-wise, it holds meaning and significance for many who watch it. One of its strengths to withstand the test of time is the fact is its ability to connect with people visuals and emotionally. That, combined with solid technical aspects, makes for a dynamic cinema experience.
Part of what still beckons the “eyes of the world” is the movie’s ability to tell the story within a story. Gloria Swanson’s performance as Norma Desmond is so perfectly calibrated that audiences sometimes forget she was playing a role at all. Billy Wilder and Charles Brackett deliberately wove elements of Gloria Swanson’s real life into Norma’s backstory, yet the parallels are only part of the truth. Swanson was both exactly Norma Desmond and nothing like her—especially when you consider her remarkable adaptability and forward-thinking nature. She saw greatness in the character and the film, and saw this as her triumphant return to the screen in an important picture. In many ways, Gloria took a role that was essentially making a mockery of everything she once stood for. Like Norma Desmond, Swanson was one of Hollywood’s highest paid performers from the teens until the early 1930s. Following the advent of talkies in 1927 and the changes in the studio system thereafter, her career floundered. Yet, she carried herself with poise, theatricality, and unapologetic glamour—qualities that translated naturally into Norma’s imperious, otherworldly presence. If you’re looking for a real life “Norma Desmond,” then look to silent film actress May Murray—she did live in the past after her star faded, and was reported to have been rather eccentric. Gloria, however, proved that those ghosts didn’t have to haunt you if you kept moving forward. Which she did—in radio, television, theatre, fashion, and even technology.
1941: American actress Gloria Swanson (1899 – 1983) plays glamorous film star Leslie Collier in ‘Father Takes a Wife’, directed by Jack Hively. (Photo by Ernest Bachrach)
The role of Norma Desmond was originally offered to Mae West and then Mary Pickford, but both turned it down. Pickford recommended Gloria. Suffice to say, the role cannot be imagined to have been brought to life by anyone else. No one could capture the character of Norma Desmond like Gloria Swanson. Throughout the movie, we witness the psychological breakdown of a woman who is already seriously afflicted with chronic depression and even agoraphobia. I feel as though many actors, and even some industry professionals who are not performers, can truly understand what must have been going through the mind of Norma Desmond. Actually, even for those who are not involved in entertainment or media can still see someone who felt betrayed and left alone to drift away. We’ve all been there. Feeling like we have so much to give the world, our community, or to the arts, and no one to take or acknowledge it. Norma isn’t going through anything that we have not been through. Essentially, Norma’s significant other, or partner, was her celluloid self, the studio, the industry. And when her partner left her, never to return, she developed serious psychological and cognitive disorders. Each person who chooses to watch her downward spiral into insanity, should be able to identify with her on some level regarding something in their life. For Norma, it was being back on screen again. For you, it may be something else.
Fascinating elements of this story include the bewildering world of what lies between the glory and the fall of a celebrity who feels as though she built Hollywood, more specifically Paramount Studios. Never before had there been a movie that was developed around the idea of what happens to a star after they are rejected by the very business that created them. Serving as the inspiration to the opening scene of American Beauty nearly 50 years prior, Wilder set the standard in the dead body of the protagonist narrating the film. Like the fog over London, Gillis’ spirit hovers over the entire movie, narrating the course of events that lead to his demise. Joe gets to do what any of us would enjoy doing–getting to observe what happens after we die and how everyone reacts. Just like having a soundtrack to your life would be amazing, getting to narrate your story after you die would be equally, if not more so, enamoring.
William (Bill) Holden’s character of Joe Gillis is the prime representation of a starving artist. He lives in a tiny apartment, has a few credits to his name and is in danger of having his car repossessed. That describes many artists today, thus allowing other aspiring screenwriters and filmmakers to identify with his frustrations. Like a true film noir, the ending is tragic for the protagonist. Part of the suspense is wondering just when will he meet his end and why. For those who are trying to make it in the industry as a screenwriter, the grief and depression Joe must been feeling is something with which aspiring screenwriters can empathize.
Sunset Boulevard contains something for everyone: elements of mystery, action, romance, and deceit are woven meticulously throughout the film. This allows for the story to transcend decades of movie evolution and maintain such a high regard in the minds of all the “people out there in the dark.” And, even land a spot on the Great White Way in Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Sunset Boulevard Broadway musical. It’s been rumored that Paramount plans to make a movie version of the Broadway show, but that rumor has been floating around Hollywood for years. As much as the the musical is a tribute to the original, the movie will always be more impactful because the stage simply cannot bring you as close to eyes of the actor as the screen can. And, Norma “can say anything with [her] eyes.” But, thanks to Barbra Streisand keeping the songs alive, “With One look” and “As if We Never Said Goodbye” are brilliantly written to capture the feelings and state of mind of Norma.
Regarding the screenplay itself, it is not a matter of what’s going to happen as much as it is how’s it going to happen. This pioneering non-linear structure served as yet inspiration for another film that would not be produced for nearly 60 years. Along with All About Eve and Citizen Kane, Sunset Boulevard played an instrumental role in the development of the 1994 blockbuster Pulp Fiction. A lesser known 2001 movie borrows many plot points from Sunset Boulevard including the movie title being a street name, entitled Muholland Drive starring Naomi Watts, Justin Theroux, and Laura Harring. Sort of a neo-noir, this is a more modern twist on the foundation Wilder laid with his masterpiece. On that note, now-a-days, non-linear films aren’t necessarily anything special, but at the time, Sunset Boulevard broke ground that would be the standard in abandoning traditional story structure. To me, the screenplay was written in such a way that many people can find his or her own story in the screenplay. Perhaps, someone feels like they are Norma–all but forgotten. Perhaps, there is a starving artist out there who can understand the predicament Joe Gillis was in–just trying to get ahead. To a lesser extent, there may be Betty Schaefer’s watching the movie who feel they have a lot of talent, but very little is recognized and want to find a creative outlet.
Unlike previous films, this movie was also ahead of its time in terms of including dark sarcasm and humor as chief elements in the film. Other aspects that capture the ears of the world, to Miss Desmond’s disapproval, are the famous lines from the movie. Ironically, Desmond despised dialog; however, her movie possesses the coveted numbers 7 and 24 spots on AFI’s Top Movie Quotes list. At number 24, “…I am big! It’s the pictures that got small;” and at number 7, ranking above “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship” and “what we have here, is a failure to communicate” is the often misquoted “Alright Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my closeup.” There are many other more obscure, yet brilliant lines of dialog and exchanges between characters, landing the screenplay in the WGA’s Best Screenplays of All Time list at number 7! It’s important to now only appreciate the movie as a movie, but to appreciate the story itself. Let us never forget that “someone sits down to write a picture” and fool ourselves into thinking that most of the time the “actors make it up as they go along.” Part of what makes this a timeless classic, and even a sort of Bible if you will, is the brilliant writing.
“[Cinema] is BIG. It’s the [movies} that got small.” In Sunset Boulevard, Norma Desmond’s defiant declaration—“I am big. It’s the pictures that got small”—was meant as a lament for the silent era’s fall to talkies; but in 2025, it resonates as a prophecy for cinema in the age of streaming. Norma wasn’t just talking about herself; she was articulating a truth about the grandeur, spectacle, and communal magic of the movies—an art form designed for towering screens and shared gasps in the dark. Today, as streaming platforms flood audiences with bite-sized content, algorithm-churned thrillers, and disposable franchise spin-offs, the scope of cinema has been compressed to fit living rooms and phone screens. Norma was right: cinema is big, but it’s the movies that have been miniaturized—scaled down in ambition, craft, and cultural weight—until they often feel like little more than moving thumbnails. The tragedy isn’t Norma’s inability to adapt, but that the industry has stopped aspiring to be as big as she was.
One of the elements that stands out in the movie is the meticulous placement of lighting. Film Noirs are one of the best examples of how effective lighting can be in playing an intricate part of the storytelling process. Lighting can show us whether or not someone may have two personalities, whether someone is dark and sinister. Since films did not have access to color, in the same way we do today, lighting in a grayscale movie was very important. Since colors could not be distinguished, lighting played that role. In many ways, the lighting in a film noir is like the Norma of the movie itself. Color has caused lighting to be used in a different way. For more practical reasons that aren’t always artistic in nature. Furthermore, another element that makes a film noir a film noir is the cinematography. After all, the term noir is French for dark. So, essentially film noir simply means dark film. It holds up to the definition due to the physically dark scenes; and furthermore, the state of being psychologically dark. The 9-time Academy Award nominated cinematographer John F. Seitz is responsible for creating the haunting visuals and shadows that dominate most of the movie.
One of the shots that is the most puzzling is how Wilder was able to shoot Joe Gillis’ floating body in the pool. Now-a-days, that is simple enough–even YouTubers do it–but in 1950, how does one accomplish such a special effect? The use of mirrors in the film went beyond macabre and haunting set pieces; a mirror was also used to shoot this scene. Seitz placed a mirror at the bottom of the pool and shot facing down towards the mirror while Holden floated in the water with the police officers around the deck. This gave the illusion the camera was in the water facing up.Thanks to the iconic cinematography, the mansion “stricken with a creeping paralysis” appeared lonely and massive. There is no better example of this than when Gillis descends the grand staircase to a party where he and Desmond are the only guests on an expansive tile dance floor recommended by Rudolph Valentino.
“Alright, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my closeup.”
Some of the most memorable cinematography comes at the end of the movie. Wilder and Seitz chose to shoot parts of the finale in slow motion to create an uneasy feeling in the minds of the audience. As Norma begins to descend the grand staircase one final time, she is shot in slow motion, as if it were Norma’s dream coming to life–her big come-back. Pardon, she never left; the pictures left her. In her mind, she is playing princess Salome entering the palace; when in all reality, it’s not movie cameras, but news cameras documenting her psychological decline into insanity. With her famous line “I’m ready for my closeup,” she encroaches upon the camera operator determined to get the closeup she wants, even though it is fixed at a medium shot. The audience, she is so desperate to connect with again, is tragically out of her reach.
Sunset Boulevard serves as a haunting reminder that cinema’s survival depends on more than novelty—it thrives on depth, craft, and stories that demand to be remembered. Wilder’s film shows us a Hollywood already willing to discard its own history for the next marketable thing, a cycle that feels alarmingly familiar in an age of streaming debuts and algorithm-curated “originals” designed for convenience over impact. Norma Desmond’s tragic insistence that she is still “big” speaks not just to her own faded glory, but to the enduring power of cinema when it aspires to grandeur rather than pandering to trends. The film urges today’s audiences to resist the allure of quick, disposable entertainment and to champion works that challenge, inspire, entertain, and linger in the mind. If we let convenience replace artistry, aesthetics to replace great storytelling, we risk playing our own part in the slow fade-out of the movies we claim to love.
Sunset Boulevard means a lot of things to a lot of people. And, each person may have their own respective reasons as to why this film holds a special place in the minds and heart of those who love cinematic art. This movie truly embodies the latin inscription around Leo the Lion in MGM’s logo “Ars Gratia Artis.” Art for Art’s Sake. To me, it is one of the purest examples of artistic cinema. It also served as a mirror, to the dismay of the big producers of its day, highlighting the state of the industry at that time. People still remain mesmerized at this timeless feature because of all it has to offer. This is partly due to the fact that it as relevant today as it was in 1950. It’s entirely possible that there are Norma Desmonds today in their decaying estates watching their movies on TCM or AMC under the delusion that they remain stars that command the attention of the world.
Regardless if you are a filmmaker or a connoisseur of movies, Sunset Boulevard captures the eyes of the world today. And, it will continue to be a source of inspiration and entertainment for decades to come.
Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio show ReelTalk “where you can join the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry
Sleek, stylish, and appears razor-honed, but needs a little sharpening. Zach Cregger’s Weapons takes audiences on a visually arresting and emotionally charged journey that blends suspense, terror, and moments of surrealism. While the film excels in crafting atmosphere through its immersive sound design, haunting imagery, and striking cinematography, its story ultimately collapses under the weight of overwriting and structural ambition. Despite moments of genuine tension and intrigue, the story struggles to cohere into something emotionally resonant or thematically satisfying. In the end, Weapons proves to be more refined in aesthetic than in substance—an experience-driven work that favors tone over storytelling.
When all but one child from the same classroom mysteriously vanish on the same night at exactly the same time, a community is left questioning who or what is behind their disappearance.
Weapons positions itself as a psychological horror anthology-adjacent film that aspires to echo the structural ambition of Trick ‘r Treat and the dread-soaked atmosphere of Hereditary. Each composition is meticulously crafted, echoing the influences of Ari Aster, David Lynch, and Paul Thomas Anderson. The film’s immersive sound design, scored with unnerving precision, deepens the psychological tension, ensuring that audiences feel trapped within the same spiraling unease as its characters. Cregger, best known for the unexpected 2022 breakout Barbarian, attempts something far more sprawling here: a multi-threaded, nonlinear horror tapestry that spans time, location, and character perspectives. On paper, the structure is bold and ambitious. But unlike Barbarian, which grounded its twists in a tightly wound narrative, Weapons ultimately feels thematically scattered and emotionally distant. Characters arrive with weight, but rarely evolve; connections are drawn, but their meaning feels underdeveloped.
What Weapons does exceptionally well is craft an experience. Cregger’s talent for generating sustained suspense, is elevated here to a more mature and stylized level. The tonal consistency, even across multiple timelines and narrative threads, is admirable. Individual sequences build atmosphere masterfully, utilizing silence and suggestion as effectively as sudden, jarring visuals. The sound design alone is enough to make your skin crawl—unsettling, precise, and deeply immersive. The cinematography delivers an unnerving blend of realism and the uncanny, grounding even the most supernatural or surreal moments in believable textures and light.
Weapons boasts an outstanding performative dimension. Each of the lead and key supporting actors deliver performances that are uniformly committed, standing out for their subtle, tortured portrayals of people unraveling in the wake of the trauma of the kids vanishing. After the mostly disappointing Wolf Man earlier this year, I was curious to see if this film would be the vehicle needed for Julia Garner (until the Madonna bio pic that’s calling her name) to showcase her acting chops. The performative quality we witnessed of her in Ozark is what we have in Weapons. Josh Brolin offers stoic gravitas, while Austin Abrams adds a jittery, unpredictable energy. And then there’s Cary Christopher’s unsettling Alex, complete with enough creepy kid energy to fill a whole classroom. Collectively, their efforts lend some gravitas and humanity to a film that often prioritizes vision over narrative.
Without getting in to spoilers, the film takes a turn midway through the second act that completely shifts the experience and even the tone of the picture. One might say that the movie sets up one mystery and eventual payoff, but then deviates onto a different (and ultimately more predictable) path. Once that (unfortunately too obvious) reveal is made midway through the investigation into the disappearance of the classroom of kids–save one (Alex)–then it becomes quite the twisted fairytale. But therein likes one of the most significant problems I have with the film–because of this twist, there are questions that emerge for which we will not be provided answers. We can certainly draw conclusions, that are most likely correct, but this isn’t the type of picture that should require that level of guesswork. When that twist is revealed, explanations of reasons for the motivation and consequences, should the plan fair, are not sufficiently clear.
Horror thrives in that liminal space between order and chaos, but Weapons leans too heavily into the latter. Instead of meticulously peeling back layers to reveal a deeper truth, it obscures character arcs and emotional payoffs beneath narrative experimentation. In striving to be a psychological puzzle-box, the film forgets to provide the audience with enough meaningful pieces to solve it. As a result, Weapons leaves audiences with questions that the film should have answered because it clearly desires to be a genre horror film–it’s not Memento. However, the climax of the picture, while somewhat predictable, is none-the-less satisfyingly bold.
In the end, Weapons is a film that demands attention but struggles to justify its complexities. It will certainly appeal to fans of the prestige horror aesthetic, but despite the converging narratives it never quite hits the mark of a film that invites multiple viewings in order to fully appreciate the story and the apparatus thereof. But for general audiences, or those seeking a tightly woven narrative, the film’s impact may feel more like a glancing blow than a direct hit. Visually stunning and rich in atmosphere, Weapons captivates the senses but lacks the narrative clarity and cohesion to land its thematic strikes. A bold motion picture outing, it’s a film that’s more experience than story—one that feels sharpened in presentation but blunted in meaning.
Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media in Panama City and host of the public radio show ReelTalk “where you can join the cinematic conversations frame by frame each week.” Additionally, he is the author of the upcoming film studies book titled Monsters, Madness, and Mayhem: Why People Love Horror. After teaching film studies for over eight years at the University of Tampa, he transitioned from the classroom to public media. He is a member of the Critics Association of Central Florida and Indie Film Critics of America. If you like this article, check out the others and FOLLOW this blog! Follow him on Twitter: RLTerry1 and LetterBoxd: RLTerry
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