Don’t answer the call—best to let go to voicemail.
Atmospheric but empty. Black Phone 2 may ring with eerie potential, but what you’ll hear on the other end is mostly static. You just as soon use a telegraph service to form a connection between the big screen and audience than the calls this movie desperately makes. Derrickson demonstrates that he can certainly direct the heck out of a horror movie, but it might be time for someone else to write the next call–or at the very least, he should perhaps stop hiring his friend as a writing partner. While the film succeeds in delivering a chilling, oppressive atmosphere, reminding us that Derrickson remains one of horror’s more visually articulate directors, it also reinforces the unfortunate truth that he’s a far better director than writer. What we have here is another casualty of the writer-director syndrome; which is to suggest that one can be a stylistic filmmaker or even auteur without need to wear both hats. Some filmmakers are better directors, some better writers–and that’s okay! While Black Phone 2 begins with promise, it quickly devolves into a frustrating exercise in squandered ideas, tonal inconsistency, and narrative disarray.
Bad dreams haunt 15-year-old Gwen as she receives calls from the black phone and sees disturbing visions of three boys being stalked at a winter camp. Accompanied by her brother, Finn, they head to the camp to solve the mystery, only to confront the Grabber — a killer who’s grown even more powerful in death.
The film ambitiously sets out to expand upon the supernatural mythology introduced in the 2022 original. Derrickson clearly wants to explore the dream world as a deeper psychological battleground—echoing the meta-horror energy of A Nightmare on Elm Street III: Dream Warriors. But instead of capturing that sequel’s inspired creativity and emotional cohesion, Black Phone 2 feels more like a discount version of a superior brand. The screenplay introduces a fascinating set of “rules” for how this dream realm operates, only to immediately ignore or contradict them, leaving the audience confused rather than intrigued. Internal logic is sacrificed for jump scares and contrived character beats that go nowhere.
And speaking of characters—if you can call them that—most are little more than human wallpaper. Half the ensemble feels like a collection of movie people consisting of broadly sketched types that serve a single plot function before fading into irrelevance. Others border on offensive caricature, perpetuating inaccurate and disparaging stereotypes. For all intents and purposes, about three-and-a-half characters can be removed from the movie, and the story play out much the same. Why that half-character? Because, they do help develop the plot in a measurable way–albeit a modicum of development. When a film’s supporting cast functions more like furniture versus people, no amount of spooky atmosphere can save it. The best written and developed character was Demián Bichir’s Armando.
Still, there are moments, scenes, and even entire sequences that remind us of Derrickson’s undeniable craftsmanship. His camera captures dread beautifully; his sense of timing and space within the frame conjures genuine unease. There are glimpses of a haunting, emotionally resonant movie buried somewhere beneath the fractured structure and incoherent script. Unfortunately, those glimpses are fleeting. And that’s the great tragedy here—not just for Black Phone 2, but for a growing trend in contemporary filmmaking: the writer-director who insists on doing it all, in the name of authorship.
Once upon a time, filmmakers understood that collaboration was the lifeblood of cinema. Directors directed. Writers wrote. And when both crafts worked in harmony, we got films that not only looked great but meant something. Somewhere along the line, “auteur” became synonymous with “solo act,” and too many directors convinced themselves that to have a voice, they had to pen the script too. The result? Movies that look immaculate but feel hollow—visual symphonies built on shaky foundations.
Derrickson is a perfect example (another is Jordan Peele). As a director, his command of tone and atmosphere is nearly peerless; his work in horror often hums with intelligence and mood. But Black Phone 2 exposes the limits of his pen. The foundation for a compelling story is here—the bones of something rich and psychologically resonant—but the film never benefits from a writer who truly cares about character, motivation, or thematic depth. It’s as though Derrickson fell so in love with his own concept and craft that he forgot to ask whether the story itself deserved that devotion.
A gifted director needn’t be the writer to be an auteur. In fact, some of the greatest auteurs—Hitchcock, Spielberg, even Fincher–are those who know the value of letting a skilled screenwriter shape the clay before they bring it to life. Black Phone 2 might have been a haunting triumph had Derrickson trusted someone else, other than his friend, to write the words for the world he so clearly knows how to visualize. Instead, we’re left with a reminder that even the most talented filmmaker can’t build a cathedral on a cracked foundation.
By the time the credits roll, Black Phone 2 feels like a series of individually thoughtful scenes strung together by a story that never quite finds its pulse. It’s a patchwork of ideas that might have worked—had they been developed, connected, or earned. The result is a film that looks and sounds like a horror movie, but never feels like one worth the cost of time.
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
Celebrating the 75th anniversary of All About Eve and the 30th anniversary of its descendent Showgirls.
“Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a [gripping read].” All About Eve is celebrating 75 years of cinematic excellence, and its audacious descendant Showgirls is marking 30 years of—well—let’s call it a complicated legacy (but I like to think of it as a misunderstood masterpiece). Whether you’re among those who believe Showgirls was simply ahead of its time or still see it as a camp disaster, one thing is undeniable: without All About Eve, it likely wouldn’t exist at all. For 75 years, All About Eve endures as both a pinnacle of Hollywood storytelling and a cautionary tale about the intoxicating—and corrosive—nature of ambition. Its exploration of fame, manipulation, and the cyclical hunger of show business feels as sharp and relevant today as it did in 1950, resonating in an era where social media stardom and viral fame echo the same relentless pursuit of the spotlight.
Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s Oscar-winning classic, based on Mary Orr’s short story The Wisdom of Eve, has captivated audiences for 75 years with its seamless blend of timeless entertainment and biting critique. More than just a backstage melodrama, All About Eve dissects the intoxicating allure—and devastating cost—of stardom and ambition with wit as sharp as a perfectly aimed dagger. Its dialogue remains some of the most quotable in film history, its characters as vivid today as they were in 1950, and its observations about the ruthlessness of fame feel eerily prescient in our age of viral sensations and manufactured celebrity.
Since its release, All About Eve has inspired countless films and remains a cornerstone of Hollywood storytelling. But what does it mean to you? What makes it special or stand out after all these years? Perhaps you regard it simply as an iconic classic; or perhaps you find in it something more personal—an echo of ambition, vulnerability, or the razor’s edge of success. From its sparkling, acidic dialogue to some of the most quoted lines in cinema including the immortal “Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night,” Margo Channing’s spirit lives on. So much for her fear of being replaced by “the next bright young thing;” she is as alive today as she ever was. Serving as both a love letter to and critique of the theater and the entertainment industry, Mankiewicz’s film exposed the timeless cost of ambition and the ruthless cycles of celebrity—lessons that still resonate in an era obsessed with youth and virality. Arriving at the twilight of Hollywood’s Golden Age, this masterpiece continues to epitomize the glamorous yet perilous dance between artistry and stardom. Beyond its historical and industrial significance, it endures because it connects—visually, emotionally, and thematically—with anyone who has ever feared obsolescence or dared to reach too high.
Part of what still fascinates audiences is the film’s layered structure and the magnetic performances at its heart. Bette Davis’ Margo Channing is so perfectly pitched that viewers often forget they are watching a performance at all–there is a lot of Davis in Channing much in the same way there was a lot of Gloria Swanson in Norma. Neither legendary actress was their respective screen personas, but there were parallels that empowered genuine, sincere deliveries. Mankiewicz wove aspects of Davis’ own persona—her wit, her commanding presence, her refusal to fade quietly—into Margo’s characterization, yet Davis was both exactly Margo and not her at all. Much in the same way Gloria was both Norma and not at all–at the same time, as both iconic films were released in 1950. Davis seized the role as a triumphant reinvention, turning what could have been a caricature of the “aging diva” into a fully realized, vulnerable, and dangerously sharp woman. Like Margo, Davis had weathered the changing tides of the industry. But in true Bette Davis fashion, rather than retreat into the past, Davis embraced this role as an opportunity to reassert her dominance in the art form she loved.
If you’re looking for a real-life “Margo Channing,” aside from the real-life individuals on which Mary Orr based her original short story published in Cosmopolitan magazine, you’ll find shades of her in many stars of the era who feared being replaced by someone younger and hungrier, yet few carried that fear with the same poise and theatricality as Davis. Her performance reminds us that the ghosts of obsolescence do not have to haunt you if you learn to wield them as power instead of surrendering to them. Davis did exactly that, continuing to reinvent herself on stage, screen, and television for decades to come. All About Eve endures not because it is frozen in the amber of classic cinema, but because it still speaks—cuttingly, wittily, and poignantly—to the ever-revolving stage of fame and the cost of staying in the spotlight.
Who, then, were the real-life figures that inspired Mary Orr’s original story? While Orr never definitively identified the proud theatrical star and the manipulative upstart who became the templates for Margo (originally “Margola”) and Eve, her own comments—and those of her contemporaries—point to a blend of influences. Viennese actress Elisabeth Bergner and Broadway legend Tallulah Bankhead are often cited as inspirations for Margo, while actress Irene Worth and a “terrible woman” (Bergner’s own words) named Ruth Maxine Hirsch—who performed under the stage name Martina Lawrence—are believed to have shaped the character of Eve: the fan-turned-assistant-turned-understudy-turned-star. Though no single pair of women can be pinpointed as the Margo and Eve, the fact that these characters emerged from a patchwork of real events and personalities only deepens the story’s enduring intrigue.
All About Eve endures as timeless because at its core, it is less about a particular moment in Broadway’s Golden Age and more about ambition, ego, and the ruthless pursuit of relevance—dynamics that still fuel the entertainment industry today. Strip away the mink coats, rotary phones, and cigarette smoke, and the story of a hungry ingénue inserting herself into the life of an aging star could just as easily unfold in the Instagram era, where image management and backstage maneuvering are just as cutthroat. The barbed wit of Mankiewicz’s script remains startlingly fresh. Its sass, frankness, and playful cruelty dance along the liminal space between youth and experience, sincerity and manipulation, still lands with a sting. With only a few cosmetic updates, All About Eve could be set in present-day Hollywood, Broadway, or even influencer culture, and it would be no less thoughtful, provocative, or entertaining.
The themes of All About Eve find a striking mirror in today’s social media and influencer culture, where the pursuit of fame and relevance plays out in real time before millions. Just as Eve Harrington ingratiates herself into Margo Channing’s circle to climb the theatrical ladder, influencers often build careers by aligning with established figures—sometimes with genuine admiration, other times with calculated opportunism. The tension between youth and experience, central to the film, is equally present online, where younger creators often supplant veterans by capturing fleeting trends, while older figures wrestle with maintaining relevance in an environment that prizes novelty.
Whether set in the past, present, or in projections of the future, explorations of image versus reality resonate powerfully, including in today’s digital landscape wherein curated personas can mask ambition, manipulation, and insecurity. Even the razor-sharp verbal sparring of All About Eve has its equivalent in the witty clapbacks, subtweets, and public callouts that fuel today’s digital drama. In both cases, the stage—whether Broadway or Instagram—is a battleground where applause, followers, and validation dictate survival.
This enduring clash between performance and reality underscores how stories of ambition and rivalry are continually reimagined across eras and mediums. From the lights of Broadway to the doom scrolling of Instagram, the hunger for validation and the willingness to deceive—or be deceived—remains constant. It’s no surprise, then, that later films would tap into similar veins of that which run through All About Eve, though with radically different tones and settings.
Over the decades, Paul Verhoeven’s notorious Vegas fever dream Showgirls has been labeled everything from a misunderstood masterpiece to one of the worst movies ever made. What was initially dismissed by critics as vulgar excess has since been reappraised by some as a biting, if over-the-top, satire of the entertainment industry’s exploitation of women, ambition, and sexuality. Its brash depiction of the climb from obscurity to stardom mirrors that of All About Eve, though filtered through neon lights, gratuitous spectacle, and camp sensibilities. That tension—between tawdry sensationalism and incisive critique—is precisely what keeps Showgirls alive in the cultural imagination, ensuring its legacy as both a cautionary tale and a cult phenomenon.
Showgirls operates as a satire of entertainment culture and the performers who are both consumed by and complicit in its machinery. Where Eve Harrington’s quiet scheming exposes the ruthless politics of the theater, Nomi Malone’s raw ambition lays bare the transactional underbelly of Las Vegas spectacle. Both films hinge on the same unsettling truth: in an industry where visibility is power, identity itself becomes a performance. What distinguishes Showgirls is how it weaponizes vulgarity and excess as a form of critique. Its glitter, nudity, and violence were long dismissed as gratuitous, yet in hindsight these elements function as deliberate provocations; it can be read as an aesthetic that is designed to mirror the gaudiness and cruelty of the world it depicts. Seen today, the film feels strangely ahead of its time, anticipating the rise of influencer and social media culture where personas are manufactured, scandals are commodified, and fame can be won or lost overnight. Reconsidered in this light, Verhoeven’s so-called disaster reveals itself as a smart, if abrasive, cultural text: one that understands spectacle not as decoration, but as the very language of modern celebrity.
At its core, Showgirls dramatizes the hollow cost of chasing celebrity. Nomi’s relentless climb through Las Vegas’s entertainment machine is marked by betrayal, objectification, and the constant demand to reinvent herself in service of spectacle. Each rung of success—dancing at the Stardust, becoming the star attraction—promises fulfillment, yet delivers only greater alienation. Verhoeven underscores how ambition, when tethered exclusively to validation and visibility, erodes one’s sense of self until little remains beyond the performance itself. By the film’s conclusion, Nomi is left with the trappings of stardom but no genuine connection, no lasting satisfaction, no identity untouched by the corrosive gaze of the industry.
In this way, Showgirls finds an unlikely kinship with All About Eve. Where Margo Channing wrestles with the costs of aging in an industry that worships youth, Nomi embodies the illusion that ascension itself will satisfy the hunger for recognition. Both films reveal the same truth: the spotlight is never enough. Whether in the refined milieu of Broadway or the gaudy spectacle of Vegas, ambition without grounding in humanity becomes corrosive, leaving its pursuers hollow even in triumph. It’s that shared cynicism—and tragic insight—that makes Showgirls more than the vulgar provocation it was dismissed as, and positions it as a worthy, if wildly flamboyant, descendant of Mankiewicz’s classic.
Seventy-five years after its release, All About Eve still cuts to the heart of what it means to seek validation under the bright lights, and thirty years on, Showgirls shows us that the hunger has only grown more voracious, more theatrical, and perhaps more desperate. Both films, in their vastly different registers, remind us that the pursuit of fame is never simply about talent or opportunity—it is about the sacrifices made along the way, and the hollow victories waiting at the top. If All About Eve gave us the blueprint for understanding the price of ambition, Showgirls showed us what happens when that price is paid in full. And as long as there are stages to stand on—whether Broadway, Las Vegas, Hollywood, or TikTok—the lessons of both films will remain hauntingly, and uncomfortably, relevant.
For the companion radio/podcast episode to this article, check out my show ReelTalk on WKGC Public Media. You can listen through Apple, Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts. Links provided below or, in your podcast service, search WKGC Public Media.
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
When we look back at the films of the 1980s, it’s impossible to separate the images on screen from the songs that scored them. This was the decade when movie music didn’t just underscore the action—it defined it. A single track could embody the spirit of a film while simultaneously capturing the mood of an entire generation. And remarkably, so many of those songs remain with us today. They’re still streamed on playlists, still belted out at karaoke, still instantly recognizable from their opening chords. The 1980s gave us movie songs that became cultural landmarks, and in many ways, they’ve never stopped playing.
Among the long arc of cinema history, the 1980s stand out as the high-water mark of the movie song. This was the era when a soundtrack single could leap to the top of the charts overnight, transforming into a cultural event in its own right. Whether it was an infectious pop hook or a soaring power ballad, these songs weren’t just background music; they were stitched into the fabric of the films and the culture itself. Think of the triumphant synth-drenched pulse of Flashdance…What a Feeling, the high-octane rush of Danger Zone, or the emotional catharsis of Wind Beneath My Wings. The decade leaned into the marriage of sound and image with unapologetic boldness, and in doing so created songs as enduring as the films they came from—sometimes even more so.
Why have they endured? Partly because they articulated universal experiences—ambition, risk, heartbreak, friendship—in melodies and lyrics that were at once sincere and unforgettable. The 1980s were an era of spectacle, melodrama, and unabashed emotion, and the songs mirrored that ethos. They became sonic shorthand for youth, energy, rebellion, and joy. In an age when MTV amplified every movie track into a visual pop event, these songs weren’t merely incidental—they were emotional anchors, marketing juggernauts, and narrative engines. Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now carried Mannequin’s optimism beyond the multiplex and into wedding halls. Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 gave voice to working-class frustration while climbing the radio charts. And Don’t You (Forget About Me) is now inseparable from Judd Nelson’s raised fist in The Breakfast Club. These weren’t just songs in movies; they became shorthand for the decade’s imagination.
Why don’t we have these same kind of songs today? There’s been a cultural shift–most noticeably in the 2020s, but has its roots in the mid to late 1990s. By the 1990s and 2000s, the conditions that made such songs possible began to fade. Pop soundtracks increasingly licensed pre-existing hits rather than commissioning originals. Franchise filmmaking turned toward instrumental scores and brand cohesion rather than big, show-stopping anthems. And as music videos lost their central cultural role, so too did the symbiotic relationship between cinema and pop radio. The cultural machine that once elevated a movie song into a generational anthem simply no longer works the same way.
Reflecting upon more recent years, much of 2020s pop and movie music is created in a climate of deep cynicism and fragmentation. Songs today are often crafted for algorithms, for virality on TikTok, or as ironic counterpoints in film soundtracks rather than as emotional anchors. Other songs carry with them a tone of anger or polarization. Audiences, steeped in skepticism toward institutions, media, and even each other, tend to reward irony, detachment, or knowing self-parody over the kind of unguarded sincerity that defined the 80s. A song that earnestly belts out its hopes risks being labeled “cheesy” or “dated,” whereas in the 1980s, that very boldness was the point.
One of the most striking contrasts between the 1980s and the 2020s is the sense of permanence. The movies and music of the 1980s were made with a boldness that seemed intent on lasting—on making an impression that would outlive the decade itself. By contrast, much of today’s popular culture, both in film and in music, feels designed for rapid consumption rather than long-term resonance–its largely disposable.
Songs today are often crafted not for endurance but rather for algorithms—engineered to spike on streaming platforms, go viral on TikTok, or capture a brief window of attention on curated playlists. In that sense, music has become increasingly functional: it serves a moment, a meme, a mood, but rarely aspires to the kind of cultural monumentality that defined the best of the 1980s. The hooks are short, the structures lean toward repetition, and the lifespan of a hit can sometimes be measured in weeks rather than years. The same phenomenon is evident in today’s movies. Franchise blockbusters dominate the box office, but their cultural imprint often fades once the next installment arrives. Films are built as nodes in larger intellectual property ecosystems, not as singular artistic statements. Just as contemporary songs often feel interchangeable—quickly eclipsed by the next release—so too do many films function as disposable content, part of a cycle of endless consumption rather than enduring cultural landmarks.
By comparison, the movies and songs of the 1980s embraced scale and spectacle not just for immediate impact but for legacy. A hit song wasn’t simply filler for a soundtrack; it was an anthem meant to outlive its film, designed to thrive on the radio, MTV, and in the cultural memory. Similarly, films were often built as self-contained phenomena: E.T., Top Gun, Back to the Future—movies that carried an aura of event cinema and refused to feel like disposable installments. This is not to say that contemporary culture lacks quality (although that appears to be increasingly true, in the opinion of this scholar and critic), but rather that its structures encourage disposability. With so much “content” (the use of content versus film or music is intentional) being produced at such speed, both music and movies are often designed to capture attention briefly rather than to linger. The result is a cultural landscape that feels ephemeral, where few works are positioned to endure in the way that 1980s soundtracks and films continue to do.
Suffice it to say, the movie songs of the1980s sought to define a generation; today, music and movies often just try to define a moment.
It appears all too clear that in the 1980s, movies weren’t just stories we watched; they were songs we sang, dances we learned, and emotions we carried. It wasn’t simply a golden age of movie music—this era was the last time cinema’s soundtrack felt like the heartbeat of the culture. In our present times, wherein pop culture often reflects uncertainty and disillusionment, the 1980s (extending into the 1990s) stand as the last great era when music from movies felt larger than life, confident enough to aim for forever. Moreover, these songs transcend generations by speaking directly to universal desires—love, empowerment, joy, escape—modern songs often feel locked, chained to their cultural moment or fixated on a particular socio-political lament.
The 1980s–when cinema sang! What the 1970s did for cinematic scores, the 1980s did for music that wrapped us in the cinematic experience.
This week, on my show ReelTalk on WKGC Public Media, I sat down with returning guest and friend of the show music professor Dr. Steven DiBlasi to countdown our Top Ten Movie Songs of the 1980s. Our respective lists both aligned and diverged, covering the wide spectrum of great, memorable movie songs. This is where I am going to direct you to listen to the show (approx 1hr) to avoid spoilers, but if you’re more of a reader than a listener, then you can find our ranked lists below.
More, just search WKGC Public Media in your podcast service of choice
Top Ten Movie Songs of the 1980s
Mine (Ryan’s)
Dr. DiBlasi’s
10.Stir It Up (Beverly Hills Cop)
9. Trust (Batman)
8. Danger Zone (Top Gun)
7. Wind Beneath My Wings (Beaches)
6. Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now (Mannequin)
5. 9 to 5 (9 to 5)
4. Goonies R Good Enough (The Goonies)
3. Maniac (Flashdance)
2. NeverEnding Story (The NeverEnding Story)
1. Flashdance…What a Feeling (Flashdance)
10. In Your Eyes (Say Anything)
9. The Heat is On (Beverly Hills Cop)
8. Don’t You Forget About Me (The Breakfast Club)
7. Footloose (Footloose)
6. Fight the Power (Do the Right Thing)
5. Take My Breath Away (Top Gun)
4. Purple Rain (Purple Rain)
3. Eye of the Tiger (Rocky)
2. The Power of Love (Back to the Future)
1. Ghostbusters (Ghostbusters)
Ryan is the general manager for 90.7 WKGC Public Media 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
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 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
R.L. Terry ReelView 
