Sunset Boulevard
Sunset Boulevard (1950) ~ nothing is ever just a monkey
Somewhere between Citizen Kane and a horror movie about a haunted actress, Sunset Boulevard gives us a story where no one is entirely alive—Joe is a dead man from the start, Norma is a relic of the past, and Hollywood itself is a machine that eats its own. But let’s get Freudian, shall we?
At its core, this is a movie about arrested development. Norma Desmond is stuck—psychologically, emotionally, and maybe even physically in that mausoleum of a house. Freud would say her development stopped when Hollywood abandoned silent films. Instead of adapting, she regressed, retreating into a fantasy where she’s still adored. She never moved forward, because moving forward meant accepting reality. Instead, she built a world where time never passed, her fame never faded, and her fans never left. And Max, the butler (and ex-husband—because this movie really said “let’s make it weirder”), plays along, feeding the delusion like a devoted superego.
Joe, on the other hand, is an ego in crisis, trapped between the pleasure principle (seeking instant gratification) and the reality principle (acknowledging consequences). He knows staying with Norma is a bad idea. He knows he should finish his own script. But the silk pajamas, fancy suits, and easy money are so much nicer than struggling as a broke screenwriter. The irony? Freud warned about this exact thing—unchecked pleasure leads to self-destruction. Joe chooses comfort over integrity, and in the end, it kills him.
And then there’s the monkey funeral. Listen, I don’t want to say the monkey represents Norma’s inner child, but… let’s be real, in Freud’s world, nothing is ever just a monkey. She mourns it like a lost lover, and the moment Joe arrives, she latches onto him as a replacement. He doesn’t move into the monkey’s bed (thank God), but the pattern is clear—Norma needs something to cling to. First the monkey, then Joe. And when Joe tries to leave? Well, we all know how that ends.
And finally, that last scene—Norma’s “close-up.”Is she acting? Or has she finally become the role she’s been playing all along? Hollywood discards people like old scripts, but some refuse to be rewritten. Norma didn’t fade into obscurity—she staged her final act, turned her downfall into a spectacle, and forced the cameras back on her. Maybe she lost touch with reality, or maybe she just understood the rules better than anyone else. In a town where illusion is everything, she didn’t break—she became the fantasy. And really, isn’t that the dream?
In the end, Sunset Boulevard isn’t just a movie about Hollywood—it’s a movie about what happens when you refuse to let go. When reality is unbearable, fantasy becomes a prison. And as Freud would say, if you let the pleasure principle take the wheel for too long, don’t be surprised when you crash.
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