Sunset Boulevard doesn’t waste time explaining itself. A dead screenwriter narrates his own downfall, and that alone tells you how little Billy Wilder cared about comfort. The plot mechanics are almost beside the point: a broke writer ducks into the wrong driveway, meets a forgotten silent-film star, and accepts an arrangement he knows better than to trust. That’s all you really need. The rest is atmosphere, attitude, and slow, deliberate suffocation.
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