One of the most influential noirs, and widely acclaimed as the best film ever made about Hollywood, Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard is also one of the greatest movies ever to record obsession. Norma Desmond is the personification of this continual neurosis; a woman whose entire life, environment, and purpose revolve around being a part of the film industry dream factory.

Wilder created a Great Expectations for the Hollywood dream, and Desmond is its Miss Havisham, right down to her decaying mansion just off the titular boulevard. But Desmond is a more active figure than Dickens’ Havisham, instrumenting her comeback rather than playing out the scenario with younger pawns. Instead of being stuck in a past where she’s been left behind, Desmond dwells in a past where she’s still the star, still the center of the universe. This need, this compulsion, has been ingrained in her from the moment she ‘arrived’, as has been the case for so many stars. But the twist of it all is that Desmond thinks Hollywood can be nothing without her, when quite the opposite is true.

While Gloria Swanson’s Desmond is the distressing nucleus of the film, Wilder also refuses to spare her supporting cast. Joe Gillis (William Holden) is our window into this shattered world, a down-on-his-luck screenwriter (is there any other kind in Hollywood?) drawn, by chance, into Desmond’s sphere, where his own aspirations are quashed by the ‘veteran’ who holds his leash. As he realizes he’s leading his writing partner, the fiancée of his best friend, down the same torturous road he travels, Gillis makes a decision which can only lead to one outcome.

By far, though, the story’s most tragic character is Erich von Stroheim’s Max. His revelation to Gillis is the very definition of tragic obsession, a life wasted on that which will never reward persistence, loyalty, or love. If there’s one lesson to be gleaned from Wilder’s pitch-black Hollywood fable, it’s that what we pursue will never be held accountable for our own broken dreams.

Part French New Wave homage, part screwball comedy, all masterpiece...Wes Anderson’s sophomore effort is one of the best films of the ‘90s. Rarely can we see a portrait of desire and obsession so painfully evoked, and still feel for the characters by film’s end.

The lethargic conversations that accompany most coming-of-age films —‘I’m horny, but inexperienced’; ‘I love, but don’t know what it is’; ‘I have a damaged relationship with my parent(s)—are conspicuously absent from Rushmore, and it’s this deletion which makes the film so tight, so strong. We're given access to characters’ emotional damage, without that access being summarized or trivialized by needless banter. Anderson shows us who his characters are by their compulsions, their curious needs, and their often bizarre behavior. Reactions are as unpredictable as actions and, through this, the unique necessities of every character rise to the surface.

Another obsession that takes root in Rushmore: Anderson’s now well-known stylistic flourishes—the perfect, symmetrical framing; the quirky, alt-rock soundtrack; the absurdly detailed montages. What we find, here, is that Anderson is no different than his characters, and we learn as much about the director, in these pieces, as we do about his cast. Actions speak louder than words, after all, and where Rushmore shines brightest is in its visual language.

Let’s not forget story thematics, however. The very premise of this film is based in obsession. Max is no ordinary teenager, and he’s not one to be crossed. When he loves (with what he considers to be love), he loves to the fullest, even when other things are sacrificed in the balance. And when he, and those in his life, realize the extremes of the lengths to which they've gone…they find that, sometimes, its best to let go of what you want in favor of what you can have. Sometimes its best .to make a go of it at Grover Cleveland.

The film’s finest exchange encapsulates this:

And, in one moment, we realize that—unlike in Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard—we need not become victims of our own obsessions...that, occasionally, all it takes is a little growing up. No matter how old we are.

Did anyone outside of France see Secret Things? Possibly just me and a select few critics, but if you were one of the few, this is Brisseau’s response to the outcry surrounding that film’s sexual and professional boundaries. Some have called it 'the real Eyes Wide Shut’, but I think they're just misanthropic writers who couldn’t get past Tom Cruise’s presence in a Kubrick film. Secret Things isn’t exactly a masterpiece, but its provocative sexual nature is reminiscent of what we'd discover in a Catherine Breillat film; and there’s a psychosis, beneath it all, that's definitely worth exploring. Indeed, it seems that Exterminating Angels is Brisseau’s Sex is Comedy—an indirect way of dealing with the real-life situation of making a sexually explicit movie. Consider this obsessing over the making of an obsession…or the snake eating a version of itself that’s fornicating with another snake. If that makes sense, Brisseau’s latest is for you.

If we’re going to go on about obsessions, we might as well bring up the current Asian breed involving horror films. There’s an interesting thesis and book just waiting to be written on this slew of du jour terror flicks from Japan and South Korea. What undercurrent or sentiment is this reflecting? Where do these auteurs, comsumed by ghosts, mutilation, and the past, begin their journey? It could be part of a national or cultural consciousness, at this point, and The Host is actually a branch outward from the spirit-driven, claustrophobic thrillers that have dominated recent years. Joon-ho’s film looks like a throwback to Godzilla—an extreme monster movie borne out of environmental disaster, albeit with more attention paid to both special effects and acting. And how popular is this modern-day rendering? It’s now the top-grossing film of all-time in South Korea, and distributors at Cannes had to add screenings to appease the demand for tickets. Are giant creatures making a comeback?

Leave it to the network that gave us “Nip/Tuck”, “Rescue Me”, and “The Shield” to bring us another exercise in amoral excess. This time, perhaps, with its most searing portrayal of the American lifestyle. The tagline: ‘It’s a wonderful lie.’ If there’s a more pointed reference than that, I’d be surprised.

Eddie Izzard and Minnie Driver star as Irish gypsies, whose families sole ambition used to be the grift. But when a singular set of circumstances presents itself, it seems that things could take a turn for the better. No longer living a life of cons, the Malloy's entire existence becomes one—their days spent convincing those around them that they're a family of wealth and class. It’s quite the different spin on the American dream: Does one choose to live a life of scrapping and cheating, to get by, or choose to live a 'normal' life, facing daily reminders of its inherent dishonesty.

It, of course, makes perfect sense that the wily Izzard is one of the show’s head voices, and that a playwright would come up with a show chiefly designed around dramatic irony. Let’s just hope the topic doesn’t hit a little too close to home when it comes to the fallacy of the American dream.

“The Riches” is a concept daring enough to work, dark enough to resonate, and crazy enough to engross us week after week. Here’s to it doing all three.