By the late 1960s, Hollywood had become something of a self-devouring empire. The studio system was gone, the old-guard moguls were dead or retired, and their stars were being plundered—mercifully or sadistically, by cineastes—by a brash new generation weaned on television, exploitation films and irony. Born out of that awkward renaissance was Savage Intruder, aka Hollywood Horror House, a cheap independent feature that would provide legendary actress Miriam Hopkins with her last appearance in a feature film and became one of the oddest Hollywood endings ever.

In the late summer of 1928, as Hollywood studios raced to wire their stages and retrain their stars for sound, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer authorized a project that ran counter to almost every instinct guiding the industry’s transition to talking pictures. The film was Hallelujah—a rural Southern drama with an all-Black cast, heavy musical content, extensive location shooting, and a director willing to gamble his own salary to get it made. In trade terms alone, it was a high-risk production at the worst possible moment to take one.

The Sea Beast opened on January 15, 1926, to one of the biggest advance advertising campaigns in silent film history. In terms of billing and enthusiasm, The Sea Beast was no ordinary prestige picture: it was a project expressly tailored to the needs of an actor in the prime of his day-stealing career, John Barrymore, and to the requirements of an adaptation of one of the nation's most daunting masterpieces, Herman Melville's Moby-Dick, for popular consumption. The result was not a faithful adaptation but a bold, romanticized reinvention that captured the spirit of obsession and the scale of the sea, even as it reshaped the story into something unmistakably Hollywood.

When Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ landed in New York on December 30, 1925, it was less a movie than a declaration. A fledgling studio eager to show its supremacy, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer had created the largest, the most expensive, the most technologically audacious production the industry had ever known. Audiences were not asked to see Ben-Hur; they were ordered to attend. A century later, the film, whose centerpiece was a career-reviving performance by Ramon Novarro as Judah Ben-Hur, remains one of the silent era's greatest achievements: an unparalleled hybrid of biblical solemnity, humanistic pathos and high-end spectacle.

The Creation of The Christmas Party was one of those peculiarly early-sound Hollywood tales in which studio custom, instinct for publicity, and simple good will combined to create a low-keyed but revealing seasonal artifact.

HOLLYWOOD - Seventy-five years later, Sunset Boulevard remains as fresh and as incisive as the day it first appeared. A razor to Hollywood’s sanitized balloon. Billy Wilder’s masterpiece is not just film noir, it’s a horror movie in the purest sense — fame rotting into madness, celluloid dreams dying in the California sun.

HOLLYWOOD - It’s impossible to watch Dracula for the first time and not draw breath. It doesn’t happen when the fangs snap or the blood spurt (there’s less of that than you might expect).