Frenzy (1972)

 

Rope (1948)

 

Spellbound (1945) ****

 

The Wrong Man (1956) **

Had Alfred Hitchcock not appeared at the beginning of The Wrong Man (1956) to introduce it and to say that it was different than his other films you wouldn’t believe that the master of suspense directed it.  It doesn’t look like or develop like any other Hitchcock movie I’ve ever seen.  Yes, the Hitchcockian theme of the wrongfully accused man is the centerpiece of the story, but countless other directors also enjoyed employing this plot device.  Furthermore, the poster above is misleading, The Wrong Man is not an “adventure into terror”. Instead, it is a dark and depressing docu-drama that is based on the true story of a man arrested and tried for a crime that he did not commit. This, of course, makes it somewhat difficult for me to say that the story is boring and that the movie drags, but it so desperately does both of these things. 

Hitchcock had an unnatural fear of the police and so when he read about Manny Balestrero’s (Henry Fonda) wrongful arrest and subsequent trial for armed robbery, he was intrigued.  And, it is a rather compelling story. A jazz musician at the Stork Club makes the fateful decision to take out a loan against his wife Rose’s (Vera Miles) insurance policy to pay for her to have her wisdom teeth removed.  While at the insurance company, the overly sensitive women who work there mistake Manny for the man who’d robbed them twice in one year. The next thing you know, Manny is picked up by the police, taken on several perp walks, and then arrested for a crime that he did not commit. While out on bail, Manny and his wife try to find witnesses who can prove that he was away on vacation when one of the robberies occurred, but every lead falls through. Surprisingly, his wife has a nervous breakdown and has to be sent to an asylum while Manny stands trial. 

If you work very hard you can pinpoint some of Hitchcock’s stylistic elements. He and cinematographer Robert Burks spend a lot of time focusing on the hands of characters and inanimate objects, and there are a number of low-angle close-ups of faces—what is sometimes referred to as framing for emotion. Additionally, they shot the booking sequence from Manny’s perspective, which had the effect of involving the audience in his distress. Yet, probably the most Hitchcockian element comes when Manny is placed in a cell for the first time.  After suffering through the humility of being questioned, fingerprinted, and charged for armed robbery, Manny is completely overwhelmed by the insanity of the entire situation by the time he stands alone in his cell. To emphasize Manny’s  confusion and mental anguish the camera appears to start spinning—so much so that it is both disorienting and nauseating to the audience.  However, these few elements, along with a cracked mirror and transposed shot near the movie’s ending, is where any resemblance to a Hitchcock production ends—there isn’t even a MacGuffin that I noticed!

For me, The Wrong Man suffers immensely from Hitchcock’s insistence that the audience experience the entire arrest process.  I know that he wanted to put his audience in Manny’s place, but while it does have some effect, it demands that the story be told at a crawling pace, which allows distraction and boredom to creep in.  Boring is not a word that I often associate with a Hitchcock production, but The Wrong Man is indeed just that.  Plus, his matter-of-fact way of telling the story really doesn’t allow the audience to emotionally connect with either Manny or his wife.  Sadly, when Rose goes off the deep end, I found myself annoyed by her presence and the story arc, as it made the movie even longer than it needed to be.

The one good thing about The Wrong Man is Henry Fonda, who stoically portrays a character who should have been at his wit's end but never seems to lose his composure.  Emotionally restrained performances can be difficult for some actors, but Fonda does an excellent job of displaying Manny’s terror through his eyes and body language.  Plus, he capitalized on his own persona as a solid ,trustworthy person to get the audience to be even more outraged by what Manny goes through.

Overall, I am not a fan of The Wrong Man.  The story drags and is often quite boring, which is a black mark for any movie helmed by a master storyteller like Hitchcock.  Thankfully, Fonda’s performance gets me through such tedium. 

Notorious (1946) ****

Without a doubt, Notorious (1946) is my all-time favorite Alfred Hitchcock movie. At its core, it’s a romantic spy thriller, but there is so much more to it than Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman sneaking three second kisses one after the other while engaging in espionage against the Nazis.  Yes, it’s filled with suspense and sexual tension, but the film, at least for me, is also a surprisingly sharp analysis of human frailty and morality. As if the story weren’t enough, Notorious also has the best cinematography of any of Hitchcock’s black and white films (and some might argue, his entire oeuvre).  

Ben Hecht’s intricately orchestrated Oscar nominated screenplay tells the story of an American espionage operation in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil , where escaped Nazis are planning their next move following the Third Reich’s defeat.  The Strategic Services Unit (SSU, which eventually morphed into, along with other clandestine groups formed after the dissolution of the OSS, into the CIA) recruits Alicia Huberman (Bergman), the daughter of a convicted Nazi spy (Fred Nurney), to infiltrate the Nazis in Rio. Alicia is a high-class notorious good-time girl—simply said, she’s a drunk and a tramp who comes from money. Yet, while awaiting her orders, Alicia falls in love with her SSU handler, Devlin (Grant), a man who does not have a very high opinion of her. Their budding relationship is compromised when she is asked to gain the confidence of her former friend (and perhaps lover) Alex Sebastian (Claude Rains), a leading figure in the Nazi group living in Rio, by whatever means necessary. This, of course, means that Alicia has to use her notorious behavior to seduce Alex. When Devlin raises no objections to this plan, Alicia believes Devlin does not love her and so she sets off on her mission. She obviously does an expert job of this, because before long she is married to Alex and living in a house where Nazis regularly meet and a lot of doors are locked. One door in particular is locked by a key that only Alex has access to: the wine cellar door. Devlin and his superior, Captain Prescott (Louis Calhern), are sure this is where the Nazis are hiding something. An elaborate plan, requiring a huge party be thrown at the Sebastian house, is hatched which calls for Alicia to steal the key from Alex and then pass it onto Devlin, an invited guest. When this betrayal is discovered by Alex, he and his mother (Leopoldine Konstantin) enact a poisonous plan of revenge on Alicia.

The most important theme in Notorious is the idea of trust, which makes sense because it’s about tradecraft (spying).  Still, the way the theme is developed and carried out throughout the story is quite clever. First, Alicia and Devlin’s first meeting is based on deception, as he pretends to be a party crasher at her home. Her notorious behavior as a first class tramp makes Devlin mistrust any changes that she attempts to make in her character. Has she stopped boozing it up and making conquests?  Does she love Devlin, or is he a passing fancy?  As such, he withholds his love and trust from her, even when she begs him to do otherwise, and raises no objections when she is asked to prostitute herself to get the goods on the Nazis.  In turn, Alicia feels betrayed by the man that she loves and sets about proving to Devlin that she’s an accomplished whore.  Her manipulation of Alex’s trust in her, which he gives ever so easily and freely, only exacerbates Devlin’s mistrust in her.  Hopefully, the irony is not lost on anyone that the most trusting person in Notorious is Alex, who is an unwitting pawn in Alicia and Devlin’s twisted game of Truth or Dare. This is why Alex Sebastian is Hitchcock’s most sympathetic villain.  When he learns the truth about Alicia his world is shattered, and you can’t really blame him for wanting to kill her after what she’s done to him. Still, his stupidity, as noted by his mother, was enormous. 

The love story between Alicia and Devlin is extremely complicated and comes off as an indictment on society’s rules on morality. There’s a reason why Alicia drinks and sleeps around—it’s how she learned to cope with her father being a Nazi spy.  There is a very small scene in the film where after Alicia has learned of her father’s suicide that she says, “When he told me a few years ago what he was, everything went to pot. I didn't care what happened to me. Now I remember how nice he once was, how nice we both were. It's a very curious feeling, a feeling as if something had happened to me, not to him. You see I don't have to hate him anymore or myself.”  It is not a coincidence that Alicia attempts to mend her “wicked” ways after his death and that she allows herself to fall in love with a decent man like Devlin.  The problem is that Devlin can’t forget her past, as evidenced by this exchange:

Alicia: The time has come when you must tell me you have a wife and two adorable children and this madness between us can't go on any longer.

Devlin: Bet you've heard that line often enough.

Alicia: Right below the belt every time. That isn't fair, Dev.

Of course, the worst part is that Alicia is recruited as a spy because of her notorious reputation.  The Government has no qualms about prostituting this woman for their political aims precisely because she is a known tramp, but, for some reason, those pimping her out seem to think that it’s okay to defame her in their private conversations with one another.  Worse yet, Devlin throws her past character flaws in her face every chance he gets.  Don’t he and his colleagues bear some responsibility for her behavior?  It is precisely Alicia’s emotional frailty that drives her to seduce and manipulate Alex.  She wouldn’t have taken the assignment in the first place if, as she says to Devlin, “If you only once had said that you loved me.”  In what world does Devlin have any right to be pissed off the entire time that Alicia is risking her life to spy on the Nazis? Surely someone willing to risk imminent danger deserves a little more respect than constant reminders that she’s a whore. And, really, hadn’t Devlin used his own charms on Alicia to get her to go to Rio?  Didn’t he engage in an affair with her and then have the audacity to ask her to seduce Alex?  He could have told his superiors that they were in love and that she was out of the spy business, but he didn’t.  How was his behavior any better than hers? Yet, because she is a fallen woman she is the one who is open to ridicule and judgment. Plus, Devlin’s refusal to believe that Alicia is capable of change is ultimately almost what gets her killed (and, who really knows what happened after that car pulled away from the Sebastian mansion at the end?), as he believes she’s back to boozing when she comes to a meeting gaunt, unsteady, and clearly unwell.

Cinematically, the most striking thing about Notorious is the camerawork. This was Ted Tetzlaff’s last picture as a director of photography, and while he was never as highly regarded as Gregg Toland, Jack Cardiff, Robert Krasker, John Alton, Stanley Cortez, or probably Hitchcock’s favorite cameraman, Robert Burks, he probably shot the best black and white film Hitchcock ever made.  While there are several scenes we could discuss, three in particular stand out for me.

The first scenario is what I like to refer to as the hangover scene. The scene opens with a close-up of a glass of Alka Seltzer, with Alicia in the background, lying on a bed. The camera then zooms out and switches to what Alicia sees. Hung over and seeing things cockeyed, she sees a man, at a titled angle, standing in the shadow of the doorway. As he comes closer, and she is lying on her back in obvious pain, the camera flips upside down and we see a fuzzy, backlit Devlin.  Without a doubt, this is probably the most creatively shot hangover scene ever.

I also find the tea cup scene (yes, they were drinking coffee, but it’s looks like a tea cup), or what I call “Tea is served”, near the end of Notorious to be exceptionally well done.  By this point in the story the tea cup has become it’s own Hitchcockian motif, and the audience is aware that Alex and his mother are well on their way to killing Alicia with poison. Again, drink of some sort seems to be Alicia’s undoing. Just as the fizzing Alka Seltzer is the starting focal point in the hangover scene, the tea cup is shot in the forefront of this scene, which opens with one of the Nazis commenting about how poorly Alicia, dressed in black, looks, and then the focus of the scene shifts from the conversation to a tea set sitting in front of Mrs. Sebastian and then to a particular cup that she brings to Alicia. After a slight shift back to the conversing people, the cup is shot from an ominously low angle with Alicia in the background. When there is a mix up with the cups and Alicia realizes what’s going on, a single, innocent shot of a tea cup moves directly to a bewildered Alicia to a sweeping close-up of first her mother-in-law and then Alex. As she gathers herself up to leave the room, her two poisoners dissolve into shadow figures and seem to be guarding her from the door. Once out in the foyer, her deteriorating health, not to mention her now-altered emotional state, is echoed through the use of distorted images. She then passes out on the checkered tile, which looks a lot like a chess board. Is it just me, or do tea cups and chess boards make you think of Alice in Wonderland?  Is this an overlooked theme by film critics… Or was Alicia a sacrificed pawn in the Government’s chess game with the Nazis?

Perhaps the most famous sequence in Notorious is the infamous wine cellar key swap. Once Alicia swipes the key from Alex it becomes the focal point of the next few minutes of the film. First, Alicia’s closed hands (one containing the key) must elude Alex’s kisses. Next, Tetzlaff uses a crane to do a sweeping shot from the top of the massive staircase to the bottom of the steps where Alex and Alicia are greeting guests and to Alicia’s nervously fidgeting left hand which is gripping the key, anxiously awaiting Devlin’s arrival. When he does finally arrive, the camera focuses in on Alicia’s hand as Devlin kisses it and she passes him the key. All of these elements are seamlessly completed but done in such a way that it heightens the viewer’s anxiety. 

I could go on and on about why I’m such a fan of Notorious.  Every character was expertly cast, with no one giving a false performance.  The story was well paced and quite believable (especially when you consider how many Nazis did end up hiding in Brazil and planning a resurgence of the Reich) and, like almost every Hitchcock picture, meticulously constructed into an edge of your seat thriller, and, in this case, right down to the very last minute on screen.  All of these elements, as well as the ones discussed above, are why I am such an admirer of Notorious. Oh, and the MacGuffin is a wine cellar full of wine bottles filled with uranium…thought I’d add that for all the hardcore Hitch fans out there.

The Lady Vanishes (1938) **1/2

(There may be spoilers in this post.)

I’m not certain what most people see when they watch director Alfred Hitchcock’s, The Lady Vanishes (1938).  To many, it is the most suspenseful and wittiest of his British films.  Perhaps it is the wittiest, but I would dare say that The 39 Steps (1935) is far more suspenseful.  Still, those points aren’t really  what I contemplate when I watch this movie.  What I think about is how politically symbolic it is—perhaps without even trying.

While The Lady Vanishes premiered in London on October 7, 1938, and, thus, could not have been affected by Neville Chamberlain’s idiotic “Peace for Our Time” speech on September 30, 1938, regarding the Munich Agreement, the movie is a reflection of its time.  First, the film begins in the small, fictitious European country of Bandrika, which has just suffered an avalanche that has blocked the railway.  To me, the avalanche is Nazi Germany—which would scoop up the Sudetenland after Chamberlain’s act of appeasement.  As a result of the avalanche, a small group of British citizens find their trip back home delayed and they must lodge overnight in a crowded hotel infested with all sorts of Continentals who don’t speak English and seem unfamiliar with common  British manners. In an uncivilized world (any European country east of France in this case), the British, of course, are overly civilized—which, by the way, was causing them all sorts of trouble with dealing with Hitler.

Then there are the principal leads: Margaret Lockwood and Michael Redgrave.  Iris Henderson (Lockwood) is an heiress returning to England to marry a man she obviously doesn’t love because it is time for her to settle down.  Gilbert (Michael Redgrave) is a whimsical musicologist who is researching regional folk music and customs. Together, they are the British Empire: practical observers of the European conundrum—the Nazis. When Iris’ takes a flower pot to the skull, which leads her to blackout on the train, her worldview becomes a bit off-kilter—as had the British mindset during Hitler’s Anschluss of Austria.

When Iris awakes, she is tended to by the kindly Ms. Froy (Dame May Whitty), who unfortunately vanishes (hence the title) soon thereafter.  When Iris attempts to find Ms. Froy she finds herself fighting against two groups of people: the conspirers and the do-nothings.  The conspirers are a mix of Europeans (who seem to speak Italian and German) who work together to trick Iris into believing that her bump on the head is causing her to mistrust them, and that Ms. Froy is not missing.  And, then there are the do-nothings, who all happen to be British.  There are the adulterers (Cecil Parker and Linden Travers), who don’t want to become involved in case of scandal, and then there are Caldicott (Naunton Wayne) and Charters (Basil Radford), two British cricket enthusiasts who would rather stay mum about having seen Ms. Froy than miss an all-important cricket match.  I view this as a statement that scandal leads to confrontation and that it is better to preoccupy oneself with unimportant distractions than seeing what is truly happening around oneself. 

And, then there is the stranded train scene.  By this time, with no help from their fellow British passengers, Iris and Gilbert have recovered Ms. Froy and are trying to convince their fellow travelers that something is amiss in whatever Godforsaken European nation they are stranded in.  It takes a bullet to the hand for Charters to believe that they are in grave danger and Cecil Parker’s character, a pacifist, gets shot down while waving a white handkerchief in the air.  It is not until the British citizens band together against their enemy that they can escape danger.

Oh, and Ms. Froy—why was she “vanished” by the Europeans in the first place?  She was a British spy on her way back to report that two European nations had made a secret pact with one another.  Please pick one: the Non-Aggression Pact between the Soviets and Germany or the Pact of Steel between Italy and Germany, both of which were signed in 1939. 

I expect mine is an unusual viewpoint of The Lady Vanishes.  Perhaps you would rather I discuss how the serenader is killed by an unknown person via shadow or that Hitchcock employs birds and a magician’s disappearing woman cabinet to make a statement?  Or what about the fact that one of the conspirators (Paul Lukas) is a likable villain or that the heroine finds herself in world where reality is pitted against illusion?  All of those common Hitchcockian themes do appear in the movie and work quite well, but as a historian I see an accidentally  politically prophetic film. 

Psycho (1960) ***

Hello, my name is Marion Crane (Janet Leigh), and what you’re about to read is filled with what some call “spoiler alerts”.  If you wish to hear my story, spoilers included, then continue reading.

That’s me in the poster above—the blonde wearing a brassiere. Yes, it’s rather odd that a movie poster from 1960 would prominently display a woman clothed as such. What can I say, when the director (Alfred Hitchcock) is a complete pervert things like that happen. For example, my first scene finds me wearing that exact outfit and basking in the glow of just completing the act of copulation in a no-tell motel with my half-clothed lover, Sam Loomis (John Gavin). A few scenes later, after stealing $40,000 (what the pervert refers to as a ‘MacGuffin’) from my boss (Vaughn Taylor), I am in another scene wearing a black bra.  I guess the white bra represented a cleaner state of mind—I was after all trying to end my illicit affair with Sam, who couldn’t marry me because he was paying alimony to his ex-wife and couldn’t afford a new one. Yes, I know that sounds lame, but that didn’t stop me from taking the money and thinking we could run away together. Hence, why I suspect I was wearing the black bra: dark thoughts had crept into my mind.

Anyway, after I put clothes on, I set out for Fairvale, California, to show Sam that we now had enough money to get married. We wouldn’t have to worry about his ex getting her greedy hands on any of it, as we would be on the lam. Ha! take that, bitch!  The drive from Phoenix to Fairvale was a long one, so I pulled off the side of the road and took a nap. I awoke to a creepy, sunglass-wearing cop (Mort Mills) knocking on my window.  I must have aroused his suspicions because he gave me the once over and proceeded to follow me to a used car lot, where I was trading in my car for one with California plates. Tsk, tsk, copper, I was a law-abiding person when I bought my car, so you stopped following me. Too bad…

Once back on the road and away from the prying eyes of the police I encountered a torrential downpour that prohibited my migration to Fairvale, and so I stopped off at a roadside motel called the Bates Motel.  The owner, Norman (Anthony Perkins), immediately struck me as an oddball.  He, like the pervert, had a strange fascination with birds (he stuffed them) and a proclivity for voyeurism. I should have known he was a complete Psycho (1960) when after being invited into his parlor (oh, I hate parables!) he confided in me that “a boy’s best friend is his mother.”

Yet, that conversation convinced me that I should repent my wicked ways and return to Phoenix with the money (sans $700 that I paid for my new car). Wanting to wash away my sins I decided to take a shower. Off went my clothes, which Norman got more than an eyeful of by spying through his peephole, and into the shower I went.  I really enjoyed that shower—it felt (and looked) extremely sensual. Oh, that was until violins started screeching (thanks, Bernard Herrmann) and someone decided to carve me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. There I was: slowly, sliding down the bathroom wall, watching my blood being washed away—I quite literally got to see my life go down the drain. Ah, such is life.  Later, Norman found me face-down on the bathroom floor and decided to use the shower curtain I tore down on my way to death as my burial shroud.  He then “buried” me and the $40k in the trunk of my car and placed us in a swamp behind the motel. Oddly enough, the car’s license plate read: NFB 418. I later learned that it stood for Norman Francis Bates. Coincidentally, St. Francis was the patron saint of birds (and many other animals) and my last name was Crane and I was planning on returning to Phoenix to resurrect my former innocent ways.  Now that I think of it, maybe it wasn’t such a coincidence after all.

About a week after that, my sister, Lila (Vera Miles) contacted a private detective (Martin Balsam) to find me.  They went to Fairvale and met with Sam, and once they ascertained that he knew nothing about either my theft or disappearance they began to work together.  Poor Detective Arbogast soon joined me in the swamp after he “met” Mrs. Bates.  Then, Sam and Lila came calling on Norman and his '”mother”. They soon learned the shocking truth: Norman suffered from a dual personality—he’d murdered Mrs. Bates and her lover ten years prior and kept her preserved bones in the house with him. Ah, such a perverted story could only be told by a complete master of perversion (as well as suspense).

Looking back on it all, I have to admit that it was a masterful tale of Oedipal psychological sexual repression told in a completely new and shocking way. Personally, I’d never heard of the central character (even if that bitch Lila/Vera got top-billing!) getting the axe before the story was halfway over. Oh, and the way that I got it (well, it was a knife) was just so shocking. I’m glad I can only remember it in black and white, because I’m sure it would have been much gorier in color.  And, of course, the twist at the end has inspired countless imitators (M. Night Shyamalan anyone?) over the years.  If I must forever be remembered as the first slashed horror victim, I say so be it. I had a scream doing it!

Sabotage (1936) **

I recently wrote a review of The 39 Steps and based on the comments it elicited I came to the conclusion that Hitchcock’s pre-Hollywood films are often overlooked or even forgotten.  I’m sure there are many reasons for this, but I think many of his early British films should be watched to understand how his directorial vision developed.  You don’t just wake up one day and direct Notorious or Rear Window. As such, I think Hitchcock’s earlier films provide excellent examples of how he honed his style over a period of many years. Sabotage (1936) is one of those forgotten gems that one should watch to gain more insight into the Hitchcockian vision.

Based on the novel The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad, Sabotage is a suspenseful thriller about an international terrorist group (or saboteurs) who hold London in a state of anxiety through their rampant bombings across the city. Though not designated as Nazis by Hitchcock, many film historians believe that is exactly who the saboteurs were meant to represent. This makes sense, as Germany and Italy had just signed the Rome-Berlin Axis and many Western European nations were growing alarmed by Germany’s growing militarism. There were even rumors that German spies were attempting to infiltrate Britain and create public unrest.  As such, the film’s saboteurs serve both an artistic and political purpose for Hitchcock.

The film opens metaphorically with a close-up shot of a flashing light bulb (a warning signal?) and then transitions into a shot of a crowded London street right before a blackout.  In true Hitchcockian fashion, the film cuts back to the flashing light bulb and we watch as the light slows its pace and then goes completely out upon the blackout. Another quick cut takes us to the Bijou,a movie theatre run by Karl Verloc (Oskar Homolka). Dressed in the typical accoutrement of a shady figure—a dark overcoat—Verloc seems to be sneaking back into his home just after the blackout hits. When he lays down on the couch and covers his face with a newspaper you instantly know something just isn’t kosher. When his wife (Sylvia Sidney) comes to complain that the theatre’s patrons want their money back he tells her to give it to them, hinting that they don’t have to worry about money any more.  Why?

Soon we are introduced to Mrs. Verloc’s little brother Stevie (Desmond Tester). Stevie encompasses all that is innocent and good, which is reinforced by his helpfulness and trusting nature. Through Stevie we meet Mr. Spencer (John Loder), the street grocer…well, actually he’s not really a grocer but an undercover Scotland Yard detective who suspects Mr. Verloc is involved with the saboteur group. Spencer and Verloc engage one another in the typical Hitchcockian game of cat and mouse. Verloc comes off as cool and detached whenever Spencer makes suggestive comments about the bombings taking place in London. 

It is really enjoying to watch these two actors play off one another, especially when you throw in Sylvia Sidney as the unassuming wife. In addition, Verloc is the traditional quiet and unassuming Hitchcockian villain. He doesn’t seem particularly menacing (at least until the end of the film) and seems like an inconspicuous personality. In addition, like in so many Hitchcock films, the line between villain and hero becomes blurred when Spencer begins to have feeling for Mrs. Verloc and even when Mrs. Verloc reaps her revenge at the end of the film.  Hitchcock had a habit of blurring this line, in such films as Marnie, Notorious, and some would say even Psycho. It is also interesting to note that John Loder was not Hitchcock’s first choice for the role of Spencer. Instead, he hoped to work once again with his The 39 Steps leading man, Robert Donat, but the actor was being treated for severe asthma at the time.

The puzzle pieces start to take shape when Verloc and an accomplice meet at an aquarium and discuss the city’s reaction to the recent bombing. A newspaper headline reads: “London Laughs at Blackout”. Evidently no one was hurt in the blast and this means Verloc isn’t getting paid.  He’s told he must deliver a bomb that will do substantial damage before he gets his money.  In a rather creative shot (at least for 1936), we see Verloc staring into a fish tank as he imagines as a collapsing building in Piccadilly.  This scene is especially effective, as Hitchcock uses shadows to evoke a sense of sinister unease.

Eventually a plan is put into action to detonate a time bomb at 1:45 on a Saturday afternoon. A note reads: “London must not laugh on Saturday”—yes, the opposite reaction is, of course, the outcome. In a strange twist (but not strange for Hitchcock), Verloc gets Stevie to deliver the bomb, which is disguised in a film reel/roll of Bartholomew the Strangler (a nudge toward the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of 1572?). Ah, but you never send a child to do a man’s work, now do you? Instead of promptly delivering the “package” Stevie attends a a street show and a parade and finds himself tardily boarding a bus for his destination. The bus, and everyone on it including Stevie, goes kaboom.  It is said that this was one of Hitchcock's’ greatest film regrets—he had violated his own rule of never harming a character with whom his audience had come to sympathize.  In the end, we are privy to the unraveling of Mrs. Verloc and the eventual comeuppance of Mr. Verloc. 

The film is tension filled, especially little Stevie’s errand from hell and the showdown between husband and wife. The bomb delivery sequence is nearly 10 minutes long and is taut with suspense. The showdown between the Verlocs is rife with unspoken anxiety and edited with shots of uneasy close-ups. In addition, Hitchcock uses the theatre setting as a clever device to mix reality with fiction, as in the scene where Spencer is visiting the Verloc’s and he hears screams and shots ring out.  After recovering from being startled, he comments, “I thought someone was being murdered.” And, then with a wonderful comeback, Verloc responds, “Someone probably is.” Priceless, and filled with so many undertones!

Sabotage is perhaps one of Hitchcock’s darkest films—what with killing an innocent child. It is also one of his few films that doesn’t contain a true mystery. Shortly after the film starts everyone knows who the bomber is and there is nothing to truly unravel. Instead, it is purely a suspense film.  As such, it is a rather unique Hitchcock vehicle. 

The 39 Steps (1935) **1/2

In his 18th effort, legendary British director Alfred Hitchcock created a film that brought him to the notice of American audiences and Hollywood. The film, The 39 Steps (1935), also introduced two classic Hitchcockian themes: the MacGuffin and the average, innocent man (Robert Donat) who finds himself forced into extraordinary circumstances to prove his innocence.  In addition to these two themes, the film also has another classic Hitchcock element: an icy blonde heroine (Madeline Carroll).  You combine these three components with a masterfully plotted script and you have the first of many classic Hitchcock films.

The screenplay was based on John Buchan’s 1915 novel of the same name. While Charles Bennett is given the screenwriting credit, both Hitchcock and his often used dialogue writer Ian Hay (an author in his own right) also contributed to the film’s tightly-constructed script. As most Hitchcock fans know, he wanted a script that was visual in nature so his favorite directorial tool, the storyboard, could be precisely created to match the script.  I once read somewhere that Hitchcock’s storyboards were so precise that he never looked through the viewfinder while directing—he didn’t need to. Even today, Hitchcock’s storyboards are something to marvel. Perhaps that is why Cinemek created a Hitchcock storyboard app for the iPhone? 

The story takes place over a four-day period in both London and the Scottish highlands. As with most Hitchcock films, The 39 Steps begins innocently enough, with the film’s hero, Richard Hannay (Donat) attending a vaudeville show starring Mr. Memory (Wylie Watson).  However, his life soon becomes complicated when he takes Annabella Smith (Lucie Mannheim) back to his rented room after shots are fired in the theatre. Unbeknownst to him, Ms. Smith is a secret double agent hiding from two men from an organization known as, you didn’t guess it, the 39 Steps, that want to kill her.  The poor sap even jokes about it when she lets him in on her predicament. He stops laughing when she ends up with a knife in her back and two men outside his window seem like they might want to kill him, too.  And, so with the knowledge that Ms. Smith was supposed to stop British military secrets from being smuggled out of the country by a spy missing the top of his little finger and who works for the 39 Steps, Hannay sets out to do her job. First step, pry the map of Scotland out of her cold, dead hand, and notice that she’s circled the town of Alt-na-Shellach. Second step, get out of the building without being noticed by two men outside. He does this by borrowing the milkman’s hat and coat and then he takes a train to Scotland.

Whilst on this train, two very important things happen. First, he learns that Ms. Smith’s body has been found and that he is the prime suspect. This leads to the other important thing: to avoid identification he pops into the compartment of our Hitchcockian icy blonde, Pamela (Carroll). Perhaps she was mad that he kissed her before a proper introduction, but once she catches her breath she alerts the police to his presence and he has to make another daring escape.  Don’t worry, they’ll meet again.

Not able to make it on foot to Alt-na-Shellach before dark, Hannay finds shelter with a religious fanatic (John Laurie) and his young wife Margaret (a very young Peggy Ashcroft). Unlike Pamela, Margaret helps Hannay escape the police when her jealous and greedy husband tries to turn him in for a reward. Hannay then finds his way to the house of Professor Jordan (Godfrey Tearle), the man whom he mistakenly believes is Ms. Smith’s ally. This myth is soon dispelled when Jordan shows him his deformed little finger and shoots him point blank. Ah, thank goodness Margaret had given Hannay her husband’s coat as a disguise—it had a thick prayer book in its breast-pocket. You gotta love, Hitch!

He ends up in the local sheriff’s office recounting the events that led to his would-be murder and narrow escape. He finds himself handcuffed (but by only one wrist) and ready to be turned over to London authorities when he makes yet another escape.  This time he hides out at political rally where he meets up with Pamela again. She evidently doesn’t like him, because she alerts the authorities once again. Ah, but she alerts the “wrong” authorities this time, and she finds herself being taken to the professor’s house with Hannay. Conveniently, the spies handcuff Pamela and Hannay together. And, so when he makes yet another escape she has to come along too—she’s actually drug, but that’s just semantics. Anyway, this leads to some rather interesting scenes at an inn between the warring couple. Carroll is your typical Hitchcock ice queen—eventually she melts. She and Donat do a nice job of playing off one another, and the love-hate relationship that develops between their characters is palpable.

This being a suspense film, I won’t give away the ending.  All I’ll say is that it takes place at the London Palladium and it is quite circular.  However, it is Hitchcock’s newfound love of the MacGuffin that makes the ending so enjoyable. What are the 39 Steps and how can the military secrets be smuggled out of the country without detection? It is, as my old friend M. Night Shyamalan would say, a twist. And, what is a good suspense film without an even better twist? Hitchcock would use the MacGuffin device in many of his best films, such as  Vertigo, The Lady Vanishes, North by Northwest, The Man Who Knew Too Much, and, of course, Notorious.

Not my favorite Hitchcock film, that honor rests with Notorious, The 39 Steps is still an enjoyable piece of cinema.  I really think this film helped shape and define Hitchcock’s style for the rest of his career.

Rebecca ( 1940) **1/2

(This article is from guest contributor The Lady Eve and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

By the late 1930's, Hitchcock's reputation was riding high based on several suspense films he'd made in Britain. He came to Hollywood under contract to producer David O. Selznick. Selznick intended Rebecca to rival his previous film, the award-laden Gone With the Wind (1939). The two men had a contentious collaboration on Rebecca but ultimately produced a critical and commercial success that was nominated for 11 Academy Awards. It won two: Best Picture and Best B&W Cinematography.

Rebecca is a favorite of mine, and here are a few reasons why...

A strong sense of atmosphere that underscores the story's gothic quality and mood of vague but insistent foreboding. Manderley, where much of the action occurs, conveys a cavernous and chilly ambiance of inhospitable elegance.

Multi-layered characters, evocative performances. Joan Fontaine is palpably anxious and apprehensive as the second Mrs. de Winter. She doesn't miss a beat and, late in the film, smoothly portrays the young woman's transition as she gains poise and confidence. Laurence Olivier's Maxim de Winter is guilt-riddled, highly strung and volatile...with aristocratic charm. Judith Anderson creates one of Hitchcock's and the screen's great villains as the unbalanced and eventually dangerous Mrs. Danvers. George Sanders as Jack Favell and Florence Bates as Mrs. Van Hopper both play unsavory types, but with comic overtones. Favell is an oily bounder, but a witty one. Van Hopper is insufferably demanding and grandiose - and more than slightly ridiculous.

A final note...Hitchcock reportedly edited "in camera" to prevent Selznick from re-editing his work. Rebecca strikes me as classic Hitchcock with the Selznick treatment: top-notch cast, the finest writers and technicians - and a big budget that shows.

Those are some of my thoughts...but what do you think? What are your opinions, observations and comments...and, if you've read Daphne du Maurier's novel, how would you compare the film to the book?

The Birds (1963) **1/2

(This article is from guest contributor Rick29 and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Alfred Hitchcock’s most divisive thriller finds the Master of Suspense in magician mode. On the surface, The Birds is a traditionally-structured horror film, in which the bird attacks build progressively to three of Hitchcock’s most intense sequences. However, this is just Hitchcock performing a little playful sleight of hand with the audience. Our feathered friends play a strictly peripheral part in moving the plot along. In actuality, The Birds is a relationship movie about another memorable Hitchcock mother, her adult son, and the women who threaten to come between the two—a theme explored by Hitchcock earlier in Notorious and Psycho.

In The Birds, the son is the bland, but likable, Mitch Brenner (Rod Taylor). Mitch’s mother (wonderfully played by Jessica Tandy) fears losing her son to another woman—not because of jealousy, but because she can’t stand the thought of being abandoned. Young socialite Melanie Daniels (Tippi Hedren) views Mitch as a stable love interest, something she needs as she strives to live a more meaningful life. And Annie Hayworth (Suzanne Pleshette) is the spinster schoolteacher, willing to waste her life to be near Mitch after failing to pry him from his mother.

These characters come together when Melanie follows Mitch to his home in Bodega Bay after a flirtatious exchange in a pet store. Melanie’s arrival coincides with the beginning of the bird attacks. It’s almost as if the birds arrive to prevent any potential love between Mitch and Melanie, perhaps an extension of Mitch’s mother’s anger at having to defeat another rival for her son’s love. (Taken to the extreme, there could a parallel between the birds and the creature created by Morbius in Forbidden Planet). However, although the birds initially come between Mitch and Melanie, they eventually have a very different impact. They allow Melanie, who first appears spoiled and shallow, to show her courage and vulnerability. In the end, Mitch’s mother no longer sees Melanie as a threat, but as a woman worthy of her son. Once the friction between those two characters is resolved, the bird attacks stop and the movie ends. Hitchcock’s conclusion—often criticized as ambiguous—is perfectly logical.

Hitchcock goes to great lengths to misdirect his audience by disguising The Birds as a conventional thriller. Always concerned with audience expectations, the Master of Suspense told French director/film critic Francois Truffaut in Hitchcock, a brilliant collection of interviews: “I didn’t want the public to become too impatient about the birds, because that would distract them from the personal story….” For that reason, the first bird attack comes at twenty-five minutes into the film and occurs toward the end of a playful scene in which Melanie races her boat while Mitch drives along the lake road trying to beat her to the dock.


From that point on, the birds become progressively more menacing and their appearances more frequent: Mitch sees them on the power lines after Melanie visits for dinner; a bird crashes into Annie’s front door and dies; birds swoop down to break up a children’s birthday party; they fly through the open flue into Mitch’s house; and Mitch’s mother find the first human victim in a farmhouse. (I love how Hitchcock uses broken teacups in this scene to foreshadow the impending horror. Earlier, he shows Mitch’s mom picking up broken teacups after the birds-in-the-flue incident. Then, when she visits the apparently empty farmhouse, she sees broken teacups hanging on their hooks—just before discovering the bloody, eyeless body.)

The remainder of the film consists of the three major set pieces: the bird attack outside the school-house; the attack after the gas station blows up; and Melanie’s struggle with the birds in the attic. Again, following the classic horror film structure, Hitchcock separates each sequence with a transition scene that allows the audience to relax and catch its breath. The scene in the restaurant with the ornithologist is one of Hitch’s rare missteps in The Birds; as Truffaut points out, it goes on too long without contributing to the narrative structure. I won’t dissect the birds’ attack on the school children—it’s an iconic sequence—but I strongly recommend that Hitchcock fans seek out Dan Auiler’s Hitchcock’s Notebooks, which include the director’s hand-drawn storyboard and notes. Though less famous, the burning gas station sequence is no less impressive. In the midst of the terrifying chaos, Hitchcock shows Melanie protected—and trapped—inside a phone booth. This “glass cage” is a marvelous metaphor for her previously sheltered life (also symbolized by the lovebirds in the birdcage) from which she is rescued by Mitch (literally…when he pulls her from the phone booth).

The three years between Psycho and The Birds (1963) comprised the longest gap between Hitchcock films up to that point. Much of that time was spent dealing with the technical difficulties in bringing Daphne du Maurier’s short story to the screen. In Truffaut’s book, Hitchcock admits that he discovered narrative weakness in The Birds as he was shooting it. A compulsive pre-planner, who storyboarded every shot in every film, Hitchcock began to improvise during the shooting of The Birds: “The emotional siege I went through served to bring out an additional creative sense in me.”

That creative genius is captured for all to see in The Birds. From its use of bird sounds in lieu of music to its disturbing closing shot, The Birds is an atypical Hitchcock film which finds the director in a mischievous mood. He gives us a classic chiller, but then reveals that it’s all wrapping paper and that’s what inside is a relationship drama. It’s an unexpected gift and, hey, Hitchcock even includes a birthday party for us—although it’s disrupted by those darn birds!