When last we discussed Alfred Hitchcock, it was to celebrate the movies he made in the 1940s, in support of the contention that it was his finest decade. The stakes of course could not have been higher, and this also outed us as choosing sides in that most sensitive of topics – one that somehow we found the courage to broach in our conversation with David Thomson – which is to be more treasured, Hitchcock’s British films or his American ones?
In championing the forties, we chose sides in that controversy and planted a flag in another—parsing the American period and favoring Hitchcock’s earlier work there. Yet many would argue for the following decade, both on the merits of the movies and buttressed by the assured auteurist claim that here we have the real Hitch, now an independent producer, in full control of his pictures, and at the height of his powers. We’re sticking with the fabulous forties, but regarding the fifties we did note that Hitchcock directed “eleven films, including three out-and-out masterpieces, two ambitious experiments, and four fine entertainments.” Not. Too. Shabby. And as we have previously covered the thirties and the forties and awarded our coveted Top Five from each decade, a consideration of the fifties seems well past due.
Of these eleven-films-in-ten-years, five are . . . less than fabulous. That said, I’d happily watch just about any one of them on a given day. (The Trouble with Harry (1955), despite featuring the film debut of Shirley MacLaine, is a shaggy dog story in search of laughs that we can do without.) Our appreciation of The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956) – which boasts signature sequences, solid suspense, and reliable performances from Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day – is somewhat circumscribed by our preference for his 1934 film with the same title. Hitchcock dismisses that earlier effort as one made by “a talented amateur,” in contrast to the polished professionalism of the later version. But he’s wrong. The former, which clocks in at a tight seventy-five minutes (in contrast to the somewhat bloated two hours of Man II), and showcases an early, brooding performance by Peter Lorre, has a nervy edge absent from the very “movie movie” of 1956. To Catch a Thief (1955) is arguably featherweight, and it does have the feel of a of a man on vacation (scouting for the location work did “require” a two week trip to the French Riviera), but it remains an effortless entertainment, and, with top form Cary Grant and Grace Kelly, is understandably much beloved. Finally, flashing our contrarian streak, we’re happy to go to bat for two films with mixed reputations, Dial M for Murder (1954) and Stage Fright (1950). Rarely mentioned among Hitchcock’s finest, most filmmakers would nevertheless count themselves lucky to have their name attached to either picture. Murder, admittedly a bit stage-y, remains an irresistible thriller with Grace Kelly and Ray Milland; Fright, Hitchcock’s only collaboration with Marlene Dietrich, is a major entry too often overshadowed by debates about whether the movie’s unconventional flashback violated an implicit but foundational pact between film and viewer.
Even the especially fine Murder and Fright, however, are not in the same league as our top five (plus) Hitchcock films of the 1950s:
5)North by Northwest (1959): Perhaps the signature Hitchcock “double chase” movie – an innocent man (at least of the crime he is accused), is on the run from the cops must track down the bad guys to clear his name. A film with numerous, thrilling and inventive set pieces, it also features outstanding performances by Cary Grant, Eva Marie Saint, Mr. James Mason at his most magnificently mellifluous, and Martin Landau, just reveling in his role as the (thinly veiled by the censorship code) loyal gay lieutenant, jealous of scheming women who might come between him and the boss. Ultimately, as with the dueling Men who Knew, we find The 39 Steps (1935) a tighter and more intense articulation of similar themes, which limits our enthusiasm for this delightful movie.
4a/4b)I Confess (1953)/The Wrong Man (1956): Hitchcock productions in the 1950s could get big – too big, for our tastes – and could at times lean commercially on his reputation as almost a genre onto himself; many of these were also bathed the assertive pastels of then de rigueur Hollywood technicolor. But here are two little black and white gems, small in scale, daring in their experimentation, and neither of which looks anything like a big Alfred Hitchcock Production (even as they explore his overarching themes and reflect his steady hand). I Confess, shot on Location in Quebec City, with Montgomery Clift (a method actor not well suited for a Hitchcock picture), Anne Baxter and Karl Malden, has a New Wave vibe and not coincidentally was praised to the stars in Cahiers du Cinéma. The Wrong Man, with Henry Fonda and Vera Miles, was also a location film, shot in New York in a distinct, documentary style and hews close to the true story on which it is based. Jonathan Rosenbaum described Wrong Man as “a highly personal and even religious expression” of “the vicissitudes of fate,” and one of Hitchcock’s “most potent and memorable works from the 50s.”
3)Vertigo (1958): Released to tepid reviews, modest box office, and withdrawn from distribution for decades, Vertigo, arguably Hitchcock’s most personal film (a rumination on watching and obsessive desire), is now officially “the greatest movie of all time,” dethroning Citizen Kane. (Sidebar: it might be best not to take such designations too seriously.) Unquestionably a masterpiece, with impeccable staging, framing, and, as restorations revealed, breathtaking in its color scheme (this would be a good time to note that cinematographer Robert Burks shot all of Hitchcock’s 50s films except for the Stage Fright, which was a British production), repeated viewings reveal this film’s brilliance in moments both large and small (consider the layers of desire and duplicity involved in Scottie’s apartment in the sequence after “Madeline” has leapt into San Francisco Bay). You’ll hear nothing but praise from us about this one, but note that The Greatest Film of All Time slots in this list as Hitchcock’s third best film of the fifties—something about this stunning tour-de-force has always left us a little cold.
2)Strangers on a Train (1951): Another Black and White beauty, based on the Patricia Highsmith novel (the British version of the movie includes two additional minutes that brought the homosexual subtext too close to the surface for American censors). Perhaps Hitchcock’s ultimate (transfer of) guilt trip, the film’s visual orchestration (and emphasis on doubles, a cute one has the portly director struggling with a double bass in his cameo) which repeatedly suggests similarities between the charismatic (if psychotic) Bruno, and Guy, his passive, confused partner, dragged into a scheme for which he did not volunteer—but which, in fact, successfully fulfilled his darkest fantasies. For Dave Kehr, Strangers “centered on a classic Catholic theme—that there is no difference between thinking a sin and committing it”; Ebert has an elaborate theory about the representation of screen space; we’re into that Hitchcockian suggestion of evil lurking (literally) in the shadow of icons (like the Jefferson Memorial). But if you don’t want to think about that stuff, sit back and enjoy an engaging suspenser with nearly a dozen of Hitchcock’s most celebrated sequences and shots.
1)Rear Window (1954): I don’t want to ruin this crackerjack entertainment for you, with its marvelous set up and story, sizzling, savvy dialogue and pitch-perfect performances by Jimmy Stewart, Grace Kelly, and Thelma Ritter. But Rear Window, which, like many Hitchcock films, is about watching and voyeurism (you know, sort of like going to the movies), is also one of the purest expressions of cinematic language ever presented as a mainstream entertainment. As wheelchair bound (or is that a camera dolly?) L. B. Jeffries, a photographer by trade, watches his neighbors across the courtyard (a half-dozen movies about that envision the potential divergent paths of marriage for the cold-footed bachelor?), the core of the film unfolds in a series of shot/reaction shots—showcasing Hitchcock’s theory of negative acting (rooted in Russian film theory, sorry for mentioning that), in which the juxtaposition of the images invites the audience to invent the emotional state of the character. François Truffaut, then a feisty young critic, was sneered at by a local scribe for showering the film with praise, who lectured, “You love Rear Window because, as a stranger to New York, you know nothing about Greenwich Village.” To which Truffaut most properly replied, “Rear Window is not about Greenwich Village, it is a film about cinema, and I do know cinema!” And it’s a great murder mystery, too—but look for Raymond Burr finally lumbering through the fourth wall, to ask the viewer, “what do you want?” Why, to be entertained, of course. That’s why we’re watching . . .
