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Hitchy on the Couch by Davell Swan
An odd pose for Alfred. photo: courtesy A. Hitchcock
"The psychological and sexual content of Alfred Hitchcock's entwined personal and cinematic past was as modern as tomorrow." Davell Swan
It seemed as if Hitchcock had achieved his ultimate deception.
When an older, accomplished filmmaker works with a younger, somewhat less-experienced actress, and together they concoct a unique theatrical fiction, a special bond occurs. This means the one can always count on the other, whenever required.
Within this context, Hitchcock foresaw that the gullible "moron masses," or "them asses," as Frank Lloyd Wright would have it, would be inclined to accept theories regarding his repressed Victorian prudishness. Supposedly, one of Hollywood's most-monied and famed directors, with the sickest sense of beatnik black-humor, along with a genius-level understanding of philosophy, psychoanalysis, engineering and art, and a suave personality that belied his weight, would harbor paroxysms of desire for the unattainable, while ignoring an almost infinite supply of groupies on all continents.
"Pussshahh!!"
Accordingly, Alfred Hitchcock savored more nubile mistresses than JFK or jazz-legend Charlie (Bird) Parker. And when unable to do so in person, he did this through the camera and the layering tiers of his psycho-sexual scripts, screwing them more pleasurably in the deep subconscious than they'd ever been in the flesh.
Alfred on the set of 'Vertigo'; ironically, Kim Novak was one of his actresses he didn't get obsessed with. photo: courtesy A. Hitchcock
The aforementioned women, he's previously ushered into various cinematic heights, proceeded to inundate the media with tales of his "obsessions" while shocked crew members corroborated his continual staring at certain actresses, taking them aside for unnecessary, but lengthy, "story conferences" and insisting on myriad wardrobe adjustments, particularly in the breast and groin areas.
The tallest tales involved squandering vast studio resources on absurdly detailed "screen tests" wherein the unlucky ingenue would be expected to re-enact romantic scenes from his previous successes, for Hitch's delectation and later viewing in his private theater. And, yes, even the sweet Tippi Hedren—possibly the penultimate beard, as opposed to muse—was involved in the ruse.
And the purpose of all this chicanery? Obviously, this was the perfect mystery writer's foil for his innumerable, both meaningful and transitory affairs, to be kept secret from his dually-adored wife, Alma, and young daughter Patricia. Being cautious and fearful, and assuming Alma would well outlive him, Hitch wanted to insure the perpetuation of his reputation.
To this end, he arranged for five of his greatest films, known as the "five lost Hitchcocks"—"Rope" (1948), "Rear Window" (1954), "The Trouble With Harry" (1955), "The Man Who Knew Too Much" (1956) and "Vertigo" (1958)— to be held back from exhibition, as an inheritance for Patricia to draw on. Three projects ("Rope", "Rear Window" and "Vertigo") were sufficiently ahead of their time, in terms of film language, treatment of sexual and psychological disturbances, and technical mastery, that only posthumously would they receive the critical accolades so well-deserved and greatly-desired.
A lot of actors had conflicts with Alfred, shown here Vincent Price. photo: courtesy A. Hitchcock
Once the films were re-released in the early-80s, Patricia remunerated his long-time admirer, Donald Spoto, and allowed him to author the so-called unauthorized bio, "The Dark Side of Genius: The Life of Alfred Hitchcock", which would further memorialize his unrequited affairs of the heart. Unfortunately, Alma died shortly after Hitch, nullifying the bizarre plot, and he'd failed to explain it to Patricia (her being of an age that she could be aware of his dalliances), who remitted a goodly portion of the re-released movies' rental fees to Spoto. Then, to her shock, he penned an exceedingly nasty diatribe.
On the other hand, perhaps I was dreaming, prior to waking in my dentist's chair, having been gassed, not unlike the young lady in one of The Master's 1920's short stories. And what a ridiculous reverie it was.
Of course Hitch was physically faithful to Alma. And he literally did fall apart during his grotesque infatuation with the lovely Ms. Hedren throughout the production of "The Birds" (1963) and "Marnie" (1964, see the revealing interview with Tippi in this issue)
The situation became ugly during production of "Marnie". Hitch had a special trailer constructed for her, that was next to his office, with the finest wines in the well-stocked refrigerator. Previously he'd penned a number of disturbing love letters, convinced that despite his advanced age, he would be the perfect lover for this younger woman and couldn't understand why she did not reciprocate. All of this in the face of her having a fiance! Eventually, he ordered her to choose between becoming intimate or experiencing the destruction of her career. She chose the latter.
As Spoto noted, "His way of transforming feelings was...the film Marnie itself, which was becoming a strange and driven and distorted parable of the attitude Hitchcock was taking toward Tippi Hedren. ...finally he was telling her his recurring dream. 'You were in the living room of my house...and you came right up to me and said, "Hitch, I love you and I'll always love you", and we embraced.' Had he wished, he easily could have found women to gratify his sexual desires, but for Alfred Hitchcock—dreamer, fantasist, romantic—it was the pursuit of the dream that mattered."
Alfred done up in the profession of his father, who owned a fish store, but could a belt of sausages be Freudian. photo: courtesy A. Hitchcock
Even more strangely, Hitch insisted that writer Evan Hunter draft a scene in which Marnie is raped by her new husband on their honeymoon, when her frigid state prevents the union from being accordingly consumated. When Hunter balked, he was relaced with another, more willing writer. The repugnant scene was included in the finished film.
The confusion between celluloid and reality actually began on the previous project—"The Birds"—in which the avian attacks could be construed as occurring in direct connection with the director actually being jealous of the character, the woman of his dreams, Tippi Hedren, was playing.
Again Spoto's 1983 "The Dark Side of Genius" enlightens: "Some might suggest that the events could only have been set in motion by a man in his sixties who had lived a life of severe repression, who by his own admission had lived chastely for over thirty years—that a healthy, active libido earlier, would have prevented this entire chapter in his life." It's an industry assumption that this psychological conflagration ultimately contributed to his decline as one of the world's greatest filmmakers.
For all of their many wonders, neither "Torn Curtain" (1966) nor "Topaz" (1969) measured up to his previous accomplishments. Where "Frenzy" (1972) and "Family Plot" (1976) will finally reside in the celestial cinema ratings is currently open to contention. We can, however, be sure that Alfred Hitchcock's critical standing will be greatly based on his exploration of the myriad connections between crime and sex, in all of their forms.
If we go back to what's considered the first true Hitchcockian work, "The Lodger" (1926/27) we'll find a preoccupation with a romantic triangle and the sex-crimes of England's "Jack the Ripper." The male lead, who's the loser here, seems to express an edge of violence toward his beloved that's a minor representation of the actual killer's.
"Blackmail" (1929), has an attractive young woman pursue another suitor to arose jealousy in her boy friend, then end up at the former's home, where he makes some risqué and unwarranted advances, only to have her stab him to death in a manner suggesting copulatory frenzy.
"Dial M for Murder" (1954) features another woman stabbing a male attacker in a similarly sexual manner, while the central conceit concerns a jealous husband arranging his unfaithful wife's murder. "Shadow of a Doubt" (1943) features a villain who kills wealthy widows after bedding them.
If Alfred ever got purposely Freudian photographically, this has got to be it. photo: courtesy A. Hitchcock
For "Spellbound" (1945), Hitchcock pairs a psychoanalyst with an amnesiac lover—who may be a wanted killer—and they go on the lam together. Here the love relationship involves a man wrongly-accused of murder who convinces the woman of his innocence while attempting to clear himself before the cops close in. "Young and Innocent" (1937/ 38), "The 39 Steps" (1935) and "Saboteur (1942)" all depend on variations of this basic plot.
In none of these cases, does the female evidence attraction based on the "bad boy paradigm," where she thinks her eventual paramour has actually broken the law, except for "To Catch a Thief" (1954) which is entirely based on such a premise, with spectacular results. In it, Francie Stevens (Grace Kelly), a rich and callow young woman, falls for John Robie (Cary Grant), a retired top-drawer cat burglar, because she believes he's responsible for a series of brilliantly-executed jewel thefts.
Shortly after meeting Robie, she abducts him, accuses him of perpetrating the robberies and blackmails him into coming to her hotel suite. During Francie's ensuing seduction, in the suite overlooking the celebratory and rather Freudian fireworks, she has him fondle her necklace, as if daring him to purloin such while obviously connecting it to her readily available breasts. The two make love, although this desirable scene occurs away from our most-interested gaze.
"Family Plot" (1976), oft relegated to mediocrity in comparison to other Hitchcock masterpieces, features some of his most fantastic mise-en-scene, and should therefore be reassessed, in terms of pure cinematic experience for the viewer. Be that as it may, it superbly fetishizes the stealing of nearly-priceless jewels (in conjunction with high-profile kidnapping) and puts the act on a pedestal as the ultimate prelude to kinky, role-playing sex.
Lest the filmgoer miss subtler references, the dialogue specifies this highly-charged connection.
Fran: "I don't know what's come over me tonite. I'm tingling all over." Arthur: "I told you about danger, didn't I? First it makes you sick, then when you get through it, it makes you very, very loving."
Speaking of Pleasure-In-Pain, certain of de Sade's sicko projections, which lack the existence of a masochistic partner or a "safe-word," are acted out fully in Hitchcock. The Master tortured audiences not to ensure their vicarious enjoyment but as actual punishment.
Was it because he well knew what they'd be "up" to after motoring home from viewing The Spectacle? Hardly.
More likely he tortured them because of their hideous "normality", which automatically blocked their sensitive under-intelligences from percieving his apparent yet unimaginable surrealistic truths. These included an advanced interest in, along with an acceptance of, homosexuality, the aforementioned sado-masochistic fetishizing, and strong, independent women.
Not that he was understanding of gay reluctances to parade their urges in the vast public of film. Montgomery Clift rejected Hitchcock's offer to play a queen in "Rope" but later found himself sporting a dark-hued skirt (actually a priest's cassock) as the lead in "I Confess" (1953).
Hitchcock always wanted to push the barriers of censorship, and did so with incredible guile. He blatantly had World War Two hero turned NYC police detective, Wendell Corey's "Thomas J. Doyle", peeping through James Stewart's "Rear Window", ogling neighbor Miss Torso's (note the name) other assets, cunningly in full view for the censors to take the obviously breast-oriented bait. He always emerged victorious from such censor battles, by using a strategy of presenting material he had no need for, letting it be struck down, while keeping what he wanted in place.
If you've stuck with us this far, please ponder this—if you dare: Hitchcock's myriad means of expressing the fact of his holy obesity, during the conservative 1940s and 50s, can only lead us to the realization that it was nothing less than his own, very modern, if not futuristic, fetish-masochistic exhibitionism. There's little other conceivable explanation for countless incidents in which he makes public his girth.
According to the aforementioned Donald Spoto, a scriptwriter, once stated that when visiting the Hitchcocks' Southern California, Bel Air home, if the host had ingested too much wine, he'd take said writer's wife's hands in his—a woman he'd unashamedly insinuated he was quite fond of—and looking into her eyes would note: "I'm just a big fat slob". Indeed, it wasn't completely unusual for Hitch to openly prefer the company of a collaborator's female companions, often ignoring the former.
To end on a lighter note, one of the wackiest minor obsessions harbored by "Hitchy" (Alma's diminutive): locating reasons for men within his films to find themselves suddenly—but with fully scripted motivation—carrying a woman's purse. "Dial M" has a London bobby being asked to take the heroine's handbag to the station as evidence, a much-needed touch of humor. In "Vertigo", Scottie's asked by Madeleine to fetch her purse and he does so, with the understanding that he had handled it previously, as a component of the film's ongoing humiliation of him.
This leads to the ultimate trivia question. How many examples of this minor fetish will you discover? If nothing else, their number provide The Master's bona fides as a supporter of womens' and gay lib.