Archive for Sidney Bernstein

A Cocktail for the Corpse

Posted in FILM, Theatre with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 19, 2009 by dcairns

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“Well, the Davids of this world merely occupy space…”

1) In honour of Hitchcock’s experiment in long-take technique, ROPE, I was going to write this post in one very very long sentence, but then in view of the fact that Hitch begins the film with a blatant cut right after the credits, and features two more in the course of the action which he doesn’t bother to cover up by having actors block the camera with their jackets, I thought, “Why bother?” — although I did also wonder why Hitch had gone to all the trouble of shooting in that style and talking it up as a big experiment and then copped out in those few instances: I mean it’s not as if the idea was totally unsound (photographing a play in real time in a continuous flow of action, as it would be experienced by a theatre audience) or as if he wasn’t very close to achieving it — I even wondered if the second and third cuts were the result of problems in hiding the cuts at the reel changes, but dismissed this idea as improbable… at any rate, I decided to compose my piece in nine or ten long sentences, like Hitchcock’s (more or less) ten long shots.

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“I never strangled a chicken in my life!”

2) Room perhaps for a digression (Already?) — in the recent BBC series Psychoville, a macabre comedy written by Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton of The League of Gentlemen, one episode was given over to a single-take experiment in the ROPE vein, using DePalma-style digital trickery to hide a cut or two in a subtler manner than Hitchcock was able to achieve (and I’ve often wondered why he couldn’t have had somebody pass briskly across the lens from side to side, or zip-panned around the room to hide a cut in a much more unobtrusive way), and playing on the audience’s familiarity with the original in some cunning and amusing ways,  as well as exploiting the fact that suspense plays and bedroom farces share a similar reliance on tension and dramatic irony to create their effects — although the piece isn’t flawless, sometimes shifting comic register too abruptly, and sometimes forcing awkward verbal gags in against the grain of plot and character (when the story is as morbidly amusing as Psychoville’s, you really needn’t strain to insert puns and “jokes”), it’s nevertheless an ambitious and very unusual bit of television, going well beyond straight homage, and I was interested to read the line, “I have done murder,” in the Rope play, since it seems to provide inspiration for a key line in Psychoville: “I did a bad murder.”

3) I’m a bit of a Patrick Hamilton fan, The Slaves of Solitude and Hangover Square being two of my favourite books, so I took this opportunity to finally read his play, the source for Hitchcock’s film, sometimes called Rope’s End but originally titled Rope by its author, who set it in London in 1929, necessitating some adaptation (by Hume Cronyn and Arthur Laurents) to transfer the action to post WWII New York, and from a first floor flat to a penthouse apartment — but the structure is largely unchanged, Hitchcock having carefully looked around for a play with continuous action (the play is in three acts, acts one and two climaxing at suspenseful moments, the action resuming after each break without any time having passed in the play’s world) and remaining true to his principle of not violently altering the shape of a play when bringing it to the screen, since playwrights generally take a good bit of trouble to get the structure right… nevertheless, there are plenty of small difference: a cinema ticket is used as evidence in place of a hat, a poker from the fireplace provides menace in place of a revolver, and a police whistle summons the authorities at the climax, rather than the implausible but dramatic device of having Rupert, the philosopher-detective fire a pistol out the window… in addition to this, there are intriguing anticipations of later Hitchcocks: a tie pin is used as a clue (FRENZY) and a character says, “You wouldn’t hurt a fly,” (PSYCHO) — I’m pretty sure these are coincidental, but they’re amusing nonetheless.

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“Well, murder can be an art, too.”

4) Some of the biggest differences between play and film come from the casting and playing, with Farley Granger a more sympathetic presence than that suggested by Hamilton (Granillo, the play’s version of Philip, is of Spanish descent, a very Agatha Christie way of making him untrustworthy) — although Fiona, who like me saw the film on its re-release in the 80s, found the performance of his lower lip annoying — and James Stewart, merely by being James Stewart, entirely changes Rupert Cadell from a war-weary cynic and homosexual intellectual with a cutting sense of humour, into, well, James Stewart, about whom nothing bad can be suspected — Arthur Laurents suggests that James Mason would have been a better match for the character (better even than Cary Grant, Hitch’s first choice, who found it much too close for comfort) — the result is perfectly decent but a lot less interesting than it could have been — one so rarely gets a snarky gay detective in a thriller, and just imagine a British version with Dirk Bogarde (STOP PRESS: according to Wikipedia, the great Denis Price played in two TV versions, years apart, playing Brandon the first time and Rupert the second: better casting I cannot conceive of)!

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“We all do strange things in our childhood.”

5) ROPE is not only Hitch’s first Technicolor film (adding a whole series of new burdens to a technically challenging production), it’s his first independent one, away from the control of Selznick or anybody else for that matter (except the censor, who flipped when some of the play’s dialogue was used: the English “dear boys” were adjudged unspeakably effeminate) so that he could experiment freely with the long take technique which he’d been interested in for some time, but which Selznick had always forced him to curtail — it might even been supposed that Selznick’s supervision distorted Hitchcock’s technique, causing him to make exactly the kind of technical experiment Selznick would have instantly vetoed, despite the fact that it flew in the face of his own theories about the importance of montage, and that he made the film in reaction to Selznick’s previous interference.

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“Nobody commits a murder just for the experiment of committing it. Nobody except us.”

6) Leopold and Loeb — Arthur Laurents claims that nobody ever discussed the true-life murder case that inspired Hamilton’s play, but true-crime enthusiast Hitchcock was certainly aware of it — while both play and film end with the supposition that both the killers will hang for their crime, in reality they got off lightly: life plus 99 years, thanks to smart lawyer Clarence Darrow, played by Orson Welles  in the movie COMPULSION (director Richard Fleischer notes with bemusement that Welles disliked being watched by his fellow actors, so when he made his speech to the jury they all had to close their eyes, a striking, dreamlike image which somebody should film one day), a movie which Loeb Leopold tried to block, citing invasion of privacy — anyhow, Leopold Loeb was killed in prison by a fellow inmate who claimed he’d tried to sexually assault him (Chicago Daily News: “Richard Loeb, despite his erudition, today ended his sentence with a proposition.”) but Loeb Leopold volunteered to be infected with malaria for a study of the disease, served his sentence, worked as a lab and x-ray assistant, and donated his organs: I’m guessing he’s the Farley Granger one.

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“Out of character for him to be murdered, too.”

7) John Dall isn’t the most charismatic actor (“He’s hideous!” — Fiona) but he’s effective here and in GUN CRAZY, playing entirely different characters in radically different styles, and these noirish roles have largely outlasted the source of his fame, THE CORN IS GREEN; Sir Cedric Hardwicke has to be the boring voice of moral authority (Hamilton in his character description makes out that this guy is “completely captivating” but rather fails to live up to this in the action and dialogue, whereas the moral voice of Rupert acquires startling power at the end of both play and film because it’s earned by the story and comes as a surprise to both him and us) so he can’t really shine here, but Constance Collier is an amusingly bizarre presence (Hitchcock’s films link up in the oddest ways: Hume Cronyn acted in SHADOW OF A DOUBT and LIFEBOAT and writes here; Emlyn Williams wrote for THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH and acted in JAMAICA INN; and Collier was co-author with Ivor Novello of the play Downhill, which Hitch filmed with Novello in the lead role… I have previously remarked on the striking similarity of the set in ROPE to the one in THE RING) and Joan Chandler is perky and sweet (“Her shoulders are all the rage at the moment,” observes Fiona)… I guess some people would find Douglas Dick likewise charming, but his character is boringly conceived and the actor can’t enliven it — Hamilton’s young lovers are more maladroit, which makes them a little more appealing.

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“Well, now, you don’t really approve of murder, Rupert? If I may?”

8) Random odds and ends — Hitchcock has two cameos, walking buy in the first shot (the only location scene) and as a neon sign outline — this movie would make a seriously dangerous drinking game, all champagne and whisky, with Farley Granger alone enough to jeopardise the liver — remember, a full stop is just a hyphen coming right at you (Charles Fort) — Arthur Laurents reports that, since Edith Evanson was playing a maid, the other actors treated her AS a maid (the same kind of automatic prejudice that caused the actors playing chimps, gorillas and orangs to segregate in the studio canteen on PLANET OF THE APES!) — Evanson is good, in a role that doesn’t exist in the play, a sort of ineffectual mother figure for the boys (Hitch’s villains as often have weak mothers as domineering ones), a Thelma Ritter kind of role replacing the French cook in the play as part of the Americanizing process — the long take style throws up many side-benefits, not all of them obvious, like the extraordinary close-up of Stewart that plays out for about a minute of offscreen dialogue, and the low angle as the maid clears the fatal chest of plates and candelabras, a precursor to the safe-cracking sequence in MARNIE — what is this strange affinity, confirmed in VERTIGO, of James Stewart with green neon light?

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“They’re coming.”

9) Hitch’s independent company, Transatlantic Pictures, set up with Sidney Bernstein and intended to make films on both sides of the ocean, fulfilled its brief in a minimal way: ROPE, filmed in Hollywood, and UNDER CAPRICORN (which I’m in the minority on, since I rather like it) in England, two sort-of-minor but fascinating experiments in long-take storytelling, which form a bridge between the Selznick years and the years as a studio director with considerable but by no means total independence.

OK — can’t resist ending on a quote from the play ~

Rupert: (suddenly letting himself go — a thing he has not done, all the evening, and which he now does with tremendous force, and clear, angry articulation) What do I mean? What do I mean? I mean that you have taken and killed — by strangulation — a very harmless and helpless fellow-creature of twenty years. I mean that in that chest there — now lie the staring and futile remains of something that four hours ago lived, and laughed, and ran, and found it good. Laughed as you could never laugh, and ran as you could never run. I mean that, for your cruel and scheming pleasure, you have committed a sin and a blasphemy against that very life which you now yourself find so precious. And you have done more than this. You have not only killed him, you have rotted the lives of all those to whom he was dear. And you have brought worse than death to his father — an equally harmless old man who has fought his way quietly through to a peaceful end, and to whom the entire universe, after this, will now be blackened and distorted beyond the limits of thought. That is what you have done. And in dragging him round here tonight, you have played a lewd and infamous jest upon him — and a bad jest at that. And if you think, as your type of philosopher generally does, that all life is nothing but a bad jest, then you will now have the pleasure of seeing it played upon yourselves.

Brandon (pale and frozen) What are you saying? What are you doing?

Rupert It is not what I am doing, Brandon. It is what society is going to do. And what will happen to you at the hands of society I am not in a position to tell you. That’s its own business. But I can give you a pretty shrewd guess, I think. (He moves forward to the chest and swings back the lid) You are going to hang, you swine! Hang! Both of you! Hang! (Whistle in hand, he runs hobbling to the window, throws it open, leans out, and sends three piercing whistles into the night)

CURTAIN.

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Paradine Syndrome

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 12, 2009 by dcairns

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A virtual clone of a short from REBECCA.

I must have tried to watch Hitchcock’s THE PARADINE CASE a half-dozen times. Now I can say that I’ve actually seen it, but I can’t say much more (proceeds to write several hundred words). The movie seems to slide off me.

Despite specialising more or less in crime thrillers, Hitch stayed out of the courtroom as much as he could (I can recall the divorce court in EASY VIRTUE, the inquest in REBECCA, but note how Hitch keeps the camera in the jury room in MURDER while the verdict is read out offscreen, and how he spies on the trial at the opening of NOTORIOUS, peeking through the door as if superstitious about entering. Hitch also, famously, avoided whodunnits, except here and in MURDER. I accept most of his arguments against them (the whodunnit us an intellectual game, like the crossword), and also observe one more uncomfortable fact — he’s not very good at them.

Gregory Peck is Anthony Keane, counsel for the defense, a notoriously passionate lawyer who falls in love with accused murderess Mrs Paradine ([Alida] Valli), jeopardizing his marriage and his career, while trying to pin the guilt on either her murdered husband (suicide), or the groom (Louis Jourdan0 with whom she may have been having an affair.

Hitchcock himself reckoned THE PARADINE CASE was miscast, with Louis Jourdan too suave to be a horny handyman (yet LJ is the most compelling figure in the film by a country mile) and certainly David O Selznick’s screenplay, written during the shoot, is a big problem, verbose and lumbering and devoid of sympathetic characters or dynamic momentum. Fascinating players like Charles Coburn and Charles Laughton are somewhat wasted, while less-than-fascinating players like Gregory Peck and Ann Todd are spread thin, and at their least appealing. And Selznick’s dialogue keeps on about how fascinating Valli is supposed to be, but the screenwriter doth protest too much. And when did Selznick decide he was a WRITER?

The dispiriting shoot consisted of Selznick’s new pages coming in sometime in the morning, so nothing could be shot until afternoon, and still Selznick would moan that the filming was going too slowly. Hitch had large, expensive sets built, and was marooned on them for ages, as the bloated production sweated money from every pore.

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Clone of shot from YOUNG AND INNOCENT.

On the plus side, there’s Lee Garmes’ lustrous and lambent lighting, moody and noirish and serving up numerous striking shots, especially of Valli and Jourdan. I quite liked the tetchy, affectionate relationship between Coburn and his daughter, Joan Tetzel, which has a bit of energy, but they mainly discuss what everybody else is up to, until the trial, when JT sits in the public gallery explaining the events to Ann Todd, and to us in the audience, like some kind of benshi film describer. Actually, a huge amount of the film consists of descriptions of thing it might be nice to see. Nobody investigates the murder. When the trial finally starts, all at once we get a lot of plot information, which kind of adds up to a realization that the prosecution doesn’t really have any case at all.

Where was I? Oh yes, the positive side. Well, if Coburn and Tetzel = Hitch and Pat, then Peck and Todd could be Hitch and Alma. Their introductory scene does actually do a fair job of portraying a happily married couple approaching the danger zone where they take things for granted, and making us care about the relationship. But once the case begins, Peck’s baffling amour fou for the glum and uninteresting Valli robs him of all sympathy, and since he’s pretty inactive as a character, we can’t replace sympathy with intrigue.

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I heard that a friend had postulated a gay subtext, in the form of a relationship between Peck and Jourdan, but I can’t see any narrative evidence for this — nothing makes sense unless we accept that Peck is smitten with Valli. But there is some hilarity in this theory, since every line exchanged between Peck and Jourdan becomes an obscene double entendre — “What was your object in entering by the back way?” “But you intended to come on me!”

Laughton is a (bitter) joy — Hitchcock complained that “Every picture with Laughton is a war,” but he must have realized that the actor enhanced any film he touched. But if you took out the scene where Laughton is rebuffed by Todd, then his character would be reduced to a standard high court judge, and he could still behave in mostly the same way in the courtroom: he’s showing bias, it’s true, but Peck is such a dick it’s hardly surprising. I’d favour Leo G Carroll too.

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Clone of a shot from EASY VIRTUE.

But since we have Laughton’s unnecessary character, we get Ethel Barrymore as his wife, and their miserable relationship is one of the film’s most effective elements. I guess it’s a film about couples. Oddly, I’d just seen Ethel in MOSS ROSE, her previous production. Must write a little piece about that one. It has Peggy Cummins.

Hitch tried to film in long takes but Selznick objected, insisting on close-ups to break things up. No wonder Hitch indulged himself with ten-minute-takes as soon as he was free from his contract. Falling behind schedule, Hitch managed to save time by shooting the court scenes with multiple cameras, which upset the actors, who couldn’t see each other for equipment.

I always find Ann Todd rather cold and brittle, which isn’t bad per se, but I also get the impression that she’s an inherently savage actress who’s being held back by her directors. David Lean certainly held her down. I’d like to see her allowed to let rip.

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Clone of a shot from NOTORIOUS, itself cloned from SUSPICION.

But nobody lets rip here. The movie is interesting for its resemblance to two of Hitch’s earliest, least successful talkies — MURDER, in which a woman accused of murder is defended by a high-class gent. In both films, the gent travels to the countryside and stays in a cottage overnight, although MURDER exploits this for humour. And Peck’s arrival at the country house made me think of THE SKIN GAME, in which a woman with a shady past is threatened with exposure. It’s not too promising that those are the films one is reminded of.

Hitch, diplomatically, was still negotiating for a possible renewal of his contract with Selznick, even as he attempted to set up his own production company with Sidney Bernstein. The desire for artistic control warred with a need for financial security, but the experience of THE PARADINE CASE must surely have decided him that his future lay elsewhere.

para6Clone of a shot from NO. 13.

Mogo on the Gogo

Posted in FILM, literature, MUSIC, Science with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 29, 2009 by dcairns

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“You have mogo on the gogo!” diagnoses Gregory Peck, mysteriously. Ingrid Bergman just laughs fetchingly. I’d have smacked him in the face. And then asked him what the hell that means.

There’s quite a bit of odd dialogue in SPELLBOUND, scripted by Ben Hecht from an Angus MacPhail adaptation of a novel by the pseudonymous Francis Beeding (in reality two different blokes), The House of Dr Edwardes. MacPhail, a drunken Scotsman, is no doubt responsible for the plethora of Scots names infecting the movie’s population: Gregory Peck is Ballantine, Leo G Carroll is Murchison, and Rhonda Fleming is Carmichael, Regis Toomey is Gillespie.

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My VHS copy of BON VOYAGE has some tracking problems, giving the titles an odd PSYCHO-like flavour.

MacPhail also worked on BON VOYAGE and AVENTURE MALGACHE, Hitchcock’s two war propaganda shorts, made in French in England. Both feature prolonged takes (AVENTURE is nearly all filmed in master-shots) of the kind Hitchcock was increasingly interested in, and which Selznick would try his best to discourage, since they interfered with his ability to tamper. Safely away from Selznick, Hitchcock indulged his interest in the sequence-shot. His producer on these shorts, Sidney Bernstein, would later collaborate with him on the production of ROPE and UNDER CAPRICORN, which pushed the technique to its limits.

BON VOYAGE strikes me as the superior of the two, for its fluidity, twisty story, and charming dope of a hero, played by John Blythe, a handsome young fellow who went on to a long but defiantly minor career. Though he was born in London, his character is a Scot, complete with throwaway drinking jokes. He’s also very concerned with eating — for a French Resistance drama, the movie focuses to a surprising extent on the need for quality sustenance. Very Hitchcock.

Like BON VOYAGE, SPELLBOUND features a couple on the run, fleeing from hotels, traveling by train, aided by colleagues and sought by the police. But there are differences.

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Dr Edwardes, taking over a swank psych clinic, is not really Dr Edwardes at all, but an amnesiac who may have killed the man he’s replaced. Dr Petersen falls in love with him and seeks to prove his innocence…

“Beeding’s” novel was a potboiler disdained by Selznick, but offering Hitchcock some interesting narrative possibilities. Unfortunately, Selznick had started undergoing psychoanalysis himself, and brought his doctor on as advisor to the film. (“Selznick’s shrink? She must have done a great job!” exclaimed Fiona) This meant that Hitchcock once again faced considerable interference from his producer, compromising many of the film’s most promising sequences — especially the famous dream. In the end, though it utilizes Dali’s designs, the sequence was largely directed by design genius William Cameron Menzies (responsible for the look of GONE WITH THE WIND, although his work here calls to mind the magnificent THE LOVE OF ZERO), with Peck’s voice-over rather ruining the uncanny atmosphere with a prosaic description of everything we see.

I also have issues with the dialogue. Hecht is a very important screenwriter, but his psychiatrists are rather clunky creations — and nearly all the characters are psychiatrists. It’s a similar problem to the priests in I CONFESS, they don’t talk like people, and the more Hecht tries to give them a jovial approach to their profession, the less convincing they are. Everything they say has some kind of psychoanalytic slant: “And may you have babies, not phobias,” says Professor Littleoldman Dr Brulov.

And then there’s all the stuff about Ingrid Bergman being a woman, as if we needed to have it continually pointed out to us. And always in such insulting ways. “As a doctor, you’re a genius, but as a woman… I hate smug women… Women make the best psychiatrists, until they fall in love, then they make the best patients… Nothing is so stupid as a woman in love… stupid… woman… stupid woman… stupid woman!!! Alright, most of those lines aren’t actually in the film, but many others just like them are.

Am I alone in thinking there’s a strange resemblance between Green Manors Psychiatric Hospital for the Very Very Nervous and the Selznick Studios?

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Both institutions are bursting with neurotics, of course. Guilt-complex nut-job Norman Lloyd and mustache-biting weird-ball Rhonda Fleming (both happily still with us today) haunt the halls of Green Manors, while cop-phobic Hitchcock, speed-freak gambling addict Selznick and alurophobe Val Lewton, who couldn’t bring himself to shake hands, were all inmates of the studio. The film’s opening info-screed, explaining that psychiatry treats “the emotional problems of the sane” is rather baffling. Don’t insane people need treatment too? And what are Lloyd and Fleming? Their keels don’t seem entirely even to me. The additional information, that exposing the roots of the neurosis automatically cures it, is highly questionable: Hitchcock said he could never really believe in analysis, since he was quite aware of the source of his own fear of policemen, but knowing that did him no good whatsoever.

The other thing that beats me in Freud is the idea that the mind suppresses damaging, traumatic information, to protect itself. Of course, observation tells us this is not true: the traumatized are signally incapable of forgetting their traumas. But more than that, the idea seems inherently contradictory. The mind protects itself by suppressing the trauma, but un-suppressing it results in a cure? Surely exposing the root of the trauma would cause exactly the greater damage the mind was trying to protect itself from?

Hitchcock nevertheless realized that the “dream detective” was a fascinating narrative notion, one which he would invert in VERTIGO and return to in MARNIE. SPELLBOUND, his first go at the idea, is perhaps the clumsiest, since the script’s concern with clarity for an audience unused to psychiatric lingo tends to battle against credibility, subtlety and pace.

But there are many compensations. The wordless scene where Peck, “spellbound,” wanders Brulov’s home with a straight razor in his hand, is a classic suspense scene with superb blocking and framing —

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Peck is a good new leading man, although his discomfort with the film and Hitchcock shows a little in the early scenes, where he seems unsure how to play a man unconsciously pretending to be something he’s not. Bergman, of course, is a fine Hitchcock heroine, with a winning smile in which the corners of her mouth sometimes go up, sometimes down. Sometimes one goes up and the other goes down. I could watch it for hours. Hitch face Leo G Carroll is welcome again, and the man from Pittsburgh who bugs Bergman in the hotel lobby, and the hotel detective, are probably the best characters in the film. It’s a relief to find somebody who’s not either a psychiatrist or somebody who thinks they’re a psychiatrist.

There’s also the music, by Miklos Rosza, with its gorgeous love theme (overused, Hitch felt) and eerie/camp theremin. If only the Dali/Menzies dream dispensed with VO and relied on the power of music and image, it would be a bracingly vulgar fantasia. Mr. Theremin himself, the inventor of the electronic marvel, suffered a fate common enough in Stalin’s Russia, he was disappeared. Conventional wisdom has it that he perished, unrecorded, in Siberia, but I like to imagine him abducted by UFOs and delighted to find they’re playing his song.

And then there’s the climax, with the real murderer shooting himself in the face from an impossible angle. Two Hitchcockian tropes return here — the outsized prop, first seen in the form of EASY VIRTUE’s giant magnifying glass —

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— and the flash of red, an avant-garde device harking back to the deleted train wreck sequence in SECRET AGENT, in which Hitch had wanted to animate the effect of the film itself tearing in the projector and catching fire.

Incidentally, Leo G Carroll must have extraordinary, Mr Fantastic arms to be able to point a gun straight into his own face like this. I reckon if you turn your head sideways you can do it, but you’d definitely be able to see your arm as well as your hand. But this in no way harms the shot for me, in fact, it enhances it. Like all the daft stuff in the movie, it’s in keeping with the general delirious tone. I’d say that SPELLBOUND is quite a bit sillier than most of Hitch’s American thrillers — it’s not tongue-in-cheek, so it doesn’t have humour as an alibi — but it’s nevertheless a sophisticated entertainment.

Sidebar: as I think I mentioned before, sci-fi author David Gerrold (father of the Star Trek tribble) once suggested that a traditional story has three climaxes: emotional, physical and intellectual. SPELLBOUND conforms to this, and goes one better: it has two sets of three.

In the skiing sequence, Gregory Peck must figure out the guilt-causing episode from his past, emotionally overcome it, and avoid going into a crevasse with Ingrid. The Freudian investigation naturally combines the intellectual and emotional parts of a good climax, so that all Hitchcock and MacPhail needed to do was get the protags off the couch and onto the piste.

This is followed by a dramatic revelation that lands Peck in the slammer, so that Ingrid must take part in a second set of three challenges. Intellectual: figure out who the killer is. Emotional: force him into a confession but talk him out of killing again. Physical: get out without being shot.

I suspect the three parts of a climax usually come in this sequence, for inescapable narrative reasons. One, figure out the solution. Two, make the emotional leap needed to achieve it, sometimes involving sacrifice, generally involving the change required by the “character arc” of convention. Three, act upon this new understanding. But there are other ways to order it, especially if the climaxes occur in three separate scenes. Hitchcock felt that villains needed to combine three distinct traits: brains, brawns and wickedness. In NORTH BY NORTHWEST he divided these qualities between three characters, the mastermind, the thug and the sadist. He doesn’t dispose of each baddie in a separate climax, but he could have. Richard Lester and George MacDonald Fraser do at the end of THE FOUR MUSKETEERS.

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BANG! A few frames of red. Since the gun firing into the audience recalls Edwin S Porter’s THE GREAT TRAIN ROBBERY, I’m also reminded that that movie features hand-tinted red flames during the safe-blowing sequence, and I wonder if Hitch was inspired, directly or indirectly, by this venerable movie?

Next: NOTORIOUS, probably the most famous Hitchcock film I’ve never actually seen all the way through. I know, you’re shocked. I’m shocked. Time to rectify the situation.