There is no question here of fatuous admiration, nor am I suggesting that all of Hitchcock’s work is perfect and beyond reproach. But inasmuch as his achievements have, until now, been grossly underrated, I feel it is high time Hitchcock was granted the leading position he deserves. Only then can we go on to appraise his work; indeed, his own critical comments in the pages that follow set the tone for such an objective examination.
British critics, who at heart have perhaps never forgiven Hitchcock for his voluntary exile, still marvel—and rightly so—at the youthful, spirited vigor of The Lady Vanishes, which he made thirty years ago. But isn’t it futile to look back and regret that which must necessarily yield to the passage of time? The ebullient, young Hitchcock of The Lady Vanishes could not possibly have captured on film James Stewart’s emotions in Vertigo, a work of maturity and lyrical commentary on the relation between love and death.
In a critical essay published in Film Quarterly, Charles Higham describes Hitchcock as a “practical joker, a cunning and sophisticated cynic.” He refers to his “narcissism and its concomitant coldness” and to his “pitiless mockery,” which “is not a gentle mockery.” According to Higham, Hitchcock has a “tough contempt for the world” and his skill “is most strikingly displayed when he has a destructive comment to make.”
Though he raises an important point, I feel Mr. Higham is definitely mistaken in questioning Hitchcock’s sincerity and his serious approach to life. A strong person may be genuinely cynical, whereas in a more sensitive nature, cynicism is merely a front. Von Stroheim used cynicism to cover up his deep sentimentality; in the case of Alfred Hitchcock it is the façade that serves to conceal his pessimism.
Louis-Ferdinand Céline divided people into two categories, the exhibitionists and the voyeurs; Alfred Hitchcock clearly belongs in the latter category. He is not involved in life; he merely contemplates it. In making a film like Hatari, Howard Hawks gratifies his dual passion for hunting and for cinema. In the life of Alfred Hitchcock there is but one passion, which was clearly expressed in his reply to a moralizing attack on Rear Window. “Nothing,” he said, “could have prevented my making that picture, because my love for cinema is stronger than any morality.”
While the cinema of Hitchcock is not necessarily exalting, it invariably enriches us, if only through the terrifying lucidity with which it denounces man’s desecrations of beauty and purity.
If, in the era of Ingmar Bergman, one accepts the premise that cinema is an art form, on a par with literature, I suggest that Hitchcock belongs—and why classify him at all?—among such artists of anxiety as Kafka, Dostoyevsky, and Poe.
In the light of their own doubts these artists of anxiety can hardly be expected to show us how to live; their mission is simply to share with us the anxieties that haunt them. Consciously or not, this is their way of helping us to understand ourselves, which is, after all, a fundamental purpose of any work of art.
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I. Hitchcock, by Eric Rohmer and Claude Chabrol. Editions Universitaircs, Paris, 1957.
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CHILDHOOD ■ BEHIND PRISON BARS ■ “CAME THE DAWN” ■ MICHAEL CON ■ “WOMAN TO WOMAN” ■ “NUMBER THIRTEEN” ■ INTRODUCING THE FUTURE MRS. HITCHCOCK ■ A MELODRAMATIC SHOOTING: “THE PLEASURE GARDEN” ■ “THE MOUNTAIN EAGLE”
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1
FRANÇOIS TRUFFAUT. Mr. Hitchcock, you were born in London on August 13, 1899. The only thing I know about your childhood is the incident at the police station. Is that a true story?
ALFRED HITCHCOCK. Yes, it is. I must have been about four or five years old. My father sent me to the police station with a note. The chief of police read it and locked me in a cell for five or ten minutes, saying, “This is what we do to naughty boys.”
F.T. Why were you being punished?
A.H. I haven’t the faintest idea. As a matter of fact, my father used to call me his “little lamb without a spot.” I truly cannot imagine what it was I did.
F.T. I’ve heard that your father was very strict.
A.H. Let’s just say he was a rather nervous man. What else can I tell you? Well, my family loved the theater. As I think back upon it, we must have been a rather eccentric little group. At any rate, I was what is known as a well-behaved child. At family gatherings I would sit quietly in a corner, saying nothing. I looked and observed a good deal. I’ve always been that way and still am. I was anything but expansive. I was a loner—can’t remember ever having had a playmate. I played by myself, inventing my own games.
I was put into school very young. At St. Ignatius College, a Jesuit school in London. Ours was a Catholic family and in England, you see, this in itself is an eccentricity. It was probably during this period with the Jesuits that a strong sense of fear developed—moral fear—the fear of being involved in anything evil. I always tried to avoid it. Why? Perhaps out of physical fear. I was terrified of physical punishment. In those days they used a cane made of very hard rubber. I believe the Jesuits still use it. It wasn’t done casually, you know; it was rather like the execution of a sentence. They would tell you to step in to see the father when classes were over. He would then solemnly inscribe your name in the register, together with the indication of the punishment to be inflicted, and you spent the whole day waiting for the sentence to be carried out.
F.T. I’ve read that you were rather average as a student and that your only strong point was geography.
A.H. I was usually among the four or five at the top of the class. Never first; second only once or twice, and generally fourth or fifth. They claimed I was rather absent-minded.
F.T. Wasn’t it your ambition, at the time, to become an engineer?
A.H. Well, little boys are always asked what they want to be when they grow up, and it must be said to my credit that I never wanted to be a policeman. When I said I’d like to become an engineer, my parents took me seriously and they sent me to a specialized school, the School of Engineering and Navigation, where I studied mechanics, electricity, acoustics, and navigation.
F.T. Then you had scientific leanings?
A.H. Perhaps. I did acquire some practical knowledge of engineering, the theory of the laws of force and motion, electricity—theoretical and applied. Then I had to make a living, so I went to work with the Henley Telegraph Company. At the same time I was taking courses at the University of London, studying art. At Henley’s I specialized in electric cables. I became a technical estimator when I was about nineteen.
F.T. Were you interested in motion pictures at the time?
A.H. Yes, I had been for several years. I was very keen on pictures and the stage and very often went to first nights by myself. From the age of sixteen on I read film journals. Not fan or fun magazines, but always professional and trade papers. And since I was studying art at the University of London, Henley’s transferred me to the advertising department, where I was given a chance to draw.
F.T. What kind of drawings?
A.H. Designs for advertisements of electric cables. And this work was a first step toward cinema. It helped me to get into the field.
F.T. Can you remember specifically some of the films that appealed to you at the time?
A.H. Though I went to the theater very often, I preferred the movies and was more attracted to American films than to the British. I saw the pictures of Chaplin, Griffith, all the Paramount Famous Players pictures, Buster Keaton, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, as well as the German films of Decla-Bioscop, the company that preceded UFA. Murnau worked for them.
F.T. Can you single out a picture that made a special impression?
A.H. One of Decla-Bioscop’s most famous pictures was Der müde Tod.
F.T. Wasn’t that directed by Fritz Lang? The British title, I believe, was Destiny.
A.H. I guess so. The leading man, I recall, was Bernhard Goetzke.
F.T. Did you like Mu
rnau’s films?
A.H. Yes, but they came later. In ’23 or ’24.
F.T. What films were being shown in 1920?
A.H. Well, I remember a Monsieur Prince. In England it was called Whiffles.
F.T. You’ve often been quoted as having said: “Like all directors, I was influenced by Griffith.”
A.H. I especially remember Intolerance and The Birth of a Nation.
F.T. How did you happen to go from Henley’s to a film company?
A.H. I read in a trade paper that an American company, Paramount’s Famous Players-Lasky, was opening a branch in Islington, London. They were going to build studios there, and they announced a production schedule. Among others, a picture taken from such and such a book. I don’t remember the title. While still working at Henley’s, I read that book through and then made several drawings that might eventually serve to illustrate the titles.
F.T. By “titles” you mean the captions that covered the dialogue in silent pictures?
A.H. That’s right. At the time, those titles were illustrated. On each card you had the narrative title, the dialogue, and a small drawing. The most famous of these narrative titles was “Came the dawn.” You also had “The next morning . . .” For instance, if the line read: “George was leading a very fast life by this time,” I would draw a candle, with a flame at each end, just below the sentence. Very naïve.
F.T. So you took this initiative and then submitted your work to Famous Players?
A.H. Exactly. I showed them my drawings and they put me on at once. Later on I became head of the title department. I went to work for the editorial department of the studio. The head of the department had two American writers under him, and when a picture was finished, the head of the editorial department would write the titles or would rewrite those of the original script. Because in those days it was possible to completely alter the meaning of a script through the use of narrative titles and spoken titles.
F.T. How so?
A.H. Well, since the actor pretended to speak and the dialogue appeared on the screen right afterward, they could put whatever words they liked in his mouth. Many a bad picture was saved in this way. For instance, if a drama had been poorly filmed and was ridiculous, they would insert comedy titles all the way through and the picture was a great hit. Because, you see, it became a satire. One could really do anything—take the end of a picture and put it at the beginning—anything at all!
F.T. And this gave you a chance to see the inside of film-making?
A.H. Yes. At this time I met several American writers and I learned how to write scripts. And sometimes when an extra scene was needed—but not an acting scene—they would let me shoot it. However, the pictures made by Famous Players in England were unsuccessful in America. So the studio became a rental studio for British producers.
Meanwhile, I had read a novel in a magazine, and just as an exercise, I wrote a script based on this story. I knew that an American company had the exclusive world rights to the property, but I did it anyway, since it was merely for practice.
When the British companies took over the Islington studios, I approached them for work and I landed a job as an assistant director.
F.T. With Michael Balcon?
A.H. No, not yet. Before that I worked on a picture called Always Tell Your Wife, which featured Seymour Hicks, a very well-known London actor. One day he quarreled with the director and said to me, “Let’s you and me finish this thing by ourselves.” So I helped him and we completed the picture.
Meanwhile, the company formed by Michael Balcon became a tenant at the studios, and I became an assistant director for this new venture. It was the company that Balcon had set up with Victor Saville and John Freedman. They bought the rights to a play. It was called Woman to Woman. Then they said, “Now we need a script,” and I said, “I would like to write it.” “You? What have you done?” I said, “I can show you something.” And I showed them the adaptation I’d written as an exercise. They were very impressed and I got the job. That was in 1922.
Betty Compson and Give Brook in Woman to Woman.
Set created by Hitchcock for Woman to Woman.
Number Thirteen, 1922.
F.T. I see. You were then twenty-three. But didn’t you direct a little picture called Number Thirteen before that time?
A.H. A two-reeler. It was never completed.
F.T. Wasn’t it a documentary?
A.H. No. There was a woman working at the studio who had worked with Chaplin. In those days anyone who had worked with Chaplin was top drawer: She had written a story and we found a little money. It wasn’t very good, really. Aside from which, it was just at this point that the Americans closed their studio.
F.T. I’ve never seen Woman to Woman. In fact, I don’t even know the story.
A.H. As you said, I was twenty-three at the time, and I’d never been out with a girl in my life. I’d never had a drink in my life. The story was taken from a play that had been a hit in London. It was about a British Army officer in World War I. On leave in Paris he has an affair with a dancer, then he goes back to the front. He is shell-shocked and loses his memory. He returns to England and marries a society woman. And then the dancer turns up with child. Conflict . . . the story ends with the dancer’s death.
The White Shadow (1923).
F.T. Graham Cutts directed that picture. You did the adaptation and dialogue, and were assistant director as well?
A.H. More than that! My friend, the art director, was unable to work on the picture. I volunteered to serve as art director. So I did all of this and also helped on the production. My future wife, Alma Reville, was the editor of the picture as well as the script girl. In those days the script girl and the editor were one and the same person. Today the script girl keeps too many books, as you know. She’s a real bookkeeper. It was while working on that picture that I first met my wife.
Then I performed these various functions for several other films. The second was The White Shadow, the third was The Passionate Adventure, and the fourth was The Blackguard. And then there was The Prude’s Fall.
F.T. As you recall them now, would you say all of those pictures were about the same, or do you have a preference?
A.H. Woman to Woman was the best of the lot and the most successful. When we made The Prude’s Fall, the last one of this series, the director took his lady friend along on location. We went to Venice. It was really quite expensive. The director’s girl friend apparently didn’t approve of any of the locations, so we came back to the studio without shooting a single scene. When the picture was finished, the director told the producer he didn’t want me anymore. I’ve always suspected that someone on the unit had been “political.”
F.T. How long did it take to turn out these pictures?
A.H. Each one took six weeks.
F.T. I suppose that one’s talent was measured by the ability to make a picture requiring the fewest titles?
A.H. Exactly.
F.T. Still, weren’t many of the scripts adapted from stage plays?
A.H. I made a silent film, The Farmer’s Wife, a play that was all dialogue, but we tried to avoid using titles and, wherever possible, to use the pictorial expression instead. I suppose the only film made without any titles at all was The Last Laugh, with Emil Jannings.
F.T. A great picture, one of Murnau’s best.
A.H. They were making it while I worked at UFA. In that film Murnau even tried to establish a universal language by using a kind of Esperanto. All the street signs, the posters, the shop signs, were in this synthetic language.
F.T. Well, some of the signs in Emil Jannings’ house were in German, but those in the Grand Hotel were in this Esperanto. I imagine you were by then becoming increasingly interested in the technical aspect of film-making, that you were studying . . .
A.
H. I was very much aware of the superiority of the photography in American movies to that of the British films. At eighteen I was studying photography, just as a hobby. I had noticed, for instance, that the Americans always tried to separate the image from the background with backlights, whereas in the British films the image melted into the background. There was no separation, no relief.
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F.T. This brings us to 1925. Following the shooting of The Prude’s Fall, the director doesn’t want you to continue as his assistant. And that’s when Michael Balcon suggests that you become a director.
A.H. Balcon said, “How would you like to direct a picture?” and I answered, “I’ve never thought about it.” And in truth, I had not. I was very happy doing the scripts and the art direction; I hadn’t thought of myself as a director. Anyway, Balcon told me that there was a proposal for an Anglo-German picture. Another writer was assigned to the script and I left for Munich. My wife, Alma, was to be my assistant. We weren’t married yet, but we weren’t living in sin either; we were still very pure.
F.T. This was The Pleasure Garden, from the novel by Oliver Sandys. As I remember it, there was lots of action.I
A.H. Melodramatic. But there were several interesting scenes in it. I want to tell you something about the shooting, because that was the very first picture I directed, and it was natural for me, I suppose, to have a sense of drama. So, at twenty minutes to eight on Saturday evening, I’m at the station in Munich, ready to leave for the location shooting in Italy. In the station, waiting for the train to start, I’m saying to myself, “This is your first picture.” Nowadays, when I leave on location, I have to go with a crew of a hundred and forty people. But then there was only the leading man, Miles Mander; the cameraman, Baron Vintigmilia; and a young girl who was supposed to play a native woman who is drowned. There was also a news-reel cameraman, because we were going to do a ship-departure scene in Genoa. We were going to shoot the ship’s departure with one camera on the shore and another on the ship’s deck.