“Take the bloody shot!” The James Bond blogs: ‘Skyfall’ (2012).

I completed my reviews of all the James Bond films back when this blog started, in 2011. However, it was inevitable new Bond films would continue to be released and for completeness sake it’s high time to review them. The first twenty three Bond films (including the non-EON production Never Say Never Again) are still here to read. So, with no further delay it’s a pleasure to review the remaining Daniel Craig films, especially as the first one left to review is Skyfall.

The minor problem I had with Skyfall, when it was released in 2012, was that it was apparently so adored from the moment it was released that I felt I needed some time to give it an objective distance. Still, eleven years is maybe a bit too long. Skyfall is, I should start by saying, one of the Bond franchise’s great success stories and in many ways one of its best films. To draw a parallel, if Casino Royale was Daniel Craig’s Dr. No or From Russia with Love, in terms of success and critical standing, then Skyfall is his Goldfinger or Thunderball; a quality blockbuster hit that just chimes with the audience desires of the time. Actually, perhaps SPECTRE is more akin to Thunderball, for reasons I’ll elaborate on in the next review.

Skyfall is by no means a perfect film, should such a thing exist, and there are a few things I don’t like about it. But in my eyes it manages to successfully marry the new more brutal direction taken for Craig’s Bond with many of the much loved and established tropes from the earlier entries , even so far as occasionally resembling the aesthetic of Connery’s era, although there is a specific visual gag that pays homage to Roger Moore’s Live and Let Die (just swap alligators for a komodo dragon).

Quantum of Solace was a bold, clippy entry to the franchise but as I previously argued, it wasn’t a wholly satisfying Bond experience. Skyfall can be seen as a scaled up course correction, perhaps in the same way The Spy Who Loved Me went for broke after the mediocre The Man with the Golden Gun. In Quantum of Solace’s defence, though, Golden Gun wasn’t trying to push any creative boundaries. Like Spy, Skyfall is also the third film for an established Bond actor, which is often seen as a benchmark for everything that makes that particular actor’s era a success; an arguable zenith. That argument certainly rings true if you consider the examples of Goldfinger or The Spy who Loved Me (less so with The World is Not Enough). Brosnon’s third aside, Connery and Moore’s third films helped their portrayal achieve a kind of posterity. Goldfinger, for example, defined the series and is considered to be an evergreen classic; a great film, not just a great Bond film. Skyfall, I would say, reaches for those aspiring heights and at least for a newer generation achieves a similar goal.

Loosely continuing the story began in Casino Royale, Bond is now presented as something of a veteran (who at one point has to be strenuously reassessed and reminded that his job is a “young man’s game”). When a mission goes wrong, Bond is written off as dead, only to return to the secret service when a nefarious face from M’s past returns. The spectre from the past is no other than another secret agent, Silva (Javier Bardem) who is seriously aggrieved at what he sees as M’s betrayal many years before. The personal vendetta against M makes this story unique, although other aspects such as Bond going ‘rouge’ and not being fit for service have now been done a few times too often. Also, the fake obituary and Bond being presumed dead (either genuinely or as a conceit) is an idea that the films had first done back in You Only Live Twice, with Connery, and you could argue that an angry and vengeful Bond was established much earlier with Timothy Dalton’s portrayal, further eroding the originality Skyfall has to offer. But this is all nit picking really as Skyfall manages to supply these ideas in a way that is packaged as a big crowd pleaser. Some things might seem familiar, but that’s why we’re here after all.

Sam Mendes, previously known for American Beauty and The Road to Perdition, takes over as director. Mendes wasn’t an obvious fit for a Bond film, but he delivers a handsome picture with some great set pieces, much aided by Roger Deakin’s atmospheric cinematography. A Bond film helmed by these two was always going to be something a bit special. Sadly, one casualty of employing auteurs is the absence of David Arnold, whose musical talents are swapped for Mendes’ regular collaborator Thomas Newman. I’ve liked Newman since his offbeat contribution to Desperately Seeking Susan in 1985 and he’s come a long way since. His Skyfall score is absolutely fine as it goes, but Arnold was the true successor to John Barry in my view and he is missed here. Conversely the title song by Adele is a triumph, an emotional homage to the Shirley Bassey/John Barry barnstormers of old. Like Bassey, I want to hear Adele supply another Bond theme. She seems to understand what’s expected and absolutely delivers. As good as the song is, we also get a gorgeous title sequence from creatively reliable stalwart Daniel Kleinman, which enhances the music no end.

The established cast bring some of their best performances, with Judi Dench’s M in particular getting more opportunity for character development. Ralph Fiennes’ Mallory is a welcome addition and Craig finally gets his own ‘Q’ and Moneypenny, played by Ben Wishaw and Naomi Harris respectively. Both supply hugely likeable performances, giving us new spins on the old favourites, more in tune with the new era without sacrificing what made us like the characters in the first place. Harris in particular is in turn ballsy and charming, and I wanted to see more of her. The same with Wishaw’s Q, and the more gentle variation on Bond’s relationship with the quartermaster is engagingly droll. But as far as scene stealing is concerned, Javier Bardem’s Silva is no competition. A jarringly effete but seething character, Silva is a quality villain and gives Daniel Craig his first truly larger than life adversary. Hiring such a consummate actor as Bardem certainly raises the game for everyone. As for Craig himself, he puts in an assured performance, to the extent where I could be fooled into thinking this was his sixth film, not his third. As I have mentioned before, there is much about Craig’s appearance and demeanour as Bond which isn’t to my taste, but much of this is aesthetic. By Skyfall, Craig owns the role and is able to do what Dalton never truly managed, which is to deliver a dry, genuinely funny one liner without it seeming forced and insincere. Craig’s Bond is so jaded and sardonic, that he would say these things just to amuse himself. But not once does Craig sacrifice the hard as nails ruthlessness. He doesn’t quite have the charm of Connery, but he is as much of a physical threat and is better at revealing emotional depth than Connery’s Bond (which was likely more down to the writing of the era than the actor). The screenplay is again by Neil Purvis and Robert Wade (with John Logan). If it isn’t broke, why fix it? It’d be a tough call to say which of Wade and Purvis’ Bond scripts are the best, but Skyfall must be a contender.

From its audacious pre-credit sequence, motor cycling over the rooftops of The Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, through to the shootout at Bond’s ancestral home (the titular Skyfall), Skyfall does not disappoint as a top tier action film. There’s a refreshing urgency about Bond’s adventures, that often puts him in real jeopardy (“take the bloody shot!” M tells Moneypenny, who can’t be sure if she will hit Bond or the assailant). Bond is expendable. But it also presents a Bond we can believe in and whatever doubts anyone had about him two films earlier, Craig has become James Bond in a way no other actor ever has, bar Sean Connery. I say that as someone who does not class him as a favourite (I would rank both Connery and Dalton above him, and Lazenby is the only Bond for the particular film he is in), but he brings a quality portrayal to the table and he is one of many reasons Skyfall never fails to entertain. Skyfall combines the best of what made Casino Royale so good, with the addition of much loved tropes from Connery and Moore’s eras, without abandoning the more serious nature of Craig’s tenure. It finally feels like a modern Bond film in love with the franchise’s legacy, which still pushes for something new.

Reviewing Hitchcock. #22: ‘Sabotage’ (1936).

“What goes on after hours in that cinema of yours?”

If many of Hitchcock’s later films had not been so astounding, perhaps this offering from 1936 would be far better known. It certainly deserves to be. Many of the themes and tropes which would come to define Hitchcock’s films are already here: the icy blonde, the innocent man who is wrongly accused and the narrative ‘wrong footing’. Sabotage actually contains one of Hitchcock’s more shocking and unexpected reveals, one that the director himself was conflicted over. Following the relatively light-hearted screwball elements of The 39 Steps and The Lady Vanishes, where a slightly kooky romantic pairing offers a cornerstone to the more serious suspense and action, here things are considerably more restrained.

Sure, there is a romantic flowering between the two main characters, but this is a pairing more in tune with the less fantastical plot. The story of Mr. Verloc (Oscar Homolka) and his treacherous involvement with foreign agents (for he is the saboteur of the title) just about remains within the realms of everyday plausibility, taking place in a minimum of locations, that lacks the travelogue proto-James Bond feel of The 39 Steps or the much later North by Northwest.

At the beginning of the film we’re introduced to a successful attack on London’s electricity grid, and to Verloc’s involvement (which is never truly explained. What are his motives?) Despite being spotted coming in through the backdoor by his wife (Sylvia Sydney), which is untypical, he lies to her about his whereabouts and our seeds of suspicion are firmly planted. The Verlocs are the owners of a London cinema, which must have felt quite novel in 1936 and lends the film a degree of subversion; Mr. Verloc’s genuine affairs are likely more shocking than the fictions on the silver screen.

A memorable meeting between Verloc and his contact in an aquarium (with a blink and you’ll miss it appearance from Carry On’s Charles Hawtry) tell us little about the villains’ nationality. This was probably deliberate, although in the build up to World War II we can make some educated guesses. Verloc is instructed to take possession of some explosives and how to use them, with the stress on making this a success. “They must not laugh…” This cannot be anything other than a successful terrorist act, which the populace and media will take seriously.

Sometimes Hitchcock deliberately led us down a narrative path that indicated the true villain was someone other than it actually was, such as influencing our suspicion of Norman Bates’ mother being the perpetrator in Psycho. But here, Verloc is most definitely the antagonist, and instead of playing with the audiences’ narratively constructed prejudices, instead focuses on his wife’s growing realisation that her husband is a killer. Many of Hitchcock’s films feature women in relationships with bad men that they cannot escape, to the extent that in Notorious the woman eventually becomes a literal prisoner. Mrs Verloc’s growing unease and eventual paranoia over her husband’s activities fuel the film and the introduction of Detective Sergeant Ted Spencer (John Loder) compounds her suspicions; her husband is evidently being investigated. From all these suspicions Hitchcock weaves his tapestry of suspense quite effectively. Ted initially operates undercover but a growing affection with Mrs Verloc soon blossoms into something else, in an earnest and touching way not really present in the aforementioned coupling in The 39 Steps.

The suspenseful centrepiece of the film is one that Hitchcock himself was quite critical of, suggesting the sequence could have been more effective. It does lead to one of Hitchcock’s more sombre and shocking moments. Mr. Verloc ropes in his wife’s young brother Stevie (Desmond Tester) to act as a courier, carrying the deadly package to Piccadilly, where the bomb is set to go off at 1:45pm. Unexpected delays along the route will have you knawing at your fingers, not least because of the regular clock updates. Never have the hands moved so slowly to the doomed time. Stevie is detained by a market salesman, a police officer and general crowds, all going about their business, but it leaves the boy fatally delayed. Although this centrepiece scene occurs without Mrs Veloc, it is that character who I was eager to get back to, to see her responses. Sydney’s performance is key to the film’s success and her subtle portrayal of the wife more than makes up for any of the film’s narrative failings.

You see, there are some things in Sabotage that clearly don’t make sense. Why would an experienced police detective bungle his eavesdropping on the terrorists by sticking his hand through a window? Why did Mrs Verloc ever marry Mr. Verloc, who she seems to share zero romantic chemistry? Often, Hitchcock presents things ‘just because’ they will help further the story and rack up the suspense by ensuring certain things will happen. I’m not convinced that it’s a heavier handed way of telling a story that Hitchcock ever truly abandoned, but I can just about let those implausible actions go in the broader context of the story being told.

Even with its irrational moments, and it isn’t the only Hitchcock film to have them, Sabotage is one of Hitchcock’s finest early pictures. The film is very effective in communicating the mood of a city just three years away from an huge unavoidable conflict, and one of his last British films before Hollywood finally poached him.

Review: Les Yeux Sans Visage (Eyes without a Face) (1960)

As I begin my own exploration of French cinema, it’s great to offer a guest review from English and French language academic Clare Doherty, who here shares her thoughts on Georges Fangu’s much admired 1960 horror film Les Yeux Sans Visage. Enjoy!

The film begins with a woman driving at night along a road lined with almost ghostly white trees. The music also overwhelms us, both sad and then exploding like a crazy carnival.

But who is this well dressed woman? What is she doing, all nervous while driving? Who is the passenger strangely leaning on the back seat? We finally conclude that all is not normal when she suddenly unloads her passenger (actually a corpse), without any fanfare, into the lake, seeing the body disappear before she drives away.

The story develops and we learn that the woman is actually called Louise and she is lucky to be the wife of a very famous and respected surgeon, particularly in the in the field of transplants. The story unfolds even more and we also learn that this surgeon, gifted as he is, is not a good driver. It seems that an accident had taken place when he was driving, and as a result his daughter lost her face. This angelic young girl has since lived like the walking dead in her father’s huge house, not really wanting to live anymore. Nevertheless, her powerful and intelligent father has devised a diabolical plan to steal a face from another young girl and graft it onto what is left of daughter Christiane’s.

His plan, unfortunately (or fortunately, as you could see it) is far from flawless, with Christiane suffering from infections and a rejection of the tissue, following the significant operation. Little by little then, the three of them: the father, Dr. Gennesier (Pierre Brassure), his wife Louise (Allida Valli) and Christiane (Edith Scob) become either killer of accomplice. Much of the cast were seasoned and popular actors, who really made the script and characters work. Amongst the established performers is Scob, who here made her second ever film appearance in the role that she is probably still remembered most for.

I don’t think it’s useful for everybody for me to explain, so as not to spoil the surprise, but let’s say that it’s a film that provokes very moral questions. What’s in a face? Can one thrive with disgust in oneself and that of one’s society? How far should parental love go to protect a child? Why are surgeons made gods and what effect does that have on their psyches? What is true freedom?

From the point of view of a morality, the film is even more obscure. No one is completely good or bad. They all, one could say, have very good intentions while committing such evil deeds.

Genre wise, it’s a somewhat difficult film to place, containing as much beauty as horror. Christiane, for example, is feminine and as fine as crystal. The surroundings too, exude beauty; a golden cage perhaps, but one of rare finery. In contrast there are also resonances and nods to literary classics like Frankenstein and the presentation of English horror films of the period, particularly Hammer. This is the work of French director Georges Frangu. Despite his long career, this is now perhaps his best known film.

It is also rich in motifs, which gives the film a visually satisfying series of images; the birds, the face, music cues. Everything means something and services the narrative. I would recommend this film for all of these reasons. Cinematographically it’s gorgeous to look at (the work of innovative German film maker Eugen Shufftan). Captivating imagery aside, for a modern audience this movie also hits on themes that are as relevant today as they were in the ‘60s. It’s worth taking time to watch this beautiful noir film. Recommended!

Reviewing Hitchcock. #23: ‘Young and Innocent’ (1937)

“We ought to order tea or something if we’re going to stay here long…”

Based on the novel A Shilling for Candles by Josephine Tey, Hitchcock’s twenty third film takes some liberties with its source material, but manages to offer a reasonably engaging man-on-the-run thriller, of the kind beloved of Hitch. The version of Young and Innocent available on Britbox is also of remarkably pristine quality, so much so that the deep shadows and bright skies of summer really spring out of the screen, maybe more so due to the monochrome.

There’s also a pair of likeable and engaging lead performances from Nova Pilbeam and Derrick De Marney. Pilbeam put me in mind of Maxine Peake in appearance and on the strength of Young and Innocent you’d think that her expressive face would be better known, but as in common with many actresses of the ‘20s and ‘30s she had a relatively short screen career, perhaps with the contemporary attitude being to make hay while the sun shone and then retire gracefully. De Marney has the clipped British tones that really don’t sound like anybody British I’ve ever met, and I’ve lived here all my life, but still, a voice that exists in a certain era of cinema as the heroic everyman centre of films such as these (see also Robert Donat in The 39 Steps).

De Marney plays Robert Tisdall, who like many Hitchcock heroes, ends up having his day go to bollocks just because he innocently got involved in events bigger than himself. You have to wonder how absolutely incriminating the spectacle of him running away from the drowned body is, but those two young ladies do seem absolutely appalled and convinced of his guilt, so what’s a police officer going to do? Sorry Son, that’s enough evidence for me! Down the station with you! Meanwhile, we already know there is a jealous husband out there, who is likely the killer. The bloke has a really noticeable twitch. I’m talking proper full on face gymnastics here. He probably should have got someone else to do the dirty work for him, because with a facial performance like that you just know he’s going to be easy to find later. So, already there’s a plot forming that is likely to keep you committed, as long as you overlook the sillier aspects. While praising the film’s strengths, I also have to mention the miniature model work, which is exceptional. I’m never convinced how much these scenes are always necessary, but Hitchcock stages certain scenes exactly how he liked with visual trickery and it usually convinces very well. Bernard Knowles is the camera man, but not sure who supplied the model work. I’ll get back to you on that.

While the film certainly has its merits, it’s a far lesser offering from Hitchcock than would have been usual, even at this early stage. The stakes never feel high enough and like a less considered Columbo script, the motives and ultimate ‘gotcha’ don’t stand up to scrutiny. As with many Hitchcock films, the ending can catch you by surprise unless you’ve been checking the run time; everything is wrapped up very neatly and swiftly in a few minutes. Would finding the murderer under fraught circumstances really convince him to give himself up in maniacal, laughing declaration of guilt? Maybe, maybe not. Young and innocent is best enjoyed for the two leads and their character’s slowly blossoming affection. Having said that, there are times where the film gives over so much time to quiet, unhurried scenes of their romantic bonding that any sense of jeopardy is all but diffused. This makes Young and Innocent less of a nail biting race to prove a man’s innocence in the mould of The 39 Steps or North by Northwest (to name but two of many) and more of a leisurely holiday in the country with a few road blocks and half-hearted car chases. I felt that if the couple stopped off for cream teas, there would still be plenty of time to evade the police. A sort of To Catch a Thief, but without the colour, vistas and sense of intrigue.

Reviewing Hitchcock. #43: ‘To Catch a Thief’ (1955)

“Since when is love a crime?”

Hitchcock films sometimes present less than plausible or likely motivations and background for the lead character, but then get on with the excitement of the actual story. To Catch of Thief is perhaps somewhat guilty of this as I find the titular thief, John Robie, to be an unlikely character. But what do I know? Maybe retired jewel thieves became internationally infamous in the ‘50s and were likely to enjoy the luxury of living off a vineyard in the South of France. If the makeup of Cary Grant’s Robie doesn’t always particularly stand up to scrutiny, Grant’s natural charm as a leading man will no doubt drag you willingly along for the ride (which, as with the actual car ride in the film, will be fast, fun, thrilling and a little bit sexy).

Robie, previously known as ‘The Cat’, just wants to be left alone with his sun kissed new life tending his vineyards (as all retired jewel thieves, this film begs you to presume). However, when a jewel thief strikes the rich inhabitants of the French Riviera, using Robie’s trademark moves, he becomes the primary suspect and must clear his name.

To Catch a Thief is Hitchcock on holiday; this is one of the lighter films in his canon and being in Technicolor, offers some gorgeous, inviting photography of the Riviera. But few things French are as gorgeous in colour as Grace Kelly, here in the last of her three consecutive Hitchcock film appearances. Kelly’s presence dominates every scene she’s in and it remains cinema’s loss that she retired so early. Kelly plays Frances Stevens, a wealthy American tourist, vacationing with her mother, who is attracted by the presence of Robie (who frankly sticks out like a wanted jewel thief in every scene). She offers a sassy charm that easily matches Grant’s (who himself almost retired from films before this film). The result of their pairing is a very believable sexual fission which never really lets up and offers some understated suggestion and not so understated innuendo not entirely typical for the time. This chemistry helps drive the story to its reasonably satisfying conclusion, but with this film it’s more about the ride (whether literal or not) than the destination. Additionally, British actor John Williams (who can also be seen in Dial M for Murder) offers stoic support as Robie’s lawyer and Jessie Royce Landis lends a delightfully sardonic turn as Frances’ mother.

To Catch a Thief is essentially a romantic comedy, although in the hands of Hitchcock it does offer some degree of suspense and thrills, although it does those things at a more leisurely pace than other more sofa arm gripping Hitch films. Also, as good as To Catch a Thief is, the film does tend to pale in the shadow of the other Hitchcock films from this late period, coming straight after the quality double whammy of Dial M For Murder and Rear Window, and just two years before the re-make of The Man Who Knew Too Much and four years before his magnum opus Vertigo. Despite all this revered and much loved contemporary competition, To Catch a Thief is probably still more fun than some of them. As an example of a lighter hearted Hitchcock offering, To Catch a Thief has a lot to recommend it, not least the charming and sexy lead performances and Robert Burns’ picturesque photography. Not top tier Hitchcock then, but nowhere near the bottom either and you’ll like it all the more if you allow its aforementioned charms to do their work.

Reviewing Hitchcock in no particular order: #20: ‘The 39 Steps’ (1935)

“Have you ever heard of The 39 Steps?”

The enduring feeling after watching The 39 Steps is that I’d watched a film with some very modern sensibilities. This can make it difficult, but not impossible, to imagine how an audience in 1935 would have reacted to it. Nearly thirty years before the first Bond film and nearly twenty five years before Hitchcock’s own North by Northwest, the genesis of the modern suspense thriller may be found in films like The 39 Steps. The 39 Steps is a film that, despite quite obviously being made in 1935, quite successfully transcends its time.

The trope of a man being falsely accused and going on the run, while frantically trying to clear his name, was not a new obsession for Hitchcock but it is here that it is probably first put to its most successful narrative use. Based on John Buchan’s 1915 novel, the film presents the most unfortunate case of a holiday gone to shit, as visiting Canadian Richard Hanney (played with everyman effortlessness by Robert Donat) becomes embroiled in a mysterious and dangerous espionage conflict after he unknowingly takes in a spy after a shooting in a London music hall. The spy, Annabella Smith, is played by Lucie Mannheim who makes enough of an impression that I would have welcomed her as the female lead. But this is a Hitchcock film, so don’t get too attached is all I will advise. Shortly before Smith makes her…er…exit, she entices Hanney with a mention of the titular ’39 Steps’. Are they a place? Actual steps? A set of instructions? Something else entirely? As a McGuffin, it’s one of Hitchcock’s more intriguing and their revelation in the final reel is, in true Hitchcock tradition, neither what most will expect or revealed in the way you would expect either.

Hitch racks up the suspense in a great anxiety fuelled train sequence, (much has been made of Hitchcock’s returning fascination with trains and tunnels, often seen as thinly veiled sexual metaphors). It’s here that we meet Madeleine Carroll as the actual female lead, Pamela, one of Hitchcock’s early ‘icy blondes’. To be fair she thaws pretty quickly once the two leads are reunited later in the picture. Carroll was big news in the mid ‘30s and Donat had started to make an impression in the US, so their casting made economic sense. Her first appearance is so brief that you could be excused for thinking you’ve identified the wrong actress; Hitchcock takes his time setting up the big players in his narrative. For a fairly economical running time, Hitchcock is in no rush to pull this steak off the grill too quickly. This is a slow cooking creation, and as ever with Hitch you have to wait and see how the different elements come together. Questions arise throughout. Who is the man with the missing finger? Is Pamela a help or hindrance to Hannay? You’ll get your answers. If you’re savvy, you’ll remember that Hitch will wrong step you very suddenly; and the answers can arrive unexpectedly.

Despite being a product of the mid ‘30s (the famous sequences where Hannay and Pamela are handcuffed together, traversing the Scottish Highlands and staying the night in an inn, are reminiscent of a ‘30s screwball comedy, likely influenced by the likes of It Happened One Night and its various imitators). But any fashionable tropes work and the chemistry between the leads is strong enough to carry the romantic humour, which never dilutes the jeopardy.

The closing scene is an early Hitchcock masterstroke. If you were paying attention, maybe you saw it coming from the beginning, but either way you won’t be robbed of the satisfaction of the final revelation and righting of wrongs. One enduring criticism of Hitchcock is that his films end suddenly. Perhaps a fair point, but there is rarely any excess, unwanted fat on this perfect steak, so enjoy; this is a superior serving of suspense by a master chef.

Reviewing Hitchcock in no particular order. #1: The Pleasure Garden (1925)

“…I’ll steer her away from those stage door tom cats if I can”.

Perhaps an unexpected place to continue a series of Hitchcock reviews, if I’m trying to attract thousands of avid readers, this second review in the series goes back to the very beginning. Well, almost the beginning, because the director’s first full feature (Number 13) no longer exists. The Pleasure Garden is Hitchcock’s second full length feature, but his first full length surviving film. While some films of the silent era can astound with their technological ingenuity and creative expression, it would be something of a lie to say The Pleasure Garden is one such film. While the likes of Vertigo, North by Northwest and Rear Window exist comfortably in modern culture as recognisably modern films (in the sense that they can be viewed alongside a new film and still come away looking comparable and sometimes even superior and also occasionally as a notable influence), The Pleasure Garden is from an era far removed. The progress in technology from the early days of cinema to the dawn of the sound era is often jarring when one isn’t viewing a bona fide masterpiece, and even then it can be a surprise to the uninitiated. The fact silent films were shot at around 16 frames per second (fps) can often cause the biggest deterrent to a modern viewer. When sound films came in that was changed to 24 fps. The projection of silent movies at a sound speed of 24 fps made them look faster than often intended, until recent times where such anomalies where corrected. So with regard to Hitchcock, if Vertigo glows with the colour and visual language that can still engage a modern audience and often make us work for the visual’s message, like a Picasso, then The Pleasure Garden is a cave painting. But cave paintings were often glorious, and even a master like Hitchcock has to start somewhere. Ironically, these observations apply doubly for Hitch’s first sound film Blackmail, more of which later,

The Pleasure Garden tells the story of Jill Cheyne, who arrives for her appointment at the theatre, to join the chorus line. Her invitation is stolen and she has to prove her worth as a dancer in front of the manager, the dance troupe and the orchestra. Jill succumbs to the temptations and vanities that accompany fame and fortune, while her friend Patsy (to whom she owes her break) are cast aside. There is a mild love triangle involved and a dastardly cad who promises much to Patsy, but is clearly having it off with this extra piece in Africa, where he has to go to work on ‘the plantations’. Add into the mix Hugh, Jill’s ostracised ex, and there is a story that while not complex, still manages to involve more complexity than some Netflix dramas.

Silent screen acting was obviously a somewhat different skill that that of a sound picture, and while always slightly over exaggerated and stagey, the leads offer relatively naturalistic performances, Virginia Valli is the lead as Patsy , and like many notable actors of the silent era did not have a long career after the dawn of the talkies. The beginning of the sound era was brutal for many stars, and even those than did transition to sound had their voices scrutinised, and often found lacking. Their natural voices were often not what the public expected and that too could play a part in their career demise. In Hollywood, Clara Bow was a prime example. For whatever reasons, Virginia Valli’s last picture came as early as 1931. Virginia Valli was quite a coup for Hitchcock in 1925, when The Pleasure Garden was made (it wasn’t released widely to cinemas until 1927), as was Carmelita Garaghty as Jill. Both were American, making this the only one of Hitch’s British films to have American actresses in the leads. John Stuart is serviceable as Hugh, but Miles Mander proves more entertaining as the oily, caddish villain of the piece (the kind of role Mander got stereotyped for).

The Pleasure Garden isn’t for everybody and I’ll include it here for completion’s sake (as with many of Hitch’s other early silents). There may, however, yet be readers who have interest enough to watch them. The Pleasure Garden is, on the surface, a run of the mill romantic drama and not untypical of the time. However, within the first few minutes we can already see some of Hitchcock’s enduring obsessions. We see the descending stairs (here winding down to the stage floor), the eyes of voyeur through spy glasses and the returned gaze of an icy and untouchable blonde. The Pleasure Garden is rudimentary Hitchcock perhaps, but it can still be thought of as Hitchcock’s true debut.

Reviewing Hitchcock in no particular order: #47. Vertigo (1958)

“If I let you change me, will that do it?”

It’s easy to think of Vertigo as a blockbuster of its time (in the same way Jaws or Star Wars were, both original films coming from the era when the word entered common usage. Now the automatic pre-requisite adjective for a Marvel/DC or Tom Cruise actioner). But Vertigo was a commercial disappointment on its release and attracted some unkind criticism. This reception adds weight to the theory that some horizon pushing art often attracts a degree of vitriol when it first appears. Art can shock and is often for the ages; in the moment of unveiling it can shock those critics who have not bent their knees and may wish in hindsight that they’d sat down first and paid closer attention, less they misunderstand and overlook a masterpiece.

So is Vertigo a masterpiece? Jeez, that’s a tough ask. Most likely, but in 2023 we have the opposite problem in that we have the weight of expectation. With this in mind, I watched Vertigo again while attempting to put the baggage outside the door. Difficult to do with most Alfred Hitchcock films, to be honest.

Hitchcock’s films are always handsome spectacles and much has already been said of the director’s hallmark camerawork (with the physical help here of cinematographer Robert Burks); shots that suggest our involvement in the unfolding action more than we might otherwise feel, and particularly feel comfortable with. An implicitness in the dark deeds. I was only watching, officer! I didn’t actually stalk the woman! In this regard, Vertigo does everything a Hitchcock film is expected to do, we are the voyeur to a slow burn of unravelling suspense. But I’d argue Vertigo goes to some darker places than even Hitchcock’s more successful and notorious (or should that be Notorious) films.

For a man often accused of controlling and even abusing his lead actresses, Vertigo could be interpreted as a confessional piece. Scottie, played by reliable everyman James Stewart, is a retired cop who becomes obsessed with Madeleine, the woman he falls in love with but cannot save. He attempts, and succeeds, in controlling the woman he dreams could be like her. She essentially becomes Madeleine, and may actually be Madeleine, at least physically. His pressure for her to dye her hair blonde and dress differently is successful, although acquiesced to with apparent distress. Scottie is weak, perhaps emphasised by his fear of heights, but his biggest weakness is his desire which is lonely and desperate, projected as it is onto this apparent doppelganger of his friend’s wife (and his obsession with the woman he thinks died was problematic enough to begin with. He’s not far off being Norman Bates with a car at one point, even if he doesn’t actually give the woman a final shower). His lonely desperation is projected onto his friend’s wife Madeleine, who he is stalking as part of a professional assignment (the moral ambiguities are there from the start and quickly fade). Underneath Scottie’s bemused and amused demeanour, regular traits of Stewart’s characters, he has a well of sealed up rage to draw from. When the penny drops that he’s been deceived (without offering too many spoilers for first time viewers), Scottie’s rants are the sound of a man drowning in the deep of his own fulfilled toxic dreams. He’s fallen over the edge into his own well of anger, guilt and angst.

Hitchcock was great at wrong footing us, and Vertigo defies expectation as much as any of his films (which ironically became almost an expectation). Madeleine, who may be called Judy, was controlled and owned by her husband but ultimately relinquishes control willingly to Scottie, such is the eagerness of love. Love or not, the arrow of deceit hits deep and perhaps shows Scottie’s obsession is more to do with less wholesome impulses than love, as obsession often is. He loved Madeleine, but is this even the same woman? The moral ambiguity makes Vertigo a story that stands up to multiple viewings, as much as any Hitchcock film.

Much has been said of Vertigo’s Freudian elements (the phallic shape of Colt Tower dominates the San Francisco skyline in one key scene and the steep inclines of San Fran are a perfect metaphor for Scottie’s phobia and state of mind). Scottie even has to ascend an equally phallic tower, making it to the top on his second try, which is an interesting reading if you go with the interpretation that the film is about male potency! In the gaudy, neon lit hotel room it has been said (by Roger Ebert, if I remember correctly) that Scottie recovers his potency, with the only thing that can make him rise being the specific sight of the idolised dream woman who may never have been, but he is determined to recreate even if it means deconstructing a woman who may be someone else. Again, the obsession may be fuelled by powerful desires, but there is little true love there. Kim Novak, the female lead, appears to give very little in her performance in comparison to Barbara Bel Geddes’ autonomous, talented and opinionated Midge (surely a woman who Scottie might secretly fear more than his acrophobia). But, watch carefully, because Novak’s stoic presence may be subtle but she reveals much. The movie could surely not work without her performance. Her face shows the gamult of pain, anxiety, fear and confusion, emotions that carry the film to its tragic conclusion. Madeleine is a victim of abuse in her controlling marriage and as is often the case, she suffered quietly, and does the same in the face of Scottie’s obsession.

Vertigo often looks like a slightly surreal technicolour dream that edges into nightmare, compounded by Bernard Herrmann’s title score (Incidentally, I still argue Jerry Goldsmith’s music from Basic Instinct pays more than a subtle reference to it, but much more subtle than the rest of Paul Verhoeven’s film, which is essentially a Vertigo remake with added shagging and ice picks. That’s not a negative criticism, by the way. The film has been remade more than once, but never under the title Vertigo, which was not the original Boileau-Narcejac novel’s title anyway).

Hitchcock’s brilliant, and often imitated, zoom shots to convey Scottie’s vertigo are stylishly artificial but jarringly effective, adding to the film’s hyperreal aesthetic. The threat of falling, or the actuality of falling, dominate the picture. Although he certainly physically falls in the opening scene, it’s debateable whether Scottie truly ever does fall in love. But for Madeleine, entertaining a misogynistic fantasy, even if it is for love, the fall is perhaps too high.

A quick tribute to Burt Bacharach.

Burt Bacharach was that special sort of songwriter who comes along every generation or two and will likely eclipse all others when music historians look back at the twentieth century, many centuries from now, with a few notable exceptions. Gershwin, Carmichael, Berlin, Lennon and McCartney, Dylan…there are others, but it’s a special select list, whose songs permeate society for a time and Bacharach and David are up there. And what songs. You probably have a favourite Bacharach song, you just might not have known it was a Bacharach. He occupied that odd space between true pop star and songwriter, where he was almost as famous as the songs he wrote, but not quite. There’s another special aspect to his music as well, because in my mind’s eye I can picture a Venn diagram where my much older parents’ music taste and mine intersected. There’s a name there. It’s Bacharach.

“Farewell and Adieu, You Fair Spanish Ladies… ” JAWS returns in 3-D.

In an attempt to resurrect this blog somewhat, after a few years of slow posts, I’d been meaning to start that process by mentioning the new Jaws film. Except, of course, by new Jaws film, I mean the 3-D conversion of Steven Spielberg’s 1975 classic. An important film, particularly to audience members of a certain generation, Jaws is often cited as the film that started the modern phenomena of the ‘summer blockbuster’ (audiences literally did queue around the block to see the film), with tactical summer country wide openings on the same date and wall to wall media promotion. Hard to think that prior to this most big films didn’t receive a huge blanket opening, and were often released into cinemas gradually, with different town and cities across, say, North America or Europe opening at different times.

However, the most significant thing I’ve always thought about Jaws is how it both personifies the Spielberg style blockbuster and also stands in contrast to many of them. It sounds like a huge hit film of the time, with its iconic John Williams score (the unmistakable sound of Williams soundtracked everything from The Poseidon Adventure, through to Superman, Star Wars, ET, Raiders…you name it), Spielberg’s kinetic direction, the fast pace…but for all those pop corn familiar hallmarks, Jaws is (ostensibly at least) a film about a killer shark in a seaside resort, where characters get brutally murdered by a hungry fish. I do so love that the film that paved the way for Star Wars and latterly Marvel and Avatar, is essentially a horror picture, that isn’t really family viewing.

But, all that aside, Jaws remains a fantastic picture, a marvellous jelling of story, production and performance (the central trio of Shneider, Dreyfuss and Shaw remain a delight), where the unreliability of the mechanic shark meant its appearances were kept to minimum and elevated the film’s suspense and terror as a result. That was all very true of the film, so I approached the modern 3-D conversion with some trepidation. Some of these conversions have been very bad; money grabbing quick conversions that do not serve the picture. However, I’ve just seen Jaws in 3D (not to be confused with the risible Jaws 3-D from 1983) and it’s still the same wonderful film, but on occasion it felt like I’d actually climbed into the water. Chrissie’s death at the beginning was surprisingly horrifying. Like I was swimming next to her as she gets killed. The 3-D enhances the layered image structure of the original, where fences, people, buildings and so forth and positioned in ordinal presentations which lend themselves well to the new effects. But never is the new presentation for the film more effective as when the action takes to the water and for once, a 3-D film truly puts you in the thick of the suspense, and occasionally the horror. Not bad work for a film that was already 47 years old.

I think I’ll leave that bath until tomorrow.