I must admit I’m late having an interest in the work of Alfred Hitchcock. Perhaps the most famous (along with Chaplin) of all British filmmakers, and certainly the most prolific, I have memories of enjoying the melodramatic hijinks of Alfred Hitchcock Presents on Nick at Nite when I was young, but when I first saw Psycho in a film appreciation course in high school, I was extremely disappointed. I didn’t like horror movies, but I did admire psychological thrillers, and it was my estimation, at the wise old age of sixteen, that black-and-white movies just can’t possibly scare or thrill you because they’re old and had censorship, etc.
This was, of course, complete balderdash and a film course in college showed me the magnificence of black-and-white film: how they really are uberfilms; they are somehow on a higher plane above our modern cinema because of the magical, myriad ways directors could play with light, shadow, fog, tension. Black-and-white movies, specially made by skilled technicians such as Hitchcock, seem as dazzling today as they must have been in their time thanks to film restorationists. I preferred his Notorious to Psycho, which (though it has its moments) still seems to show its cheapness—not just technically, but in the overextended denouement when Norman’s condition is explained like a printout from WebMD. And, although this is partially the point of the film, it is a claustrophobic picture and shows nothing of what Hitchcock could do with expansiveness such as in North by Northwest.
However, I am what I am and, for some odd reason, it seems I was born to do the opposite of what you’re supposed to do when studying an artist. Most people seek out the acknowledged masterpieces, the blockbuster hits. If it’s Shakespeare, you read Hamlet. If it’s Altman, you watch Nashville, etc. But I am enamored of failures because I’ve found you can learn a lot more from them than masterpieces. I could be wrong (this reasoning may be what has kept me from entering another plane in my writing life; who knows?)
At any rate, while I had a subscription to The Criterion Channel, I watched Hitch’s final film Family Plot. Reading the contemporaneous reviews, you can tell the critics are tired of the old man—had consigned him to the pasture. Critics love to prop up someone then tear them down. C’est la vie. However, I found it to have moments of greatness that were completely overlooked. It is not a great picture, but it has great moments, such as the car (with its brakes cut) racing down a dusty mountain road with no railing. Being a critic, I am not usually caught up rapturously in movies anymore because I’ve seen so many. It takes something really special to make my cinematic heart go aflutter. But watching Family Plot, I could barely breathe during that car scene, holding onto the sofa for dear life. That is true talent and so, every now and again, I explore more and more of Hitch’s “failures” when I have the time to give them their due attention.
Everything superficial about his 1961 film Marnie is boring. The title is boring. The period and setting are not particularly interesting. The colors somehow not as vivid as they should be. Tippi Hedren is not exactly the greatest actress in the world (her daughter Melanie Griffith inherited this dominant trait). But there are depths to the film that make it absolutely fascinating to watch, so I thought I’d jot some notes, dusting off this old lost classic that has finally begun to receive appreciation in the last decade or so. That is ironic since we have learned of Hitch’s sexual harassment of Hedren toward the end of the shooting of Marnie (Hedren has gone back and forth in print and interviews as to whether it was during Marnie or The Birds), But that, in itself is even more highly ironical given some of the scenes in a film about men, women, and the specific mistrust of one and self-hatred of the other.
The film opens with long tracking shots that look as if they were filmed yesterday except for the ‘50s fashions. We follow a female con artist (eg. Janet Leigh in Psycho except this is Marnie’s “profession”) from brown to red to blonde hair and from secretarial job to secretarial job as she assumes different identities and gains access to the safes of each institution she’s employed. Marnie is refreshing in these early scenes because she seems confident, sure of herself, not rattled by much. Oh, except for the fact that every time she sees the color red and/or experiences a thunderstorm, she is driven to paroxysms of histrionics. She is also tortured in her sleep by a vague nightmare which, later on, turns out to be a (it was the ‘50s and psychiatrists were particularly stupid in those days, so I’ll give it a pass) “repressed” memory of an actual event of childhood trauma.
Eventually, a slick Sean Connery in his first role following his christening as James Bond, Marnie is caught. Not like “the jig is up” caught. More like “Christina Ricci in Black Snake Moan” caught. Connery decides that something is pathologically wrong with Marnie and, as he caught her in a honeypot trap, she has very few options to get out of her criminal past. But Connery offers one: “Marry me, we’re going to see a psychiatrist and get you sorted out.” Yes, I know what you’re thinking and yes, his actions are pathological in themselves. I suppose that’s what makes Marnie interesting: another war of the sexes that probes masculinity and femininity and also (that tired word) power in deeply honest ways.
Connery’s scheme does not go well. While they initially had been flirtatious prior to his discovery of her true self, now feeling trapped. Something snaps in Marnie leading to proper (and even moving) climax that makes the ending of Psycho look weak as (shower) water as we discover what is wrong with Marnie, what her mother has to do with it, and why all those red flashes in the first place?
Marnie was derided upon its release, though it has had its defenders. I’m a defender. While there is a certain frame of mind you must be in to enjoy its pleasures (pretending that Connery’s actions are not completely objectionable (especially in a salacious scene from the honeymoon sequence), you can find them. While Hedren’s acting lacks and sometimes her monotonous voice sounds like it’s being amplified out of an old telephone, perhaps by a naturally nasal tone, she makes a fine scream queen in the moments of dissociation and she does keep you guessing as to Marnie’s intentions, conscious or unconscious. If you can get passed his opening scene where he is animated by seemingly Kabuki makeup, Connery’s performance is driven, suave, and even intelligent in its own limited way. It also has the funniest (and most sneaky”) of Hitch’s signature cameos.
Based on Winston Graham’s 1961 novel, Hitchcock chose as his writer the female Jay Presson Allen (Funny Lady, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie) after a long line of authors took a stab at it. It is appropriate that a woman wrote the film as it does indeed have very sensitive scenes that require a woman’s voice. Oddly enough, the scene (again) of which I must not speak was the reason the previous writer had been fired. He didn’t want to include it; Hitch did.
Perhaps I’m lonesome out here on the prairie with the few other appreciators, but it is not every film that makes you sit up and pay attention, that makes you think and wonder and dream and makes you rethink your own biases and prejudices. Check out Marnie. I bid the Master, “Good evening.”
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