Studies in film theory and analysis

ALFRED HITCHCOCK: A Master of Duality

For many, the name Alfred Hitchcock conjures hazy and disconnected memories of Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman in Rio, Tippi Hedren being chased by killer birds, or Jimmy Stewart in a wheelchair; but for others -- those that are somewhat more experienced with the work of Hitchcock -- the utterance of his moniker means much more. Indeed, many consider Hitchcock to be not only one of the most prolific and entertaining filmmakers, but also one of the most profound. A recurring -- and certainly intriguing -- motif that holds together his body of work is his incessant interest and portrayal of duality: the conflicting, yet in some ways similar, nature of life. That is to say, Hitchcock (and no other, on as prestigious a level) was able to brilliantly compare, reduce, and then reevaluate polar opposites that every human encounters. Love or hate, man or woman, privacy or voyeurism, and dishonesty or fidelity were just some of the many themes he unraveled in the stories and aesthetics of his films. Two such films -- with particular interest as each illustrates by movement, mise-en-scen, and narrative strategy, Hitchcock's penchant for duality -- are Vertigo, in which he juxtaposes the archetypal struggle between life and death, and Psycho, where he dabbles in the much more complex evaluation of openness and mystery.

Vertigo, one of Hitchcock's best-loved films, investigates the connection between life and death. Indeed, the premise of this film is entirely dependent on the possibility of exchange between the world of the living and that of the dead. In Vertigo, this possibility manifests itself in the form of reincarnation -- of Carlotta possessing Madeleine. For Hitchcock to successfully compare these extremes, he must first convince the audience that reincarnation is a viable explanation, and that life and death can exist simultaneously. He succeeds in this endeavor most completely in one single moment during Scottie's dream sequence.

In Scottie's dream, he envisions Carlotta as living -- standing there between him and Gavin. This single frame is essential evidence of Hitchcock's comparison of this duality because it reveals living persons in the same space and time as those who are dead. In the same dream, Scottie sees the animated Carlotta standing still, and framed precisely like the previous revealed portrait of her. The movement of this character (or the lack thereof) begins to suggest that the similarities between life and death may not be so strong. Indeed, the identical pose held by the character in life, and in the painted record of it, begins to deconstruct this duality.

The relationship between life and death is further analyzed by the mise-en-scen (the "setting") as the lighting suddenly begins to change. In flashes of light creating a strobe-like effect, Hitchcock manipulates the color of the image from clear to almost antique, calling attention to a seeming overlap in present and past. Moreover, the effect, coupled with rapid edits between only slightly varying frames of the images, brings to mind the notion of reanimation.

As the film progresses, however, Hitchcock completes his comparison within the narrative. Because the possibility of reincarnation is later shattered by the fact that all was nothing more than the residue of an elaborate murder scheme, the duality of life and death becomes fully defined. Thus, Hitchcock successfully uses the tools of movement, setting, and editing to suggest similarities the two, and his story to deny them.

The film Psycho is perhaps most notorious for its role in the conception of the modern "slasher" film; however, the real genius of this film and its core idea, is its deconstruction of the relationship between the obvious and the mysterious -- a somewhat more complex study than that of Vertigo. This duality, similar to the one before, exists between the openness of Hitchcock's intentions, and the ambiguity created with his filmmaker's tools.

The scene that exposes this duality occurs a mere third of the way into the film. The scene in which Norman hosts Marion to a small snack in his parlor reeks of a set-up -- there is no question as to where Hitchcock is leading the viewer. In fact, it is one of the first scenes in American cinema to establish the necessity (a necessity that signifies many great suspense films) of creating a "don't-go-in-there" atmosphere. Thus, Hitchcock has successfully established the obvious: the audience knows Marion is walking into the lion's den.

Conversely, however, Hitchcock's blocking -- or his directed movement of the actors -- tells a different story. Hitchcock has Marion's character sit next to a lamp in the parlor. Because this lamp is the key light source in the scene, Marion is well lit; but Norman Bates remains partially hidden by shadow. The complete lighting of Marion's face (as dictated by her movement), and her relaxed sophisticated posture as she eats, elicits the notion that she may be able to take care of herself -- she may be safe. Still, with Norman motionless in the shadows, mystery is successfully established.

Moreover, the set and the editing add to the comparison of mystery and openness -- add more to the audience's inability to compromise between what Hitchcock shows, and what he does not. The set is a very small room, holding the characters (and the audience) in tight proximity. Also, he places ominous stuffed birds on the wall behind Norman. This enhances a feeling of imminent danger. It enhances the obviousness of Hitchcock's intentions to force a collision between Marion and Norman. However, Hitchcock chooses to cut between far more diverse angles of Norman than he does with Marion; thus, the audience sees Marion as firm, while they view Norman as elusive. This, needless to say, creates an atmosphere of tangible mystery.