by Jon N. Hall 12/20/16
The first movie that I ever really “studied” was Alfred Hitchcock’s seminal 1958 masterpiece Vertigo. It was the mid-1980s and I had just read a review of the film by James Loutzenhiser, a Kansas City psychiatrist who moonlighted as a movie critic. The review was intriguing enough that I drove out to Watts Mill to screen the thing at the dollar cinema. And there, in that darkened low-rent little theatre began my long and unwholesome fixation with Madeleine Elster.
With that first screening I knew I had found something special. And soon after Vertigo ran on cable, so I taped it. That allowed me to screen it over and over again until deep engrams were burnt into my young brain, leaving it permanently etched with Mr. Hitchcock’s obsessions.
Mostly I watched Vertigo on the weekends. I’d settle on a chilled libation and then settle in to watch my contraband VHS tape. But viewing was not always orderly; sometimes I’d fast-forward to certain scenes that are emotionally powerful for me; scenes of “high sentiment.” Although Vertigo is classified as a thriller, it has elements from other genres, too. There’s a bit of crime, mystery, and even the supernatural. But what Vertigo really is, in my estimation, is a “love story.”
Sounds like a chick flick, right? But I’m not sure if chicks can really understand Vertigo and its protagonist’s psyche. The heart of Vertigo is the obsession that one “Scottie” Ferguson has for the aforementioned Madeleine, and how, after he loses her, he tries to transform another woman, Judy, into Madeleine. Vertigo is about a man’s obsession with a particular “look.” Although feminine allure can come in all manner of packages, our hero will settle for one only. His dilemma is summed up by the lady at Ransohoff’s helping Scottie to find for Judy the exact grey suit that Madeleine wore: “You certainly do know what you want, sir.”
Vertigo did not do very well at the box office in 1958. And for a while it was unavailable in America and regarded as a “lost film.” But in 1982, not long before I saw it at Watts Mill, Vertigo made the Critic’s Top Ten Poll. I refer to the poll to determine the greatest movies of all time conducted every ten years since 1952 by Sight & Sound magazine. I was unaware of this when I began my repeated viewing of the film, which was probably a good thing. And my taste in cinema was vindicated in 2012, when Vertigo ascended to the top of the list.
To really appreciate Vertigo, I contend that the viewer must be emotionally strung together in a particular way. Some may just not take to the film because the story is rather farfetched and implausible. In fact, Hitchcock was aware of this when he spoke of the “hole in the story,” which I learned of in the excellent documentary Hitchcock/Truffaut (2015) by director Kent Jones. I recently screened this fascinating film on HBO, which, if you’ve subscribed, you can watch on your computer with HBO GO. It’s also available in DVD and Blu-ray.
Regardless of what one thinks of Hitchcock, true cineastes will love Jones’s film; here’s a fair review. I quite enjoyed his look at Hitch’s early work. Having started in the Silent Era, Sir Alfred understood the impact of images better than directors who started after the talkies were introduced. The images from his early career in Britain can be startling. I especially appreciated the clip of the kidnapping scene in The Man Who Knew Too Much (1934 version), which presaged Cocteau. Jones was wise to employ Jeremiah Bornfield, whose fine score is especially effective in the film’s opening sequence: the camera zooms in on Sylvia Sidney in a scene from Sabotage (1936) that had no music.
Jones’s new documentary is based in part on the 1966 book by François Truffaut with the very same title, which is still available in revised form with the new title Hitchcock. One can also survey some of the book at Google Books. Truffaut’s book is about an interview he conducted with Hitch, and it became a bible for filmmakers. Jones’s documentary contains clips of the filming of that interview as well as clips of its own interviews of today’s directors and what they think of the Master of Suspense.
With the possible exception of Psycho, Jones spends more time on Vertigo than any of Hitch’s other films. I’ll let you discover what Jones’s interviewees had to say, but allow me to quote one, director James Gray: “I think Kim Novak coming out of the bathroom is the single greatest moment in the history of movies.”
That’s bold talk for a four-eyed movie director. But what, pray, makes Vertigo so great? None of the auteurs Jones interviews fully answers that question, but I’m gonna show you.
When my “thing” for Vertigo really got going, I shared my passion for it with my friends. Feeling expansive one day at work, I announced to my workmate in the cubicle next to mine that Vertigo is really an opera. Of course, it’s not really an opera, as it’s not sung. But, like opera, the flick has a powerful score. In fact, the score operates like Wagner: throughout the film we hear leitmotifs, short themes called “cells,” that recur over and over again, but with subtle variations.
Due to the good graces of YouTube, I can demonstrate some of what makes Vertigo so great. I’ll use not only the original 1958 soundtrack, but also James Conlon’s 1999 recording, which has of all the original music from the movie. I use both recordings because I prefer some of the interpretations in the old soundtrack, even though Conlon had a better orchestra. I’ve never read Bernard Herrmann’s score, and don’t know what, if anything, he called his motifs, but you can refer to Wikipedia for the breakdown of the music “cues,” as well as info on the recordings.
Let’s look at the central motif, what we’ll call his “Love Theme,” and notice how Herrmann varies it and builds upon it. This little exercise, consisting of eight links, may seem like a lot of work, but to save time I’ve positioned the audios to start at the exact moments when the Love Theme emerges. I recommend that you right-click on the links and open them in separate windows (or tabs) rather than using the same window and the Back button. In the first links, you can close the windows to stop the audio after 20-30 seconds, but do try playing the last three to the end.
The first time we hear the Love Theme is when Madeleine drives her Jaguar out to the redwoods at Muir Woods, Scottie’s in the passenger seat. Oddly, the original soundtrack doesn’t have this important passage; so we hear the 1999 recording where it’s called “The Outing.” It takes only 19 seconds, but notice its serenity.
We next hear the Love Theme in “3 A.M.” (25 seconds). In this variation the theme is plaintive, wistful. It accompanies a night shot of San Francisco’s Union Square where Scottie, unable to sleep, is walking. When the theme ends we see Scottie back at his apartment asleep on his sofa still dressed in his street clothes. The doorbell rings and Scottie awakens. It’s Madeleine and she’s just remembered more of her disturbing dream. Scottie is familiar with what she describes; it’s the old Spanish mission in San Juan Bautista.
Later that day our pair motor to the mission, where things go dreadfully wrong. The Love Theme here is varied by lengthening the first three notes, especially the first note. I believe this is important because it “grounds” the motif, making it more heartfelt. This is fitting as it accompanies the moment when Scottie first confesses his love for Madeleine. The scene is called “Farewell” (20 seconds). For me, this is the most romantic scene in the movie, and if that interests you, then you might continue listening until about the 4:18 spot, when the “The Tower” starts.
So Scottie has lost his love, and is suffering. The next iteration of the Love Theme is at the beginning of “The Nightmare.” Notice how sad the motif has become as Scottie visits Madeleine’s grave. Close the window after about 31 seconds or you’ll get into the actual nightmare, and we wouldn’t want that.
The next iteration of the Love Theme is toward the end of “Dawn” (20 seconds). This variation of the theme is blared out with a vengeance by the French horns as the camera pans across the façade of the Brocklebank Apartments, where Madeleine lived. We then see Scottie looking at the building, and although he’s been discharged from the sanitarium, the music tells us he’s still haunted by the loss of Madeleine.
The next use of the Love Theme is in one of the most emotionally riveting scenes in the movie, and this time you can watch and as well as listen because I found the scene. Judy is upset at Scottie’s trying to remake her into Madeleine. The scene has no music until just before Scottie says “the color of your hair.” The insertion of the Love Theme at this exact moment is masterful.
The famous “Scene D’Amour” is the penultimate appearance of the Love Theme. It’s the scene that includes the moment that director James Gray thinks is “the greatest moment in the history of movies.” It’s when Judy has been transformed into Madeleine and Scottie once again embraces his lost love. This “climax” might put one in mind of Wagner, perhaps Tristan. But the part of the “Scene D’Amour” that is the most powerful for me is its very beginning, when Scottie waits for Judy to return from the beauty salon; we hear the Love Theme in its most tender and intimate rendering.
In “Finale” we get the final iteration of the Love Theme. Scottie is now aware of the fraud committed against him, and has dragged Judy to the top of the mission bell tower to confront her. But a nun enters the scene, scaring Judy who falls to her death. The movie ends with Scottie standing on the sheer parapet from which Judy has just fallen, as fortissimo French horns cruelly repeat the Love Theme. Though cured of his vertigo, Scottie has lost his idealized dream of love forever.
If these examples of the movie’s main musical motif don’t “do it” for you, as Judy might put it, then I doubt that Vertigo is the movie for you. But if you are moved, know that there are several other powerful motifs, and like the Love Theme, these other motifs recur. There is one bit of music, though, that appears only once in the body of the movie itself, but which we hear in the first three or four seconds of the film and during the opening credits that follow. These simple arpeggios tell us what the film is really about. Your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to find the one scene where we hear this simple music.
Despite Hitchcock’s genius, Vertigo wouldn’t work without Bernard Herrmann’s exquisite score; the implausible storyline would be just too off-putting. But with the score, the story recedes in importance and the movie lover can luxuriate in the fusion of two art forms, the visual and the musical. Without the great Bernard, Vertigo would not be “the greatest film of all time.”
Jon N. Hall is a programmer/analyst from Kansas City.