By Amy Nicholson
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Of course, hard though it may be to believe at this moment in history, there once was a time -- not so very long ago -- when Hitchcock himself needed to be defended by critics. It is not coincidental that it was in the '50s and early '60s, at the height of his commercial popularity and public notoriety, that he was taken less seriously. In some regards this was another instance of popularity breeding disregard, if not actual contempt. It's similar to the attitude some -- not me, really -- would claim currently denies Steven Spielberg his due: If your films are not only popular but also vastly entertaining ("popcorn" movies), you are at best a shallow genius or not worthy of being called a genius at all.
But Hitchcock faced a second problem. Those were the days when "serious" critics rarely gave respect to Hollywood films at all, except for those that were obviously high-minded. The preeminent high-minded director of that period was Stanley Kramer, whose films -- Judgment at Nuremberg, Guess Who's Coming to Dinner -- can scarcely be put up against Hitchcock's. Nowadays most film fans would laugh at the silliness of this juxtaposition, but three or four decades ago, the laughter would have been for the opposite reason: "Sure, Hitchcock's movies are great fun, but they're not significant art like The Defiant Ones." The mind boggles. (And, having just dissed Kramer so thoroughly, let me also suggest that he's overdue for a reevaluation as well: His work is certainly not without merit.)
There has always been a streak of cultural inferiority among Americans, particularly American intellectuals. The notion that Europe has real culture was long embedded in our national character. And just as it took a bunch of Brits to convince a broad American audience that blues and soul music should be granted serious artistic respect, so it took a bunch of French guys to turn the tide for Hollywood movies. In the '60s, critics and aesthetes in the U.S. ignored American movies, exclaiming, "Godard! Truffaut! Rohmer!" while Godard and Truffaut and Rohmer were shouting, "No, no! You've got it all wrong! Hitchcock! Sam Fuller! Frank Tashlin!"
When Robin Wood decided to write an entire book on Hitchcock in 1965, he was greeted with disbelief. Had anyone suggested that there would someday be whole shelves of books on Hitchcock, he or she would have been considered mad. But Wood's wonderful volume -- the seminal analysis of Hitchcock -- and Truffaut's book-length interview with the director constituted the one-two punch that turned Hitchcock's reputation around.
A snobbery similar to that of the '60s critics affects the ranking within Hitchcock's oeuvre, although here it's not merely an issue of commercial success. After all, Psycho was by far his biggest hit when first released; and it's Vertigo's number one rival in the Hitchcock critical pantheon. But Rear Window -- the sixth-highest-grossing Hitchcock film -- wasn't merely a big hit; it was (and still is) frothy fun, in a way that the creepy Psycho and Vertigo aren't. Like North by Northwest, it has been penalized for being too enjoyable, as though that somehow makes it seem less serious. Yet neither Rear Window nor North by Northwest is any less profound or important than those others.
In fact Rear Window has spawned a whole series of high-art imitators, including Antonioni's Blowup, Coppola's The Conversation, and De Palma's (not-quite-so-high-art) Blow Out. It's not surprising that none of these is as much pure fun; but more to the point, none of them adds any greater depth or insight to the issues they commonly address.
For those of you who have never seen Rear Window -- and I envy you the thrill of seeing it for the first time -- the film stars Jimmy Stewart as L.B. "Jeff" Jefferies, a globetrotting action photographer who, while waiting for a broken leg to mend, is going stir-crazy in his small, second-story Greenwich Village apartment. He kills time by gazing through the large window that opens out over a rear courtyard.
Jefferies is able to look into a dozen other apartments and observe their occupants, who become stylized characters in an ongoing soap opera in his mind. In the absence of TV, the courtyard makes a dandy distraction. (It's vaguely absurd that in 1954, during a prolonged recuperation, someone who could afford to wouldn't rent, buy, or at least borrow a TV. But then there would have been no story.)
At first his snooping seems a harmless diversion. But the two women in his life -- his crusty nurse, Stella (Thelma Ritter), and his girlfriend, Lisa (Grace Kelly) -- find it unwholesome, if not downright perverted. Their misgivings are borne out when Jeff gets really obsessed.
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