Man with mismatched socks falling from train. The AI still hasn't got the hang of tracks.

The snow is piling up outside. You have two choices: go to bed (bad idea: you'll be up all night), or watch a film. Luckily somebody on Twitter has recommended Shadow of a Doubt, a film from 1943. It's been selected for preservation by the Library of Congress, always a good sign, and it's available to watch free on Youtube, so the price is right. You reach for the snack food.

Of course, the reason for the decision isn't the director. You've never trusted Hitchcock – not since Strangers on a Train, anyway. Strangers on a Train is the second-longest film in existence: second only to The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, which took longer than the First World War and had far too many closeups of Rudolph Valentino trying his best to gaze in deep thought and managing to look merely annoyed. Strangers on a Train didn't have any horses in it, either. The attempt to make eyeglasses seem menacing was just dumb, and that scene with the carousel. . .let's say that laughter can be healing. But you will never forgive Hitchcock for that movie. It will remain in your mind as the benchmark by which all crimes of filmmaking are judged.

Hitchcock's other 'classics' aren't much better, even if they don't sink to Strangers on a Train level. That silly thing with Mount Rushmore. Cary Grant trying to be sinister on a staircase. Cary Grant being rude to Ingrid Bergman. Oh, and one mustn't forget that comic masterpiece, The Birds. You saw that one in college, remember? Remember how all your fellow biology students chortled at the idea of pigeons menacingly pecking at the cowering cast? And you were privately rooting for the avian actors?

You've long ago given up on the idea of Hitchcock as anything more than a man with a fetish for torturing blondes filmically. His films are merely irritating, on the whole. But this one was written by Thornton Wilder.

Thornton Wilder, the great American playwright. Author of Our Town and the brilliant By the Skin of Our Teeth. Author of the awesome novella The Bridge of San Luis Rey. Thornton Wilder, whose keen insights into the human condition continue to inspire. Has he seriously stooped to aiding and abetting the adolescent morbidity of Alfred 'Blonde-Hater' Hitchcock?

In a word, no. You notice right away with enormous satisfaction that the star of the film is Theresa Wright, not a blonde. Ms Wright is more than capable of holding her own, and in this film, she does. She's a Thornton Wilder heroine, not a Hitchcock victim. Sure, she's a little romantic – she's a teenager, and all – with a tendency to put a rosy glow on things. But when push comes to shove, which it does, she's up to the challenge.

Short plot summary: Charlotte 'Charlie' Newton and her family live in charming Santa Rosa, California. Charlie is thrilled that her mother's younger brother, Charles, for whom she was named, is finally going to visit and liven things up. She feels that her mother deserves happiness: after all, her mother is selfless and tireless in providing support and comfort for everyone else. Charlie is a situation-fixer.

Little does Charlie know that the only reason her handsome uncle (Joseph Cotten) has turned up is that he's running from the law. You see, he's an unhinged, misogynistic serial killer who has it in for rich widows. But she starts to suspect something is up when he tears up the local paper on the flimsy excuse that he's entertaining the smaller children (who aren't entertained). And then there's this weird speech at dinner:

The cities are full of women, middle-aged widows, husbands dead, husbands who've spent their lives making fortunes, working and working. And then they die and leave their money to their wives, their silly wives. And what do the wives do, these useless women? You see them in the hotels, the best hotels, every day by the thousands, drinking their money, eating their money, losing the money at bridge, playing all day and all night, smelling of money, proud of their jewelry but of nothing else, horrible, faded, fat, greedy women.

Whew, projecting much?

Needless to say, things get creepy after that. But you've got to hand it to Charlie: she's full of Thornton Wilder pluck, willing to face up to reality, no matter how rough it gets. And no matter how many spooky shadows Hitchcock manages to throw over Santa Rosa.

You luck up and find a 'making of' documentary by some Frenchman. Hitchcock's daughter says gleefully that her dad was eager to bring his special brand of menace into small-town America. Good thing they didn't say that to the Santa Rosans. Practically the whole film was made on location because of wartime restrictions on set-building. The locals were polite, cheerful, and helpful. They even found that wonderful child, Edna May Wonacott, all of 11 years old and smart as paint, to play Charlie's wise-and-nerdy little sister. She stole the show.

You push the slider back and forth to locate the rotund director. There he is: sitting in the train playing gin. He's got a ridiculously perfect winning hand. You'd never know he's just learned to play the game – they had a tournament going on location. Apparently, a good time was had by all. You wouldn't have known there was a war on, would you?

Allegedly, Hitchcock regarded this film as his best. You agree wholeheartedly. See? That's what comes of working with a great script by a great playwright – one who didn't need any old Bechdel Test to know that women characters can have agency and solve their own problems without the help of MacDonald Carey. Even if they have to push a relative off a train.

You resolve to share this film on h2g2. Just in case someone else is tired of superheroes.

Dmitri Gheorgheni

22.01.24 Front Page

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