“Vertigo,” considered director Alfred Hitchcock’s masterpiece by many cineastes, turns 50 today.
The landmark film, which stars Jimmy Stewart, Kim Novak and Barbara Bel Geddes, hit U.S. screens on May 9, 1958.
I discovered this mystery about a man with a fear of heights who unwittingly falls in love while being entangled in an elaborate murder scheme on VHS in about 1986, just after Universal put it back in circulation. It and four other Hitchcock pictures had been unshown for 20 years, but this was all beyond my information realm at the time. I was 9 and just realizing that Hitchcock had done more than host suspense anthology “The Alfred Hitchcock Hour” (which the earlier “Alfred Hitchock Presents” had morphed into), reruns of which I’d become addicted to on Saturday nights on cable’s USA Network. Watching “Vertigo” late one night with my parents I found it strangely terrifying. Seems a bit odd now — unlike “Psycho,” “Vertigo” has no blood, spooky old house, maniac on the loose or mummified discoveries in the cellar. Even then I couldn’t quite pinpoint why “Vertigo” had disturbed me, but then neither can I quite explain now why I keep returning to it.
Why do I have spiral sketches from Saul Bass’s masterful credit sequence and a still of the Portrait of Carlotta on my desk? I’m certainly not frightened by “Vertigo” and yet that initial viewing turned out to be life altering.
“Vertigo” haunted me the same way Catholic Church imagery haunted me as a child — 17th and 18th Century art, large churches and foreboding graveyards, plus deserted missions whose only inhabitants seem to be grim reaper nuns who appear like phantoms out of nowhere. Bernard Herrmann’s brilliant score clearly upped the emotional ante.
So much of that initial experience seems absurd now. “Vertigo’s” initial theme (which — plot spoilers ahead — turns out to be an elaborate hoax) of a woman who’s possessed by the spirit of her great-grandmother struck my fundamentalist Christian parents as a smidge too close to demonic possession territory and there was talk of ejecting it.
Thankfully wisdom prevailed and we continued (to this day, I can picture where we were sitting in the room and my parents’ comments when it was over. My father’s knee-jerk take: “[Stewart] kinda got the raw end of the deal” — an understatement for the ages).
Eventually we got a second VCR, so I re-rented it and dubbed an illegal copy showing it to friends (videotapes were ridiculously expensive in those days — now you can’t give them away). My puberty-era pals seemed to regard it as an interesting-enough murder mystery, but little more.
I’d fully grasped the plot twists on first viewing but was always curious to gauge my friends’ reaction to the flashback scene in which Stewart’s character discovers it wasn’t Kim Novak’s character who went plunging out the window of the mission tower at San Juan Batista. Childhood pal David’s first thought was that Elster had thrown a dummy. When my ex-boyfriend Brent saw Judy slipping into flashback mode his first thought was that Scottie’s vertigo was somehow contagious and Judy had caught it. I didn’t know anyone, though, who seemed to be as fascinated by the movie as I was (Brent, to this day, hates it — it’s his least-favorite Hitchcock by far).
I ended up writing papers on it in college. I analyzed the dream sequence for a class on cultural semiotics. Herrmann’s score provided fodder for a music history class analysis. Naturally I was beside myself with euphoria in 1996 when I learned cinematic saviors Robert Harris and James Katz had painstakingly restored the film, the original negative of which had deteriorated substantially. Setting my emotional attachment aside, I realize it’s a curious little picture. Who would concoct as elaborate a ruse as Gavin Elster (Tom Helmore) to murder his wife?
It seems about as plausible as George and Martha’s wildly improbable deal to pretend they have a son and carry on as if he’s a real person in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.” As with Elster’s murder plan, this is ludicrously absurd.
And the only plausible explanation for what many have pointed to as a “Vertigo” plot hole, is that Ellen Corby’s hotel owner is in on the plan with Elster and Judy and plays along by telling Scottie that “Madeline,” who rents a room from her, hasn’t been in that day. What did Elster tell the owner? That it was a practical joke? A real gas, eh?
“Vertigo,” clearly, is not a movie whose power is evoked through plausibility. In fact, its utter improbability, along with its misty San Francisco landscapes, undoubtedly adds to its dreamy aesthetic, for that’s what “Vertigo” ultimately is — a dream that occasionally slips into nightmare mode. More literally, it’s a dream because it’s that rarest of films — a project where all the pistons fired and every element not only worked individually but coalesced into something greater than the sum of its parts.
Stewart’s performance showed he could do more than the gosh-golly-shucks routine. If Kim Novak’s scenes as Madeline seem limited, compare them to how natural she is as Judy and consider how awkward a gal like Judy (a shop girl, not an actress) would feel having to pretend to be someone she’d never met. It would be a hideously uncomfortable situation, having to ramble on to Scottie about elaborate phony trance experiences sketched out in precise detail by Elster.
And is there a finer character actress than the late Barbara Bel Geddes (I’d loved her previously as “Dallas’” Miss Ellie)? Her Midge gives “Vertigo” its only comic relief and yet the scene in which she walks out of the sanitarium — Hitchcock holds the shot almost perversely long — is heartbreakingly sad. Perhaps we gay men relate to Midge so well because we’ve all been in her shoes — pining away, at some point (more often than I’d care to admit), for a man we know we can never have (either because he’s straight or gay but just not feeling it for us). And if we don’t relate to Midge, we at least understand her. Though Scottie’s unequivocally straight (even in San Francisco!), she furnishes him with a sort of fag hag/gal pal, an unequivocal part of the gay experience.
But …. I’ve digressed.
Perhaps my “Vertigo” fixation, as with any obsession, is impossible to fully explain. As with Scottie’s obsession with Madeline, it just is.
Joey DiGuglielmo considers the phenomenon of the Hitchcock blonde here.
Just this week, Pennsylvania killed an amendment that would ban gay marriage. Now, Gov. Ed Rendell will march in a Pride parade in New Hope on May 17.
"The parade and the entire weekend showcase New Hope and our diverse community," said Louis Licitra, Chair of New Hope Celebrates Pride 2008, in a press release. "It is fast becoming an annual New Hope tradition which highlights our varied history and our commitment to the future as a gay-friendly destination."
"The Governor has been an outspoken advocate for gay rights and is famous for his midnight visits to gay and lesbian bars during political campaigns for himself and other candidates. As the community often hears: 'The guv loves the gays!'" said Stephen Glassman, chair of the Pennsylvania Human Relations Commission.
I was alerted yesterday by Autumn Sandeen at Pam's House Blend of Verizon's vote to not amend the company's equal employment policy to include gender identity and expression.
"A shareholder proposal to amend Verizon Communications Inc.'s written
equal employment policy to explicitly prohibit discrimination based on
gender identity was voted down May 1, but backers of the plan say they
were encouraged by the amount of support it got, and the group that
proposed the resolution will bring it back next year."
The twist is that Verizon's gay resource group, GLOBE, supports the board's decision, which obviously angers Autumn.
However, on the Human Rights Campaign's blog (remember, the organization has come under a lot of criticism and protest for support a non-inclusive ENDA), they have a different take on the ruling, which a headline that says: "Despite setback, Verizon shareholders begin process of adding transgender employment protections."
A proposed measure that maybe had enough support to get a vote next year is NOT progress, HRC!
More from the story: "
In an April 15 letter to Verizon Chairman and CEO Evan
Seidenberg, HRC President Joe Solmonese remarked the company had been a
vocal leader on LGBT equality in the workplace and expressed 'surprise
and disappointment' with the board's decision to oppose the resolution.
He warned of the company's score being lowered in HRC's index."
The company said they would keep the dialogue open with HRC. The trans community has already been kept waiting for way too long, guys; don't deliver another slap in the face by noting "progress" where there isn't any.
In my unplanned (and perhaps even unconscious) attempt to be a flaming gay stereotype, I am obsessed with Martha Stewart.
I've subscribed to the magazine (until the last couple of years as a gift from one of my lovely grandmothers, who's sadly died) for years, and I keep all of them, going through back issues each month to remind myself of all the things I could do in their seasonally appropriate time slot.
I have a number of her books, including a wonderful out-of-print cookbook on pies and tarts from the '80s (when old-school Martha would whip up a tart for her and her husband while they were doing taxes on a snowy day at their farm in Westport).
I even have undertaken a craft project of making a wreath covered with fresh cranberries (actually, I've done it twice.)
Anyway, my latest insanity has taken the form of reading Martha's daily blog.
What could be better than getting a daily dose of Martha-mania with pictures of her French Bulldogs, Francesca (the black one) and Sharkey (the fawn-colored friend)? (Sadly, her 13 year-old Chow Chow, named Paw Paw, died in the last month. I sent her a conciliatory comment during that day's post.)
Yesterday's post was all about what to name the miniature Hereford cattle she's babysitting for a friend, and there was even a vote involved (I went for Isabel and Ferdinand, a perfect match, I think).
My actual love of all-things-Martha goes slightly beyond just fetishization. I really believe in what she's created. It wasn't until I dove into her empire that I started to understand the term "domestic arts."
There really is an art to making a home a place of refuge, peace, joy, love, warmth and beauty, and more often than not in our harried world, we don't allow time for that.
I take perverse delight in making my own puff pastry and having brioche dough in the freezer at-the-ready for a Sunday morning breakfast.
Pulling a jar of blackberry bay-leaf preserves (Martha recipe) out of my pantry to spread on homemade waffles brings me (and my husband) endless delight.
And what homo wouldn't love creating a wreath of fake roses, spray-painted black as a campy and fab Halloween decoration? (That wreath is still in my closet with the rest of the Halloween décor.)
As a sneak peek this week, in Dish there's going to be a bit about Rosie O'Donnell asking Martha what she most missed in prison, and Martha, while in the detention center, replied "The flavor of lemon."
Now, that is a true gay diva. To hell with the family, friends, and freedom. And knowing Martha's love for lemon-flavoring (especially Meyer lemons), this answer made perfect sense to me.
Some might criticize her for taking things a bit too far (and that August 2005 Vanity Fair cover article on her which intimated that she never let her horses see sunlight so their coloring would match her overall palate at the new home didn't help), but I say why shouldn't she strive to achieve the very best? Why plant 20 daffodil bulbs when, over a period of years, you could plant thousands? (This year's April issue.)
Perhaps my favorite April issue was after she returned from prison, and she graced the cover. Spring had returned, and like a goddess ascending from the underworld, she was up with the flowers and ready to expand her empire beyond anyone's wildest imaginings.
I've already planned that when Martha moves on to become a beloved ancestor (hopefully, many, many, many years from now), I'll give her one year and then I'm creating a shrine to her.
Some might call me sad, twisted or even desperately sick, but to that, I raise my glass of homemade wine crafted from grapes I grew myself and nourished with my own compost and say, "It's a good thing."
At a Blade staff meeting today, someone made a passing reference to Alexis (it’s a gay paper, such references aren’t uncommon in open meetings here).
To my astonishment, two 20-something staff members reacted with blank stares.
“Alexis? Who’s Alexis?” one otherwise respected and intrepid reporter responded.
Thank God for YouTube. For our 20-something readers unfamiliar with “Dynasty,” the essence of Alexis is but a click away. For our older readers, here’s a shock: That infamous scene of Alexis and Krystal fighting in a pool aired 25 years ago.
Damn I feel old.
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