Capsule Reviews: A Perfect Getaway, Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?, Marnie

A Perfect Getaway (David Twohy, 2009)

David Twohy's A Perfect Getaway is a lean, juicy thriller with a twist so good that not even an hour's worth of teasing it saps its effect. "Nothing bad ever happens in Hawaii, right?" says one character during the film's placid opening, though even then his voice betrays doubt, and Twohy's sweeping panoramas of lush forests and beaches communicate remoteness and isolation as much as postcard-ready beauty. Steady long takes let the murmurs of a double murder on a neighboring island sink into the frame visually, casting shadows on its small but dynamic cast of newlyweds and lovers who come to fear for their safety. The actors do their part too, with Steve Zahn's nervously darting eyes suggesting first humorous discomfort, then mounting dread, and Milla Jovovich getting the best opportunity outside one of her husband's films to show off her enigmatic poker face reactions. Perhaps best of all is Timothy Olyphant, almost endearingly arrogant as a "man in full" (as his girlfriend calls him) When the other shoe drops, Twohy's stately, patient direction obviously shifts into a higher gear, but this only shows off other facets of his skill. A chase through the forest is subtly propelled further by comic-panel-like screenwipes that elide over a few steps to give the sequence even more momentum. The final showdown manages to consolidate even the characters' relationships into its tense payoff. (A sidenote: stick with the streamlined theatrical version over the director's cut, which adds most of its extra time to a key flashback, nice and nasty in the original version but overlong in extended form).

Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? (Frank Tashlin, 1957)

My first Tashlin, though God knows why. This film plays like Amazon's "recommended for buyers of ____" feature for the entirety of my film-watching habits. From its deliriously cheeky credits, featuring both Tony Randall incompetently introducing the film and a host of leg-pulling fake ads, Tashlin wastes no time setting the frenzied tone of the farce. Tashlin's use of color and light makes artificial voids out of his sets, further emphasizing the mock construction of filmic images and how these false icons become social objectives for viewers encouraged to buy their way into a movie- and TV-approved lifestyle. As much peevish delight as Tashlin gets out of sending up advertisers, however, he also uses Rock Hunter to critique a society that gets its cues from advertising and pop culture, creating a Mobius strip of behavioral influence between pop and life that cheapens both. It ranks among the most pointed social commentaries of American life in the aftermath of World War II through the present, and even its lack of overt cynicism helps it embody the foolish, avaricious optimism that propels our self-image.

Marnie (Alfred Hitchcock, 1964)

Given Tippi Hedren's recent, public revelation of her torment at Hitchcock's hands, it is almost unsettling to consider that this film, taken with Hedren's other star turn in The Birds, contain some of the director's most rounded, sympathetic views of women. (Granted, this is saying nothing, but still.) Marnie privileges its female protagonist's perspective entirely, its flashes of humming red and shimmers of fake lightning, as Robin Wood once perceptively said, throwbacks to the director's early and formative exposure to German Expressionism. Admittedly, it's a shame Hitchcock did not have the faith in either his own talents (or, more likely, the audience's capacity to piece things together for themselves) to let these visuals speak for Marnie's mindset, but the mad, brilliant excesses of the film help keep the film moving where, say, Psycho grounds to a halt. From its early close-up on a purse made to look blatantly vaginal through the disturbing scene of marital rape between Sean Connery and Hedren, and its aforementioned cinematized explanation, this is one of the master's greatest films.

Notorious (Alfred Hitchcock, 1946)

I don't have anything to add to the long-running critical discussion for Notorious, one of Alfred Hitchcock's most beloved pictures, and one of the most thoroughly unpacked in narrative, thematic, and technical terms. But rewatching the film on its new Blu-Ray edition, I was struck by the film's subtlety, a word rarely thrown around when discussing Hitchcock, even by his admirers. Still, there's a delicateness to Notorious not normally seen in the master's work, visible not only in the nuanced performances submitted by the cast but also in the director's camerawork. Even the celebrated key scene, one of the definitive Hitchcock shots, is so playful and light that the tension it generates is even more effective because of its unexpectedness.

The plot itself is, like so many Hitchcock thrillers, at once needlessly convoluted and forcibly direct: Alicia Huberman (Ingrid Bergman), the disgraced but blameless daughter of a convicted Nazi spy, is recruited by the American government to help expose her father's cohorts hiding in Brazil. But the nature of her assignment casts a dark shadow over the proceedings from the start, adding shades of moral complexity that threaten to makes the Americans look as perverse and inhuman as the Nazis themselves. Further complicating this moral and political ambiguity is its primary framing around a romantic story, personifying each side prodding Alicia with a single, lustful man, both of whom, in separate but linked ways, nearly kill her with their love.

Hitchcock, known for his ice-queen roles for actresses, gives an inherent sympathy to Alicia from the start. Opening, after a hilariously, uselessly specific title card (complete with date and time), at her father's sentencing, Notorious instantly places the woman under such scrutiny that it's impossible not to feel sorry for her. Hitch's camera might as well be one of the reporter's shoved up in her face as newsmen launch a barrage of questions that she quickly escapes. Without knowing anything about the nature of the trial, the sudden, harsh focus on a disheveled Bergman is unseemly, and Hitch knows it.

This feeling of unease and seedy surveillance carries over into the next scene, a drink-to-forget party where Alicia boozes it up with pals. But there's a man with his back to the camera sitting in the foreground, looming over everything even when Alicia is standing in front him talking to another guest. The shadowy outline grows when the camera pushes in closer as all the guests seat themselves at roughly the same height, making this figure even more sinister and imposing. The camera finally pivots around to reveal Cary Grant, playing American agent T.R. Devlin. This is a hell of a way to introduce the ostensible hero of the story, and Grant wastes no time making his character every bit as vile as his visual introduction suggests. His clipped accent, which elsewhere made his comic timing all the funnier, makes his speech cold and cruel. When he finally strikes up a conversation with the well-intoxicated Alicia, his curtness is further emphasized against her light, slurred whispers.

This wasn't Grant's first time undermining his image for the director. His role in Suspicion was so dark that the studio mandated a softer ending. But his performance here is almost worse; at least in Suspicion, Grant essentially plays the villain. Here, he's a loyal American seeking to rout some Nazis who escaped justice, so why does he give off such an eerie vibe? He gets Alicia out of a drunk driving arrest by flashing an unseen badge like a threat, and when Alicia comes to in a hangover, Hitchcock uses a woozy POV shot craning up and back to follow Devlin menacingly approaching her. Devlin even plays on Alicia's patriotism to force her into joining him, playing her tapes of her bugged house that prove her devotion to her country over her family. But somehow Grant turns even this into something twisted, making her exoneration inexplicably feel like blackmail.

Grant and Bergman, so in control of their body language, communicate gulfs of conflicting emotions in these early scenes and beyond. Bergman's smile is weary and sad even at its most plastered, while Grant hides contempt and longing in equal measure behind his stoic gaze. He's so good at selectively revealing and suppressing these moods that it's as easy to buy Devlin's subsequent falling for Alicia as it is to instantly see him as a villain. Without the actors' fluid shifts in body acting and chemistry, in fact, the film falls apart almost instantly. The script moves too quickly and arbitrarily from this seedy introduction of Devlin and Alicia to the love that suddenly blossoms between them in Rio. Admittedly, they only seem to enter into a relationship to make the subsequent plot development emotionally affecting, but if sparks of mutual disgust and passion didn't fly between the leads, that twist wouldn't work.

But, they do, and it does. Hitchcock applies the same delicacy to the revelation of the mission, a grim shock to Devlin as much as Alicia, as he does for the couple's dawning romance. Devlin, unaware how he and Alicia will infiltrate the Nazi ring in Rio, is called in by his superiors and told what Alicia is meant to do in ambiguously unambiguous terms. Alicia knows one of the spies, Alex Sebastian (Claude Rains), and the agents want her to play on his love for her. Devlin's bosses lingually circle around Alicia's wild past, obviously unable to come right out and call her a whore because of Production Code limitations. The elision makes the revelation that much worse, making it obvious what these men want of Alicia but not outright stating it. Likewise, the horrible understanding that dawns on Grant's face, and the equally roundabout way he tries to gently dissuade this course of action to no avail, is made heartbreaking for his inability to come right out and refuse. But that infuriating group of people who like to maintain that the Hays Code somehow made movies better by forcing them to be clever should take note of how Hitchcock deftly links Devlin's superiors with the censors who make their speech so euphemistic, or at least the moral character of such people. Devlin's repugnant behavior toward Alicia can be explained on a personal level, his desire for her so strong that he initially (and later) engages in regular shaming of her to bury his feelings. But his bosses have no real connection to Alicia, no knowledge of her other than what they compiled into a portfolio, yet they still pass judgment. Their callous remarks lack the bite with which Grant infuses his own, but their clinical remove in dictating this woman be a whore because they think she is one is, in a way, worse than Devlin's grotesque exhibition of affection.

The rest of the film plays out mostly through facial expressions that convey suffocating air of personal betrayal. This can first be seen, obviously, in the next scene, where Devlin must explain to Alicia what it is she's meant to do for her country. The entire exchange is a masterclass of acting, Grant's verbal eggshell-walking utterly needless as Bergman's face flashes with understanding and pain the second Devlin asks if she remembers a fella named Sebastian. The couple then fragments as each looks to the other for a way out of this situation. Alicia asks Devlin if he stood up for her, and the briefest flicker of doubt and pain crosses Devlin's face as he sees an opening and then closes it out of duty. He will only say that the choice is hers. Alicia knows that it isn't, but Devlin needs her to agree so that he can hate her for her "decision" and bury his feelings again. Two people ruin their lives in a quest for self-absolution, and a perverse form of patriotism corrodes both of them. Hitchcock doesn't want for troubling scenes in his canon, but this one has always disturbed me most. It inverts the teasing sexual energy of their previous scene together, the famous Code-skirting kiss, the tantalizing back-and-forth of love played in reverse as the couple rends itself apart.

Even when the film finally gets down to its thriller side, the suspense operates less on the Nazis' scheme of smuggling uranium (an almost laughably undercooked MacGuffin) than it does upon the gnarled love triangle between Devlin, Alicia, and Alex. Rains' casting, one last imposition on the director by David O. Selznick, was a masterstroke. Though significantly older than his co-leads, Rains' Alex projects a youthfulness and vigor at odds with the aged-beyond-their-years weariness of Alicia and Devlin. Where Grant hides Devlin's desires under hostile remove, Rains displays Alex's longing upfront. When Alex sits down with Alicia after an orchestrated reunion, he bluntly speaks of "the old hunger" returning, and Rains' face is soft with affection. As creepy as his forthrightness is, it's also refreshing compared to Grant's frosty condemnation, and Alex immediately establishes himself as more sympathetic than Devlin.

Complicating Alex are two factors. First is his extreme (albeit ironically perceptive) jealousy, which leads him to quickly suspect Devlin and generates much of the film's tension. As Alicia and Devlin uncover more information about the Nazi circle to which he belongs, Alex carefully watches his lover and grills her over every encounter she has with the handsome American. The "key" scene, in which Alicia smuggles the key to Alex's mysteriously locked wine cellar to Devlin, is tense as much for the fear Alex will discover his new wife doesn't love him as it is he will discover she is an American agent.

The second factor working on Alex is his mother. Leopoldine Konstantin, a veteran German actress, plays Madame Sebastian with more calculating venom than any other Hitchcock mother. She combines the emotional honesty of her son with Devlin's superiority and disgust, unreservedly making her disapproval of Alicia clear from the start. An insight into what Norma Bates might have been in life, Alex's mother mocks her son for falling in love, and his response that she just doesn't want him to love anyone but her emerges weak and docile, as if he could not stop the thought from spilling out of his head and stepped outside himself in a moment of stunned terror as he said the words. And when Alex eventually discovers Alicia's ruse and rushes to tell his mother, Konstantin receives his vague mention of something being wrong with Alicia with a joy she does not bother to disguise. And this is just when she thinks the woman is cheating on her boy; upon hearing the whole truth, she instantly hatches a plan to deal with this problem without alerting her son's zero-tolerance colleagues to his foolishness. "We are protected by the enormity of your stupidity, for a time," she says, the closest thing she has to consolation for her child's shattered heart.

The final stretch compounds the layers of irony already at work on the film, with the audience learning of the plan to poison Alicia before she meets Devlin and receives her harshest tongue-lashing yet as he mistakes her sickness for a hangover and gloats over her falling off the wagon. Then, a worried outburst from both Alex and his mother when one of the other Nazis accidentally reaches for her coffee cup alerts Alicia to the truth of her illness as Devlin still mulls over the "drunken" sight of her at their last meeting. When he finally puts two and two together and moves to rescue her, the couple share a beautiful scene in which they finally speak to each other plainly about their feelings, placing the emotional content of the film on equal narrative footing to the thriller plot, which concludes right after with that chilling walk down the staircase as the Nazis silently, menacingly assemble in a manner not unlike the end of The Birds.

Compared to the technical and psychological grandiosity of so much of Hitchcock's greatest work, Notorious is almost a whisper. Indeed, this is a film where emotional outbursts are what seal people's fate, whether it be the German metallurgist exclaiming over a uranium-filled bottle accidentally brought upstairs or Alex begging as Devlin speeds away with Alicia. Hitchcock's direction is no less technically impressive, nor as deftly manipulative, as his other work, but he makes the rare concession to his dream cast by letting them convey what is happening as much as his insert shots and emphasizing zooms. Notorious is, therefore, at once one of the director's lightest and darkest works, quiet in its delivery but thunderous in its implications.

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This post was written for inclusion in the For the Love of Film Blogathon, which is raising money to restore Graham Cutt's The White Shadow, a film written and assistant-directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Yes, that Hitchcock. It is more than a worthy cause and I can only encourage you to donate by clicking on the image below:

Capsule Reviews: Platinum Blonde, The Mad Monk, The Lodger

Platinum Blonde (Frank Capra, 1931)

Now this is more like it. Capra gets it all together with a rip-snorting good time with newspaper idealism, dialogue you just wanna tap with a spoon and peel, and sentimentality that works instead of hinders. Robert Williams is more flirty than Jean Harlow (hilariously playing the straight role as the starched, bossy heiress), and the gender-reversed Pygmalion structure makes for some great comedy with the Eliza in this case being a properly snappy, streetwise paper hack. Not to mention, his gender makes for more interesting resistance to change, as Capra shows how a man reacts to being the less prominent member of a pair and the one actively being molded. Granted, it also encourages the audience to cheer when he demands chauvinistic things like his rich wife taking his name, but this is still a fascinating inversion at times. Also a delight is Louise Closser Hale as the aristocratic matriarch with her affected voice and constant, faint-headed outrage at scandal that truly no one with anything to do cares about. My distrust of Capra has always been balanced by my true admiration for him when he clicks, and this is Capra firing on all cylinders. Grade: A

The Mad Monk (Johnnie To, 1993)

A deliriously ludicrous comedy that has more fun with Eastern religion than an American genre film could ever hope to have with Christianity, The Mad Monk opens in a heaven where the head god has to deal with so many deities he doesn't recognize all of them and only gets odder from there. The Mad Monk tasks a prankster god with altering the life(s) paths of three archetypal individuals with only a trick fan for powers, leading to a whimsically ridiculous farce that To directs to a frenzy. Everything in this movie is funny; To even steps on an emotional death scene by having our Lo Han (played by Stephen Chow) burst into the wrong room (and an embarrassing bit of sexual play) as he hunts for his felled mark. With To's manic camera movement and cutting, inventively staged comic fight scenes and a climax that moves from a kaiju battle with a giant demon to a piss-take on pageantry with a heavenly promotion complete with tiara, The Mad Monk is a bewildering, side-hurting riot. Grade: B


The Lodger: A Story of the London Fog (Alfred Hitchcock, 1927)

This thrilling silent, Hitchcock's fifth feature, while still a bit stiff in the narrative department, shows Hitchcock's rapidly developing talent as a director and his seemingly innate control of the camera and the Expressionistic techniques he observed in Germany. It's somewhat amusing that he still finds a way to be expository in a silent film, using multiple news stories to get across developments in the murder mystery. A 'wrong man' narrative involving murdered blondes, pained romances and the suggestion that a slit throat might always be just around the corner, this almost feels like a preemptive tribute to Hitchcock than an early work. This is a fun showcase for a man whom one can tell even here would deserve the title of "master" thrust upon him, from the use of a glass floor for Hitchcock to stick a camera under to a perfectly framed shot looking straight down a staircase as a man obscured by angle and his black clothes runs down the stairs with his sliding hand as the chief guide to his position. A real treat. Grade: A-

Under Capricorn (Alfred Hitchcock, 1949)

Today, many attribute the box office failure of Alfred Hitchcock's 1949 opus Under Capricorn to it not being a thriller. That, obviously, is true, but the stiff-upper-lipped love triangle is nevertheless mysterious. Set in colonial Australia, Under Capricorn moves through a world of ex-convicts, where people cut off any attempt to suss out the crimes that sent other people there, lest someone eventually come question them, too. And because the characters must sit in isolation of each other, gestures of concern and caring get interpreted as secretive, self-serving actions, while manipulative ones are dismissed as nurturing.

Though it opens with a series of largely static, talky takes, Under Capricorn rapidly establishes itself as not only a Hitchcock film but one of his most immediately identifiable. The long-take structure he used as an ingenious formal experiment in Rope is here subsumed into a florid melodrama, constantly emphasizes the freedom and restrictions of movement within the tucked-away, Gothic house where most of the action takes place and embodying the stiff mannerisms of the strict, willfully oblivious social codes that dictate behavior among the characters.

The initial stiffness of the camera matches the ostentatious decorum new governor's arrival, an occasion he treats with all the pomp and circumstance of the position but the general population views with disinterest. The action shifts to the governor's cousin, Charles Adare (Michael Wilding), a brash young man who clearly shares more with the more laid-back Australian colonists than his uncle's stuffy ways. He soon learns of the locals' reticence to discuss private matters, even when he learns he has an acquaintance on the continent. Sam Flusky (Joseph Cotten), an ex-con turned thriving businessman, meets Charles and, in the process of courting the governor's cousin for business reasons, learns that the Irish lad knew his wife, Henrietta (Ingrid Bergman), a woman who has fallen into debilitating alcoholism. Looking to cheer her up and perhaps snap her out of her insular stupor, Sam invites Charles to his house.

What follows is a rigidly controlled melodrama that intertwines Hitchcock's sense of cold mastery with the bottlenecked passion of restrained emotion. Ingrid Bergman's entrance instantly shifts the mood of the film, her elegant entrance belying the swirling agony rolling off her in waves. The dry period construction remains, but suddenly Hitchcock begins delving into it with his graceful long takes and clever framing. When Henrietta sits down, clearly drunk to the point of incoherence, Hitchcock frames her between two lit candles, illuminating her and visualizing the burning moods within her. When Hitch reverses to show Cotten, farther away, the look of barely hidden agony and shame on his face gives those flames an entirely different meaning, far more somber and wasting. Cotten looks consumed by grief from the moment Bergman enters the screen, and as that pain finally morphs into frustrated fury as his wife does not return to him. Worse still, the tether Charles provides to happier times draws Henrietta closer to the newcomer as Sam finds himself forced to choose between his wife's happiness and his own.

Hitchcock slyly incorporates some of his more usual tropes into this drama: when Charles arrives at the Flusky home, no one answers the front door, so he roams around the side as the camera tracks in one take, stopping at a window and looking in as the maids viciously fight over accusations of their criminal pasts. Effectively, Hitch gets to have his voyeuristic moment (spying on a catfight, no less) even while the movie is still locked in its more starched initial mode. Echoing Rebecca, a dark secret tugs at this married couple, and a deranged, jealous maid (here played to marvelously sinister effect by Margaret Leighton) who pretends to help the wife but has her ulterior motives. The house itself looks, on the outside, like a Hanover version of some Gothic castle on a barren Transylvanian hill, a mood Hitchcock would later mine for the family home overlooking the Bates motel.

These are not plot elements Hitchcock shies away from, and he even emphasizes the sinister air in the climax when he uses chiaroscuro lighting for the reveal of the reason for Henrietta's self-medicated sorrow. Yet Hitchcock channels all of this into the emotions of the story, which only become more rending as the movie progresses. When Henrietta comes clean to Charles, the camera stays back to look at her over Charles' shoulder, not only avoiding the cheap impact of a close-up monologue but letting us see her in terms of how the characters' perception of her shifts with the confession. After demonstrating that his capacity for manipulating audiences could be used in much more heartrending terms with his masterpiece Notorious, Hitchcock softens the savagery if not the sadness. And by showing Charles in the frame as Bergman has her deflated monologue, he reminds the audience that everything in this film, its secrets, revelations and emotional fulfillment, is secondary to the manner a person is perceived by others, and that even with someone she loves, Henrietta will never have the freedom of expressing something without being judged for it.

Under Capricorn reminded me of Martin Scorsese's The Age of Innocence, in that a break in typical setting and subject matter for a director known for technical wizardry and active camerawork ultimately provides a different context that, if anything, clarifies key themes and stylistic tics. If Scorsese's film brought out his usual ideas of characters driven in spite of themselves to deprive themselves of happiness and calm, Hitchcock re-frames a mystery around a sense of proprietary confinement. A sense of doom hangs over the final act, not so much regarding the question of whether Milly will be able to get Sam for herself but the matter of the governor's response to admissions that clear some and incriminate others. The official's disgust over the whole thing suggests that whether the characters get themselves off with the truth or falsification, he merely wants them out of his social sphere where he need not dwell upon such distasteful matters. The steps he takes to ensure he does not have to hear anything more on the matter are not shocking, merely heartbreaking in their coldness and adherence to insipid appearances over human effect. For a director so often criticized for his own emotional remove, Under Capricorn almost seems like autocritique even as it utilizes Hitchcock's style to craft one of his cruelest, in terms of the connection one makes to the characters and the hope that engenders to see a happy ending. One of the finest examples of the master's genius.

Shadow of a Doubt (Alfred Hitchcock, 1943)

The theme of duality runs indirectly through many Hitchcock films, with the ironic alignment of two individuals in his wrong-man thrillers and the fetished quasi-double (who is really just one person period) in Vertigo. In films such as Strangers on a Train and Psycho, however, that theme has come more prominently to the fore, examined in moral terms in the former and ludicrously psychosexual in the latter. Shadow of a Doubt, Hitch's 1943 thriller widely considered his first masterpiece, is the director's purest exploration into this minor theme. Featuring matched action and edits, suggestive character unity and clashing moralities, Shadow of a Doubt is one of the director's more immediately guessable mysteries even as it is one of his most surprising pictures.

Hitchcock establishes his darker tone instantly, opening on shots of urban decay in Philadelphia. And when his camera makes its way to a neighborhood where kids innocently play ball in the streets, the camera suddenly moves in a series of dissolves and low-angle Dutch shots upward into the no. 13 building nearby, finally moving inside an apartment where Charlie Oakley (Joseph Cotten), going by an alias, lies on his bed with liquor and money casually placed on the bed table. Cotten looks like a vampire, an image strengthened when the landlady arrives and closes his blinds, the darkness cause the man to rise with a jolt. The woman acts like a chiding mother, lovingly cleaning up the place and speaking to him sweetly without picking up on the harshness of his answering tone or properly paying attention to the implications of his littered alcohol and cash. She notes that two men came by looking for him earlier, and when she leaves, Charlie downs his last bit of whiskey and flees. Hitchcock was the master of paranoia, and the speed with which he undermines any expectation gives Shadow an edge that clearly announces the second stage of his career.

Shortly after this opening, Hitchcock begins mirroring shots and characters. Looking for a place to hide away, Charlie sends word to his family in Santa Rosa, California, and Hitchcock moves to that house using the same nearing dissolves to move inside the Newton home. Inside, he makes his way to the bedroom of Charlotte (Teresa Wright), who also goes by the name Charlie. Her introduction roughly matches her namesake uncle's, but some details reverse in the reflection. Where the landlady made a matronly figure, the well-meaning fool speaking to Young Charlie is her father, and where Uncle Charlie lounged in loose bills of cash, Young Charlie speaks of matters of the soul.

This is but the first example of doubling and reflection, and soon the film suggests an outright psychic link between Young and Uncle Charlie when the girl's sudden thoughts about her uncle and her subsequent discovery of a telegram saying he will be coming to visit. Wright, who never looked more innocent, greets her uncle's arrival with pure elation, oblivious to just how sinister, angular and harsh Cotten's leering Uncle Charlie looks to her sweet, giddy energy. The contrast is so marked as to be perverse, which is exactly what Hitchcock wants. Where Young Charlie sees her oneness with her uncle as a charming example of spiritual fulfillment, both Cotten and Hitchcock depict Uncle Charlie as desiring a oneness of a more physical kind. When the uncle arrives, the father superstitiously asks him not to throw his hat on the bed, but Uncle Charlie barely waits for his brother-in-law to leave the room before chucking it on his niece's mattress. It's not only a moment of defiance and deliberate antagonism, it has the feel of a predator marking one's territory.

Though Hitchcock had been in America since 1940's Rebecca and Foreign Correspondent, but Shadow of a Doubt feels like his first resolutely "American" film, the first time the national backdrop became part of the story and part of the psychological framework of the themes. Undoubtedly, the director owed this to Thorton Wilder, that master of small-town America who wrote the film's original script. Of course, this being Hitchcock, Wilder's gift for finely observed portraits give way to rigid types that play with American clichés. This is quaint, small-town Americana, a place where the people are neither gibbering yokels nor refined intellectuals; the townsfolk are generally simple, a bit ignorant and if they do not seem as fresh-faced as Wright, that is only because Wright's radiance outshines all.

By setting up Santa Rosa as typical Americana, Hitchcock makes Uncle Charlie's arrival all the more unsettling. Cotten's vampiric shadow hangs over this movie, rage erupting behind his cold exterior in his attempts to keep his true identity from his family. Even Young Charlie cannot maintain her enthusiasm when her uncle shames her father at the bank where he works, loudly joking about embezzlement as co-workers begin to eye the hapless Joseph. When the two ostensible reporters make their way from Philadelphia to continue investigating Charlie, his niece must confront the truth of his character, a revelation long ago figured out by the audience. Her understanding allows the film to travel in even darker directions, such as a centerpiece scene of Cotten freezing over in cold fury at a dinner where he goes off on a calm but forceful rant about rich widows, his measured tone not even remotely masking the sadism of his words.

It's important to note that Hitchcock does not particularly structure this film as a mystery; Uncle Charlie's identity as the Merry Widow Murderer is obvious as soon as we learn that a serial killer is on the loose, and Cotten does nothing to disguise Charlie's true self. Instead, Hitchcock uses his clear evil as a bouncing-off point for his aesthetic duality. Hitch juxtaposes innocent with perverse, humble with arrogant, plain with preening. Wright's radiance illuminates even her low-lit scenes, while Cotten casts all into shadow. Hitchcock was always evoked emotion with ruthlessness, and the manner in which he upends Young Charlie's world is heartbreaking in its cruelty: the poor girl is so flabbergasted to see that her unity with her uncle is one of horrifically diametric opposites that she almost cannot see how Jack, the detective pursuing the killer, forms a reflection of her goodness, not its inverse like Uncle Charlie. Of course, it also wouldn't be a Hitchcock film without jokes, and the director here delights in gags involving twos. The best of which, surely, is the scene inside the 'Till Two club where doubles are ordered.

When the two detectives posing as reporters come to Santa Rosa, they con their way into the house by saying they want to do a story on a typical American family, to which the mother, Emma, ironically replies that she doesn't think they're typical. Yet the suggestion under Hitch's use of broad types and unforgiving humanity is that the twisted, Freudian incest of this family and the seedy elements lurking under pre-fab suburban cleanliness and conformity is common to all such towns. Hitchcock would only delve further into such perverse, paranoid matters after the war ended, but Shadow of a Doubt is not only his first major consolidation of such issues but one of his best. It shows a director in complete control of his look and tone; no wonder, then, that his trademark cameo in this feature is a shot of him at a bridge table literally holding all of the cards.