"Give them pleasure-the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare."
-The Master of Suspense
"Twilight has set in on another beautiful summer day. For some, it brings feelings of joy. For others, melancholy, but for me, boredom. Soon I won't be able to snoop on anyone. You'd be surprised just how many people leave their blinds open all day and don't think anyone is watching. Hey, two weeks of pizza's and Netflix will drive anyone to voyeurism...I mean, neighborhood watching. Okay, let me explain, I broke my leg a month ago and now I'm attached to this wheelchair; my ex-girlfriend would be surprised to see such a long term commitment, at least, other than my phone. After a long day of net cruising, I spotted a sweet, refurbished Canon EOS Rebel on E-Bay for $250.00! Look, I'm usually a pretty sensible kinda guy who keeps a budget in mind, especially in my delicate state but one can only play so much Pitfall, send so many text and I absolutely refuse to call anybody; I'm handicapped, not dying. Plus, there's no more episodes of Orange Is The New Black. I needed some excitement. I had to have it. They say the first thing to go in cabin fever is the mind, or something like that."
"Looking through it now, the clarity at dusk is unreal. Right on schedule, the children duck and dodge through the sprinklers. Mr. and Mrs. Minivan transport their infantry back home. Mrs. Sandy, a wonderful, old widow who worries over me so, tends to her tomatoes one last time. She makes the best peach cobbler, I already inhaled the last plate she brought over. I'm becoming such a fatty. Well, one last pan of the neighborhood before lights out. I hope Eve's home, I'll make her feel sorry for me and come over, she's...oh, there's my next door neighbor. All business tonight, no waves. He's not really interesting, he's a bit of a mama's boy. Since the accident he sees it as an invitation to act neighborly. I can never remember his name...Charlie, maybe? I don't know, some plain name. He closes the blinds, he's probably stuffing a bird. Yeah, the guy talks about only two things, his mom and stuffing birds. Real Ted Bundy type stuff. Though he's never closed his blinds to do that...okay, nothing to see. He's definitely a lonely heart, he figures I am too since we're both bachelors, but I'm known to have a guest or two or four. Man, I need to text Eve, where's my phone?"
"The only thing more sucky than having this anchor attached to my leg while taking a shower is placing this anchor inside of a plastic bag to take a shower...crap, I left my phone downstairs, I'll hobble to it later. I also left my camera laying on the bed. Like I said, the mind is the first thing to go. Just two and a half crutch assisted hops into the bedroom. Hmmm...Charlie's light's still on, maybe he's burning the midnight oil. I need a better look; alright, steady the camera, steady, zoom in...he's not so lonely after all, there's a woman on his bed. Wait, I shouldn't be watching...she's putting her hands up, they're taped together. It's like she's pleading...he's holding a knife in. He lifts it up; she hops up and plasters herself against the window. Her face red, eyes swelled with tears, her mouth wrapped in duct tape, her screams imprisoned. She bangs against the window...her eyes close and she slumps down toward the floor. He looks down at her...I can't believe...no, he looks at me. Where's my phone!?"
"It's downstairs, I have I to run, ahhhh! Right, broken leg, I gotta crawl now, I'm a huge idiot. What....no, he's pounding on the door. The alarm blares, he's stampeding up the steps. I have to hide, I need to get under the bed, come on crawl! He's stopped, he's upstairs; I feel his glare piercing into my back. He stomps over and drags me from under the bed. I claw the floor, reaching for the door threshold; he flings me into the bathroom, hot shower running behind me. I push myself back, my only option. My back hits the bathtub wall, he towers over me, holding a knife."
The ultimate nightmare scenario. For six decades, Alfred Hitchcock mined our subconscious fears and anxiety's for inspiration. For over fifty films, Alfred Hitchcock forced us into the role of voyeur; intriguing us with what we saw but at the same time, making us question our moral sensibilities. He was the architect of most techniques used in the film today. His considerable shadow looms over every frame of film produced. Psycho fathered Freddy, Jason, and Michael Myers; it grandfathered every horror/slasher film ever made. Every movie, T.V show and commercial now uses the vertigo effect. Through his cameos, interviews, trailers and television series, Alfred Hitchcock created film brand recognition: it's the reason Christopher Nolan, Steven Spielberg and execs at film franchise juggernaut Marvel can swim in bank vaults full of money. The strength of any thriller today is measured on whether it's Hitchcockian enough or not, which is an corroded, double-edged sword.
Like every buzzworthy, tall, athletic, shooting guard is compared to Michael Jordan, every new director who makes a great thriller or suspense film is christened a new Hitchcock disciple. Without any since of irony, professional wordsmiths like critics and prognosticators diminish words like "master" and "Hitchcock" and hand out laurels like little league trophies. Some directors (David Fincher) continue to produce great work in the face of such comparisons while others (M. Night Shyamalan, you knew it was coming) are declared his legitimate heir apparent only to be crushed under the crown's weight. Then, there are directors who are seen as only carbon copies until they make something original (Brian De Palma). Not that Hitchcock had a problem with plagiarism; heck, Hitchcock plagiarized himself, often re-shooting similar scenes from earlier films in later movies. He even remade an earlier British movie, The Man Who Knew Too Much twenty years later starring James Stewart.
In the end, his place on cinema's Mount Rushmore is undeniable but what about his indelible mark on our psyches? Who else can make us think twice before getting into the shower, welcoming a distant family member, or question a man's fondness of his mother? I tip my hat to you: The Master of Suspense, The Architect of Nightmares, Sir Alfred Hitchcock.
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