Vertigo has been my favorite film ever since I first saw it as an impressionable and woefully unprepared high-school student. I believe as a 17-year-old, I appreciated it much more for the visceral shock of the ending. Corny though it may sound, I still remember the physical jolt that went through my body when the camera cut to the nun’s silhouette at the film’s conclusion. I was stunned, to say the least, and I believe that Vertigo had a rather profound effect on my life practically speaking, as I for some time after that I dedicated myself to viewing other classic films. Up to that point, in my mind, films made before 1980 were black and white, dull, schmaltzy, and riddled with clichés. After that point, they became a treasure trove of undiscovered genius. I wish I could go back to that exact moment in my life, when I could physically feel myself changing thanks to Vertigo.
And therein lies my only (small) gripe with Vertigo. This is merely my personal experience, so take it or leave it, but I found my second viewing of Vertigo to be less fulfilling. I suppose it isn’t really possible to live up to the standards I devised for it after my first viewing, but so much excitement lies in the unraveling mystery that it is near impossible to have a more exciting second viewing after you know what is going to happen. Certainly there are subtleties which are just as enjoyable to discover on repeated viewings, but for me, nothing can top my initial experience with Vertigo. I know it is terribly clichéd, but I felt like I was riding a rollercoaster, literally and figuratively. In a literal sense, the almost voyeuristic tracking of James Stewart in his travels around the labyrinth-esque streets of San Francisco; and in a figurative sense, the constant “pulling of the rug” from beneath you through the development of the plot, of the “MacGuffin” as Dr. Campbell referred to in class. Like I said, this is a very minor complaint, and I believe that I do have more of an appreciation for the film’s complexities after multiple viewings. However, I do sometimes wish that I could go back and enjoy such a mystifying plot again for the first time.
But enough about me. Firstly, concerning the film, I believe a salient starting point is Jimmy Stewart himself, as he is probably the easiest entryway into analysis. I’ve often seen Stewart referred to as the “everyman” actor, and in my experience with his films, that has often been the case; he is cast as an affable and down to Earth sort of fellow to whom audiences can easily relate. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, It’s A Wonderful Life, and Harvey all point to this, and largely, his classic roles come while playing the “everyman”. Hitchcock’s daughter refers to this phenomenon specifically in the documentary “Obsessed With Vertigo”. She says, “I think Jimmy personified, for my father, everyman, so that when people went to see a picture, they could put themselves in Jimmy’s place. And especially in Vertigo, he wanted the audiences to identify with Jimmy, which is what everybody did.” This is crucial in understanding the purpose behind the film and Hitchcock’s own motivations. Vertigo is often referred to as Hitchcock’s most personal film, and while this is most likely true, the autobiographical qualities seem to be overshadowed by the universal themes of love, obsession, and death (which I will touch on in detail later). Comparing the juxtaposition of Ms. Hitchcock’s quote with the film itself actually yields some fairly intriguing, yet bizarre questions about Vertigo. Why would Hitchcock desire the said “everyman” effect from a film which does not lend itself to such an interpretation? This is not a light romantic comedy or family film which often attempts to relate to the viewer through its easy subject matter, but rather it is an intensely unsettling film about a deranged man stuck in the middle of an incredibly outlandish plot. My point is that Patricia Hitchcock’s quote about James Stewart being cast in the “everyman” role indicates the presence of a significant comment on mankind as a whole. The intent is not for viewers to leave the theater and say “you know, I really identified with that”, but rather to encourage a deep analysis of humankind’s darker tendencies. I don’t believe that an interpretation of this movie as deeply personal to Hitchcock is off base, as it has been discussed ad nauseam. I don’t, however, believe that it was Hitchcock’s intention for Vertigo to be an expression of his inner psyche. Perhaps it turned out that way, but the casting of Jimmy Stewart in the lead role leads one to believe that his intent was to look outward and thus into humankind itself; the film is not about Alfred Hitchcock. As a matter of fact, according to Stewart’s biography, it was widely believed that Vertigo bombed at the box office because he was too old for the role. Hitchcock took this to heart and never cast Stewart again. Stewart’s age may or may not have played into Vertigo’s failure profit-wise, but essentially, Hitchcock was willing to risk a significant drop in box office returns because he believed that Stewart was so essential to the success of the film. Stewart apparently desperately wanted the role of Roger Thornhill in North by Northwest, but it was given to Cary Grant because of Vertigo’s disappointing performance at the box office.
As I alluded to, appreciating Jimmy Stewart’s role as “everyman” is imperative in understanding Vertigo. This translates to the film’s comment on “man” as a whole, and relates quite nicely to Miriam Hansen’s essay “Pleasure, Ambivalence, Identification: Valentino and the Female Spectatorship.” Essential to this essay is the concept of the “gaze” in relation to male/female interaction. Hansen states, “The peculiar organization of the Valentinian gaze corresponds, on the level of narrative, to conflict between pleasure and the reality principle. Whenever the hero’s amorous interests collide with the standards of male social identity – career, family, paternal authority, or a vow of revenge – the spectator can hope that passion will triumph over pragmatism to the point of self-destruction. As the generating vortex of such narratives, the Valentinian gaze far exceeds its formal functions of providing diegetic coherence and continuity. It assumes an almost figural independence. Thus the films advance an identification with the gaze itself; not with either source or object, but with the gaze as an erotic medium which promises to transport the spectator out of the world of means and ends into the realm of passion.” While she is obviously speaking on Rudolph Valentino films, I believe that this quote has some relevance in speaking about Vertigo, especially a scene early in the film. I am speaking about the first scene in which John sees Madeline. As the shot dissolves from the exterior of Ernie’s restaurant to its interior, we see John Ferguson gazing towards some unknown spot, and he is literally about to be transported “out of the world of means and ends and into the realm of passion” as Hansen stated. He is surrounded by players in the usual workaday world; an elderly couple perhaps out on a date, a staid professional focused solely on his drink, but John seems to be intently focused on something more ethereal, something outside of himself. It is almost as he knows that he is in for something big. Stewart manages to convey all of this with his face; curiosity, apprehension, and perhaps even fear, and all of these elements combine to form a potent cocktail of foreshadow, if you will. Though Hansen is referring to the viewer of Valentino films in the above quote, John Ferguson is in a sense, about to view a film himself. This is where the logic and psychology of Vertigo (and this paper) becomes incredibly twisted and convoluted, and perhaps I’m totally off base on this, but I believe I’m onto something, so bear with me. The story that Gavin Elster tells John about Madeline’s possession by Carlotta Valdez is pure fiction, and thus, is in a sense, a film in and of itself. So when John “views” Madeline in the restaurant through his gaze, he is essentially watching a film from that point forward. His entire world is structured by the hand of Gavin Elster, who is the unseen driving force throughout the entire film, i.e. the director. John Ferguson is merely a viewer in this constructed world, and Madeline/Judy is the actress. Midge is readily available, but dull and too accessible, and thus representative of reality. John would rather reside in the “realm of passion” and hence, the falsely constructed world of film than in reality, as evidenced by his rejection of the earthy midge for the gorgeous and other-worldly Madeline. All of this begins with John’s first “viewing” of Madeline in Ernie’s restaurant.
The camera pans from John’s gaze across the interior of the restaurant, and we see the mostly elderly patrons who have crowded in. Perhaps the most obvious symbolic aspect of this scene is the wall. It is a lush red, and is meant to invoke all of the feelings that said color might arouse in a viewer (The viewer of the film and John in this case). According to the website http://www.color-wheel-pro.com/color-meaning.html, red is “The color of fire and blood, so it is associated with energy, war, danger, strength, power, determination as well as passion, desire, and love. Red is a very emotionally intense color. It enhances human metabolism, increases respiration rate, and raises blood pressure… in advertising, red is often used to evoke erotic feelings (red lips, red nails, red-light districts, ‘Lady in Red’, etc). Red is widely used to indicate danger (high voltage signs, traffic lights)…Dark red is associated with vigor, willpower, rage, anger, leadership, courage, longing, malice, and wrath.” As is obvious to anyone who has viewed Vertigo, many of the above adjectives figure prominently in any analysis, particularly “longing”, “erotic feelings”, and “wrath.” Clearly this symbolic gesture was no accident on Hitchcock’s part, and it is a perfect frame for John’s budding passion and obsession.
In the shot of the restaurant as a whole, the eye is immediately drawn to the table where Gavin and Madeline are sitting. She is wearing a long emerald dress which offsets the almost overwhelming redness of the walls and stands out against the comparative sea of conservative grays, blacks, and whites that the rest of the customers are clothed in. The camera zooms in slowly towards their table, and perhaps this is a case of hindsight, but their body language reads almost as a director schmoozing a young beautiful actress, which goes back to Vertigo being a “film within a film”. In any event they most certainly do not look like a married couple in the same vein as those around them; there is clearly something different about these two. There is a cut to John’s face, still gazing towards an unknown point, and then another quick cut to a mirror in which we see Madeline and Gavin, and we finally discover what John has been staring at. The camera cuts back to John’s face, then back to the mirror, then back to John’s face. At this point Madeline and Gavin are preparing to leave the restaurant, and the shot on John is tighter than it has been in since we first entered the scene. The symbolism of the mirror is fairly apparent. John is gazing at a reflection of Madeline; it is not actually her, and this points to the duality of her role. John is gazing at her reflection, but he is not actually seeing her. He is only seeing a representation of her. A reflection does not represent the reality of a person, as in their inner-thoughts, feelings, and whatever else makes them unique individuals. It merely represents their appearance. Ironically, all that John sees until he discovers the truth is a reflection of Madeline in Judy. Judy when playing the role of Madeline is not Madeline; she merely looks like her, and is hence, a reflection. The fact that John’s first glimpse of Judy/Madeline is in a mirror is an astonishing and subtle method of foreshadowing and symbolism. It should also be noted that upon the final tight shot on John’s face as he is gazing at Madeline/Judy, his eyes are the exact same color as her dress. This honestly blew my mind, as I just noticed it a few seconds ago when I was analyzing this scene. The labyrinth of symbolism in these few shots is almost beyond comprehension. John is gazing at a reflection of Judy, who is a reflection of Madeline, and thusly she reflects right back into his eyes, aka “the window to the soul.” The string of reflection is finally captured and put to a stop in John’s eyes. It is almost as though that moment is frozen for him and it becomes sort of an ideal, when Madeline was an unspoken beauty, and he finally cracks when he realizes that returning to that moment in the restaurant is an impossibility.
The music swells as Gavin and Madeline leave their seats and walk towards John who is still sitting at the bar. An unknown man stops Gavin to speak with him, and in a delicious little touch, the music stops playing for a brief moment as Madeline turns around to look at him. For the brief moment that she is not facing John, the music halts, once again pointing to his budding love. If I may speak somewhat poetically and/or schmaltzally (I know that isn’t a word), when John can’t see her face, the music stops; all happiness leaves his life when Madeline is not with him. The music swells to a climax after a short series of cuts between John and Madeline’s faces when we believe that she is turning to look at him. We are in his shoes through a point of view shot, and we feel the same excitement as he does when he believes that Madeline is going to acknowledge him; our excitement is derived through the gorgeous swelling of the music, his through his potential eye contact with Madeline. Instead she turns to look back at Gavin and the man, and the music quickly subsides and once again pauses for a brief moment as she is turned away from John. They walk past him without even the slightest acknowledgement and exit, ironically in front of another mirror. The music dips slowly in conjunction with John lowering his head in dejection, and stands in stark contrast to the elated crescendo of strings just a few moments prior, and with that the scene dissolves. I find the correlation between the music and John’s inner turmoil to be immensely effective; there is no unnecessary explanatory dialogue in keeping with Hitchcock’s love of “pure film”, and music as mood is a recurring motif throughout the film.
Another scene which I found to be richly evocative and meaningful is the scene close to the end of the film in which John attempts to change Judy into Madeline, beginning with the close-up of Judy’s eyes as they are being redone. Obviously hearkening back to the opening credits, the close-up of the eyes is representative of John’s obsession with the most minute detail in recreating faithfully recreating Madeline’s appearance. Closely analyzing the expression present in Judy’s eyes reveals a deep psychological turmoil; apprehension and fear in conflict with true love. While watching this scene, I asked myself, what is the purpose of makeup? I came to one word; to “cover”. Judy is at the same time attempting to cover her physical flaws, in the sense that she doesn’t look like exactly like Madeline, as well as her intense inner conflict by presenting a cool exterior to John. The entire purpose of makeup is to deceive the seer of a person’s actual appearance, and that ties in nicely to the concept of John being deceived by Madeline/Judy’s appearance early in the film. Clichéd though it is, nothing is as it seems, and John is once again, this time purposely, deceiving himself through makeup. The music during this shot and those following is rather unsettling, and it contributes significantly to the overall creepiness and bizarre vibe that the shots are attempting to communicate. Also worth noting is that the circular plucking of the harp strings have a very specific “ticking clock” feel, which I’m certain Bernard Herrmann intended, as the next shot is of John standing restlessly in Judy’s hotel room leafing through a newspaper. The viewer gets the distinct impression that “time is ticking”, so to speak, which is clearly what John feels as well, as evidenced by his restless behavior. I’m sure Judy felt similarly, although in a somewhat different sense; her nervousness and outright terror probably resulted from a fear of the unknown and the unfortunate realization that answers would be forthcoming. She certainly knew that she was stuck in a bad situation, as evidenced by the worry clearly apparent in her eyes in the scene’s opening shot.
The music returns to the original motif as soon as the final shot of Judy getting her nails done dissolves into John standing in her hotel room. He paces nervously as the music becomes increasingly louder and the scene really hits a crux when he walks to the window and glances out, hoping to see Judy below. He then returns to the dresser which he was leaning against while flipping through the newspaper, directly above which there is a mirror, except this time, he is not facing away from it, but rather leaning in towards his reflection. I believe that this is a parallel with the scene in Ernie’s which I analyzed earlier. John looks into the mirror, if only briefly, and sees himself, unlike the first time when he saw Madeline. At this point in the film, it has become more about him and his obsession, unlike earlier in the film. This is a subtle but effective comment on obsessive love. Oftentimes the individual in love is more infatuated with the feeling that the object of desire produces within them than the person herself, and it appears as though this shift occurs in John. It is no longer about love for Madeline, but it is about producing the same euphoria which he felt earlier in the film. It becomes apparent with John’s glance into the mirror that his love has never really been about caring deeply for Madeline, it is solely about producing a desired effect within himself. This is touched on in the complex relationship between John and Midge; she is an assertive, unique individual whom I’m sure would be a catch for any number of men, but she is too much for John, too powerfully her own person. She does not have the blank slate quality of Madeline onto which John can project his own narcissistic tendencies. In his twisted mind, there is very little potential for conflict with Madeline, as she hardly speaks and is practically vacant. She functions as a mirror in the sense that John can project his deepest wishes and desires onto her, and let them bounce back into him, producing the euphoric high of being in love. Midge, on the other hand, does not allow herself to be used in such a manner, so John rejects her advances over and over again; she is too good for him.
After his glance into the mirror, John walks back to the window to glance out again in hopes of seeing Judy, and presumably he sees her this time, judging by the reaction on his face; a mixture of shock, confusion, and cautious excitement. It is important to note at this point that he is bathed in the emerald light from the Empire Hotel sign, not coincidentally the exact same color as Madeline/Judy’s dress in Ernie’s restaurant, as well as the color of John’s eyes. More than likely, though we don’t see her, the same light is shining on Judy as she walks beneath the sign. The green color once again plays a crucial role symbolically. It is virtually the only thing that links the Madeline from Ernie’s and Judy in John’s mind, and if only for a moment, transports him back to that idyllic moment in the restaurant when he first saw Madeline. The light from the sign encapsulates both John and Judy in the same situation; they share roughly the same knowledge (although unspoken by John at this point) and through the green light, they are both part of the same unspoken bond. After his glance out of the window, John opens the door and waits in the hallway for Judy to arrive. Perhaps this is a silly observation, but immediately after a shot of his face, the camera cuts to a shot of the hallway, and in the upper-middle portion of the screen, a sign hangs that reads “fire escape”. This would seem to indicate a sort of impending danger and a need to “escape” immediately. There is no literal fire, but symbolically there is, in the form of John’s smoldering soon to be lit passion.
As Judy comes closer, John’s face practically twitches with anticipation and excitement, but he is crestfallen as he sees that her hair isn’t done properly. He informs her of this, and while she is at first resistant, because John would almost certainly recognize her as Madeline if her hair was done in the way he wanted, she finally resigns herself to his wishes. She enters the bathroom which is, once again, not coincidentally illuminated in green. The camera pans around and follows a clearly troubled John as he walks back toward the window and gazes out at the green Empire Hotel sign, a fact which is immensely important in analyzing John’s psyche in this scene. Once again, the green is representative of the ideal of Ernie’s restaurant, an ideal which John is trying so desperately to return to with his manipulation of Judy’s appearance. He is hoping against hope that he can return to that euphoric high when he thought Madeline was going to acknowledge him as he sat at the bar. His hope is confirmed as reality when Judy emerges from the closet. We hear the doorknob click as she opens it, and John stands slowly; the camera zooms in tightly on his face as the music swells to a crescendo. The cut to Madeline truly astonishing, and in concert with the music, conveys powerful emotion. She stands in an emerald haze, literally ghostlike. Not only does she appear other-worldly, she is the virtual reincarnation of a supposedly deceased individual. Also worth noting is that though she is illuminated in a green hue by the sign, she is also figuratively illuminated by John’s eyes, which are the exact same shade as the cloud of light that surrounds her, as confirmed by a cut back to his face following her emergence. It is almost as though his eyes, not the sign, are projecting the green color onto her. This goes back to John projecting himself onto the empty persona of Madeline. After a few cuts in which the camera becomes increasingly tighter on both of their faces, they wordlessly embrace in a passionate kiss and the camera starts spinning. In this scene, John is not kissing an actual human being; he is kissing an ideal. Whereas Judy was mouthy and talkative, Madeline is silent; an essential component for an unhealthy, obsessive, and projective love.
PART II
First I’d like to comment on Mary-Carolyn’s posts Some More Thoughts on Midge and A Few Small Thoughts on Vertigo. I disagree with the statement that “Midge presents herself as willing to be molded through the portrait, making herself into a Carlotta of sorts (she still retains some characteristics of herself, but the point is not that part of her remains, but that she is willing to get rid of parts of herself, slowly, not unlike Judy).” It seemed to me that Midge’s portrait of herself as Carlotta was her attempt to get John to recognize what was right in front of him, so to speak. Midge was not willing to be molded; she was already a strong, assertive individual and quite comfortable with who she was. She was simply too strong for John, who wanted an ethereal, malleable beauty in the form of Madeline. Ironically, by all accounts, Midge should have been in control of her interactions with John, but he was the driving force. When he was weak, she helped him, and I believe in that respect, the opening scene is extremely important. John is severely hampered by his vertigo, and he needs Midge to support him like a little baby because he can’t even climb up a step ladder without breaking down! To any discerning observer, it is obvious that John is in a subordinate position to Midge’s almost motherly role. BUT, thanks to backwards gender roles in the 1950s, Midge remains subordinate to John for the remainder of the film, which is patently absurd when you objectively consider the life stations of both characters. Midge is clearly established in San Francisco and has a specific direction to her life; she is a distinct individual with interests, passions, and activities. John is a pathetic, essentially useless louse simply drifting through life. He is so weak and so desperate for something to give his empty life meaning that he becomes obsessed with a woman that doesn’t even exist! This is the ultimate male vanity, that he would turn down a woman like Midge for a silent beauty like Madeline. It is almost as though he rejects Midge because her masculine qualities are an affront to HIS masculinity, and I believe that that is the only respect in which Midge is willing to mold herself, simply because gender roles in the 1950s were so rigid; she does not stand up to John and say “you moron! Look at what is right in front of you!” which I was kind of hoping she would do. Instead she sits idly by while he goes on a wild goose chase for a mysterious beauty. Like I alluded to earlier, Midge is too good for John.
Next I’d like to speak on Jonathan’s post, so aptly titled: Vertigo. Having known Jon for quite a while now (since kindergarten) I like his analysis in conjunction with mine; he has more of a filmmaker’s eye, whereas as I, as an English major, tend to analyze films more like a text. So that’s why I find this post particularly compelling, as my natural instinct is to analyze character, motivation, etc. and Jon’s natural inclination is to analyze the nuts and bolts of the film. I have to consciously force myself to do the latter. I really like Jon’s analysis of the eye, because it goes along with my thoughts earlier. I thought it was of significant importance that John’s eyes are the exact same shade of green that continually recurs throughout the film; the eyes being the figurative “window to the soul” makes me believe that we are onto something here. I hate the word “soul” though, I really do. It is such a catch all phrase for “the unknown” and seems to say a lot but really doesn’t say much at all. Vertigo feels so gritty and down to Earth to me, that I find it hard to believe it is attempting to explicate something as ethereal as the soul. It seems as though Vertigo is about something even deeper than that. Soul is often defined as a seperate entity from the body, and this film is so driven by basic bodily instincts, like sexuality, the desire to love and be loved, survival, and death that it leads me to believe that a more appropriate universal theme would be “collective human instinct”. The soul is traditionally considered to be white, clean, pure, heavenly, not of the Earth. Vertigo is very much the opposite; hellish, dirty, and so human as to be unsettling.
Craig just touched on some things with his post The Difference Is…, but I think he brings up a few good points, especially when he states “It was emotionally ripping to see Scott descend deeper into a focused obsession, becoming less and less patient with someone he claims to love.” I think the key word in that sentence is claims. I really don’t believe that John loves Madeline/Judy at all, but rather he is obsessed with her; two very different things. “Love” is essentially selfless, as stated in an oft-spouted cliche that you know you love someone when “you’re willing to die for them”. John is not willing to die for Madeline because he doesn’t care enough about her. He cares only about the reaction that she arouses within him, from which his obsession stems. Not to get to “out there”, but I just started thinking about Sternberg’s Triangular Theory of love. To be considered consummate, a love between two people must have intimacy, passion, and commitment. The “love” between John and Madeline consists solely of passion (and arguably not even that), so it falls squarely in the category of infatuation: “often what is felt as ‘love at first sight’. But without the intimacy and the commitment components of love, infatuated love may disappear suddenly.” I wouldn’t call myself an expert on this, but I’ve read a fair amount, and this type of love is always more about the individual in love than the object of affection. An infatuated person might say “I love how this relationship makes me feel” or “I’m so happy to have found this person.” Hitchcock hints at this, particularly with John’s frequent glances into mirrors, in Judy’s hotel room especially. I mentioned this earlier, but what John felt for Madeline wasn’t love, but an intense passion because he finally found someone that he could use to validate his narcissism. Midge did not fulfill that role, so he rejected her over and again. John finally gets his comeupance at the film’s conclusion, one that I feel was richly deserved.
I’m not sure who wrote this next one, but it’s a good post so I want to comment on it. It’s called, I Think I Just Might Be Starting to Get This Flick. I really don’t know if I agree with the comparison between John and Eben, mostly because I’m not too fond of comparing the two works at all. Vertigo, in my mind, is a vastly superior work of art to Portrait of Jennie (novel and film). I feel as though Jennie is overwrought, overwritten, and while enjoyable to read, just not “great” in the same way Vertigo is. My main criticism of Jennie is the whole time travelling thing; its sole purpose seemed to be adding an air of legitimacy to a novel which otherwise would be a fairly average romance. The themes would have changed very little if Jennie was a regular person, and since the time travelling was never explained, I can only assume that it is a pretentious and unncessary ploy to trump up a pretty ho-hum novel. So those are my thoughts on Portrait of Jennie. Vertigo is not the least bit pretentious, as every frame is absolutely packed with artful meaning just not for the sake of art. I have never seen a movie which cuts more directly to the core of the human condition. Alright, that said…can you guess what I’m going to write? I do not see Eben and John as the same person at all. The themes between the two stories are entirely different. I talked about this a little bit when I commented on Jon’s blog, but Jennie tries to be a lot more ethereal and “other-worldly” if you will, in dealing with the soul and all that hooey, whereas Vertigo is very much a part of this world. Aside from that, there are the obvious distinctions. Eben is an artist, John most definitely is not. I know someone had said that in class (Carmen?) but I totally disagree. An artist creates firstly for self-expression and secondly to share that expression with the outside world. The only thing John is creating is a twisted fantasy for his own selfish devices. I found Eben to be a more sympathetic character, because throughout the novel, he is genuinely interested in sharing Jennie’s beauty with others. It can be readily assumed that if John had to “share” Madeline’s beauty in Vertigo, then he would seriously go postal, for lack of a better term. A man that infatuated is a force to be reckoned with when he is made jealous. Eben is never jealous of Jennie, so I guess in a sense their love is “pure”. Eben is an artist, John is merely an obsessed, deranged man. It just smacks of overanalysis to call John an artist, in my humble opinion. He is not creating out of love, he is creating a fantasy for his own incredibly selfish ends.
Lastly I’d like to comment on Tyler’s Dizzy Spell, because he brings up an interesting point which I’ve seen discussed in different places. He questions whether Judy is actually real. This is an interesting proposition which I’ve seen discussed in some different places, particularly on the IMDB boards. I don’t think it’s true, but it is interesting to think about. I’ve actually heard a theory floated that says John is still in the mental hospital for the entire second half of the film and he is just dreaming everything after Madeline’s death. Like I said, probably not true, but interesting nonetheless. I just don’t think Hitchcock would be that cheap with his story. It wouldn’t take away from the film THAT much, because lengthy dream sequences can be incredibly effective, as evidenced by Mulholland Drive, but I don’t know, there just isn’t a dream “feel” to the second half. I can’t really put my finger on it, but it is definitely soundly grounded in reality. So I’ve come to the conclusion that Judy is definitely real and the second half of the movie actually did happen. The nun thing certainly is interesting, but I have to believe that it is sort of an “icebox” moment like Dr. Campbell talked about in class today. The bell tolling is obviously symbolic of death, the changing of time, etc and Hitchcock probably just wanted something like that to end the film. I doubt he took the nun’s reaction into account. But wow, that is a troubling theory, it is really sticking with me and I will have to give it some more thought.
Okay, so that is my final paper. Just a few disclaimers before I hit publish.
- I called the film’s male lead “John” throughout the entire paper. I know most people referred to him as Scotty, and I realized about three-quarters of the way through that maybe I should have too, but I figured John is acceptable. After all, he said that his friends call him John, and I feel like we’ve gotten pretty close over my multiple viewings of Vertigo, so John is perfectly appropriate in my mind.
- Just an administrative note, I have no idea why the font sized changed for these last few paragraphs. I tried to figure out how to fix it for the better part of thirty minutes, but I couldn’t find anything, and knowing my knack for screwing things up when it comes to computers, I just stopped before I deleted my entire paper or something by accident. I hope the slightly altered font size is acceptable.
–Nathan Strobel
