Librari[d]an

I just saw The Strangers and honestly it’s a pretty solid film. How did this occur, with Liv Tyler as the heroine and a cast of models as the masked intruders? The answers are much (much much much) simpler than you’d imagine:

The strangers don’t have outlandish motives.

There was a time when an approximation of psychological realism in a murderer’s motivation was a breath of fresh air for horror, and has allowed films like Psycho to achieve canonical status. However, nowadays audiences feel either weighed down by too much psychology or cheated by motivations that tie up the film with a nice, neat ribbon. Rather than Freudian examinations of a killer’s life (for example, the lengthy scenes depicting Michael Meyers’ childhood in Rob Zombie’s reimagining of Halloween) or exotic psychological explanations (dissociative identity disorder in The Secret Window, Session 9, and countless others) they appreciate less complex motives.

Dissociative identity disorder (a.k.a. multiple personality disorder), popularized by Hitchcock’s Psycho, is not only trite, but lacking in realism. (”Real” cases of DID are quite rare).

The fact that the strangers are most likely “thrill killers” is understated, never articulated in the film. (When Kristen finally asks the baby-doll faced stranger why they’re victimizing them, the girl flatly and evasively responds “Because you were home.”) Compare this to Murder By Numbers, another film about kids who thrill kill, and you can see how a minimal focus on character motivation results in a tighter, creepier, and less clichéd narrative.

The actors are never required to display any emotional range.

The Strangers has only the sparest of narratives: James and Kristen arrive home after a party where Kristen rejected his marriage proposal. Strangers start to terrorize them. James accidentally shoots his buddy. Strangers continue to terrorize them. James admits that he lied about his father taking him hunting. Strangers overpower and kill them. So what are the emotions that are asked of Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman? Sadness, fear, anguish/regret. Pretty easy fare, considering how limited the dialog (much of which is delivered into mobile phones or vintage radios) is. They only have to look sullen or alternately terrified.

The really complex emotional work, when James realizes he has killed his best friend, is neatly avoided by focusing on Liv Tyler’s character’s imploring “What? James, what?” and James’ back (no joke). At the end, when the two realize that the strangers are really going to kill them, the scene is surprisingly brief and revolves more around the diamond wedding band Kristen decided to wear than their professions of love to one another. (Good idea, Liv. Let the rock do the acting for you!)

So why do these characters work? The answer is that James and Kristen are stand-ins for audience members: white, boring, middle class people with mundane interpersonal relationship problems. Also, a sense of realism is achieved when audiences don’t get the whole story in a few hours: I have included the fact that James lied about his relationship with his father for this very reason. It is one of the few overtures toward character development that are made in the film, and that’s what most of this stuff is, just overtures. All we really need are hints that these characters have emotions and inner lives beyond the few hours the audience spends with them. Beyond that, any explicit details of their lives clash with an audience members’ ability to identify with them.

Bryan Bertino, the writer/director, avoided stale subgenres.

Virtually every review of The Strangers mentions how it is not a splatter film (charmingly referred to as “torture porn” by non-professional reviewers) and how this simple fact is refreshing. When the horror genre is overly permeated with certain stock styles or narratives (like J-horror ghost stories) audiences swing like a pendulum to something different (in this case, tension). So it’s not that The Strangers is a masterpiece of suspense, but rather that it is light on gore and doesn’t have a 12 year-old female ghost with long, dark hair.

The Strangers is unremarkable for the most part. However, there are some redeeming elements to the film. It is interesting to see that Bertino and co. have accomplished a few goals in terms of cinematography, sound, and pacing:

1. The framing of several shots is rather impressive. I’m thinking specifically of one instance (pictured in a publicity photo to the right) where Liv Tyler is crawling through the back yard and the highly kinetic camera (something I usually deplore, but which in this case beautifully masks the impending jump scare) pulls out and pans up slightly to reveal one of the female strangers.

2. The soundtrack, diegetic and non-diegetic, is rather well done. One of my favorite parts was when the dissonance of a skipping record was put to good use as a jarring, disorienting device. (This isn’t exactly original, but the execution was spot on.) The only thing I felt it lacked were music cues when the strangers appear (à la the original Halloween) to heighten the mood. The filmmakers probably felt this would be over doing it, but I think when used discriminatingly such cues could really have enhanced the strangers’ appearances toward the end film.

3. Tension scenes are remarkably long, with the strangers walking into the background of the frame for extended periods of time. This in itself isn’t really impressive. What I was struck by was how Bertino was able to sustain suspense over these long periods of time, relying heavily on horror conventions (shadow and focus) but also less-used devices to do so. For example, when the male, bag-headed stranger first appears behind Kristen (who is in the kitchen) from a hallway, Bertino allows the camera to move away from the stranger and out of the shot. Although audiences can quite literally not see him, they still have a palpable sense that his menacing presence is still there. Thus, when the camera returns to the space that the stranger occupied, audiences hold their breath waiting for Kristen’s unwitting discovery of the stranger.

So, The Strangers did a few things right, but when the film didn’t do anything wrong it basically didn’t do much. Do I like it? I enjoyed watching it, but I’d like Bertino’s next film to have more substance.

:: Bibliography ::

• CelebrityWonder.com. The Strangers production picture. CelebrityWonder.com. http://www.celebritywonder.com/movie-pictures/2008_The_Strangers/002.html (18 June 2008).
• Emerson, Jim. Close-Ups: A free-association dream sequence. Scanners. http://blogs.suntimes.com/scanners/2007/10/closeups_a_freeassociation_min.html (18 June 2008).

Others have tried - and failed - to recreate Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo: In 1976 Brian de Palma created the interesting, if poorly executed, Obsession–a thinly veiled Vertigo knock-off. Sixteen years later, Paul Verhoeven would emulate the film’s visuals to a surprising degree in Basic Instinct. (A visual comparison of Basic Instinct and Vertigo can be found here.) Attempts to recreate key scenes from the film have occurred as recently as 2005. Now, it’s time to add another to the list; Vanity Fair’s March 2008 issue will feature a photographic homage to Hitchcock’s films, including Renée Zellweger as Judy / Madeleine in the final tower scene from Vertigo! (Roy)

I never would have expected Vanity Fair to pick Renée Zellweger to fill Kim Novak’s shoes. Although I admit that she’s a talented actress, Zellweger has never been in a role that required the vulnerability, complexity, and emotional scope that Novak had to bring to her character. And of all the scenes to choose! You’d think they’d pick an easy “grey suit” episode, but instead they chose the climactic dénouement in the tower. It is perhaps the movie’s most emotionally charged scene. However, as you can see in the video of the shoot (also below), Zellweger has pretty much nailed it.

Zellweger’s performance at the shoot - described by Vanity Fair itself as “especially notable” - was both intense and impressive. (Windolf) This praise is pretty amazing, considering that there were five other Oscar winners and a huge amount of A-listers being photographed for Hitchcock’s other films. (Check out the article, cited below, for the full list and scans.) As you can see in the photo and video, everything in terms of the mise en scène was perfect: the coiffure, cosmetics, dress, earrings, tower interior… even Carlotta’s pendant.

At the shoot, Zellweger “was watching the scene over and over while getting her hair and makeup done, and when she came on set she started breathing really hard, almost hyperventilating. [...] She just absolutely exploded on the set and truly became that character like I’ve never seen before. We were in awe.” (Windolf) This method acting may explain why Zellweger’s performance lacked the subtle artistry that Novak brought to Judy’s character in both this and other scenes. (And in all fairness, it was just a photo shoot.) In addition to amplifying the emotions for a traditional camera, Zellweger herself may have been having an emotional reaction to Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak’s performances.

Revisiting Vertigo is something of an obsession for fans of the film. (Unfortunately, this Vertigo fanatic will not be close enough to visit San Fransisco when he goes to Anaheim, California this summer for the annual ALA conference.) Watch a YouTube video of the locations featured in the film here. Check out a stunning visual comparison of scenes from the film and contemporary photographs at Vertigo… Then and Now.

Special thanks to Joel Gunz, Hitchcock Geek for bringing Vanity Fair’s photo shoot to my attention and Deeda Blair for scanning and posting the article.

:: Bibliography ::

Roy, Norman J., photographer. “The 2008 Hollywood Portfolio.” Vanity Fair (March 2008): 370-71. Accessed 8 February 2008. http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/20148385.html.

Windolf, Jim. It’s the Hitch in Hitchcock. March 2008. CondéNet. Accessed 6 February 2008. http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2008/03/behindthescenes200803.

Shut up! No, really. Shut up. In all likelihood you haven’t even seen Alfred Hitchcock’s Marnie (1964), let alone viewed it recently with a critical eye. I was like you once. I thought the film was a joke, the beginning of Hitchcock’s cinematic decline. I have come to realize, over time, that this is far from the truth; Marnie was Hitchcock’s last truly great film.

Marnie falls easy prey to critics for an obvious reason: Like Hitchcock’s Spellbound, the emphasis on psychoanalysis dates the film. (For a bizarre look at the not-so-hidden sexual imagery/dialog embedded in the film, check out this video. I think the creep who made it has to be a total freak, a “sex maniac” if you will.) Marnie lacks the clout that a dream sequence created by Salvador Dalí and star power (Ingrid Bergman, Gregory Peck) provide. Don’t get me wrong, Sean Connery and Tippi Hedren are stars… However they’ve both developed an air of camp.

So what makes Marnie so good, despite the flaws? (It certainly isn’t the sloppy stunt work with the horse!) And let’s not rely on silly auteur prattle about motifs in Hitchcock’s canon of work. (She’s blonde? Amazing. She adopts a variety of identities? You don’t say!) But let’s begin with that blonde. The blonde with the pinched features and shrill voice. The perfectly imperfect Hitchcock blonde, Tippi Hedren. Hedren became the Galatea to Hitchcock’s Pygmalion because she was a natural in front of the camera. Now, the title role in Marnie isn’t exactly an easy part to play: Sexually frigid. Kleptomaniac safe-cracker. Compulsive and convincing liar. Phobic of the color red and thunder/lightning. (No wonder why the French title is Pas de printemps pour Marnie, “No Spring for Marnie”. This woman’s got problems!) Yet somehow Hedren is able to pull it off. Just look at the film’s infamous rape scene, in which Hedren is equal parts desperate, defenseless child and resistant woman (resistant in terms of her passivity, her utter disconnect from the physical violation she suffers). And what about the scene at the racetrack, where Hedren has to convey the schism between her false persona (socially adept businesswoman) and true one (nervous, saturnine anomic). Of course, there are many scenes in which Hedren simply can’t hold her character together. (”The colors! Stop the colors!”) But who could?

The second redeeming quality of the film is Bernard Herrmann’s lavish, misunderstood score. (Listen to the Prelude in this theatrical trailer for the film. Also, note Hitchock’s hilarious one-liners: “She does seem a rather excitable type” reduced me to tears!) It is mostly considered a melodramatic, Romantic mess of a composition. This may or may not be true. What his music does reflect, however, is an externalization of the emotional, child-like tumult Hedren’s character experiences thrroughout the film. Of course, I would be remiss in not crediting the director, Hitch, for making a contribution or two. Remember the scene in which Marnie robs an employer after hours? The audience is on tenterhooks as she cracks and empties the safe, removes her shoes, and soberly attempts her escape without being noticed by a cleaning woman–only to drop one of her high-heels! This suspenseful sequence alone is worth forgiving Hitchcock the sillier fare in the final reel.

I plan on posting more about the formal achievments of Marnie in the future. Keep an eye peeled.

As a child, I would often have dreams about a mysterious blonde, blindfolded and all in white, silently calling out to me for help. She would appear framed in mirrors, reaching blindly towards me, or dead in a ruined coffin. When I related the dream to a friend, he assured me it was not mine at all. Rather, the girl was my misty memory of an obscure live-action Disney film, The Watcher in the Woods. The “dream” was in fact several suspenseful scenes from the science fiction/horror movie, which features a girl who was accidentally sent into another dimension - switched with an alien - during a solar eclipse. Why I came to think of it as a dream was clear: Karen’s costume design was theatrical and symbolic in nature, a softening filter made the images hazy, and little to no sound heightened the suspense of the scenes.

In “Prosthetic Memory: Total Recall and Blade Runner”, Alison Landsberg relates Herbert Blumer’s scientific finding that the mass media can implant memories into audiences via film. (LM 240) Audiences do not simply associate themselves with characters in the film, but incorporate the images and sounds fundamentally into the self. (LM 242) Landsberg views this as an extension of themes developed in contemporary science fiction films dealing with “prosthetic” (i.e. synthesized) memory.

In her essay, the author argues that post-modern film analysis privileges the time before audience’s relationships to events were not so mediated that people could not differentiate between the real and hyperreal. (LM 243, 240) Critics such as Fredric Jameson and Jean Baudrillard express nostalgia for this time – the “prelapsarian moment” – when it was still possible for viewers to experience and participate in true memory rather than inauthentic memory. Landsberg argues, however, that films such as Total Recall and Blade Runner work against this idea. The protagonists of both films don’t concern themselves with their past. This is because an authentic memory is not necessarily superior to a fabricated one, and because both memories exist. (LM 243, 244) Decker and Quaid forge their own identities based on the present moment. Thus, memory is less about the past than the present. (LM 244) A foil to this argument can be seen in the film Dark City. In the course of the narrative, John Murdoch (Rufus Sewell) attempts to unravel his memories to escape the strange people chasing him. As it turns out, these aliens have scrambled memories into a “cocktail” and literally inject them into men and women. By repeatedly changing humans’ identities in this manner, the aliens can keep them ignorant of their captivity. Only with the help of someone with authentic memories (Kiefer Sutherland) can Murdoch learn the truth (via injection of authentic memories) and liberate the humans.

In the “Postfuturism” chapter of Vivian Sobchack’s Screening Space, she also identifies the importance of the coherence of identify. (SS 272) In the postmodern era, Sobchack feels that identity is shaped mostly by space and surface rather than the temporal. Landsberg also asserts that an emphasis on the surface typifies postmodernism. (LM 244) Thus, continuity of time is less important. Science fiction films are either nostalgic or celebratory in regard to this fact. (SS 273) In the first case, the films draw on the past in terms of plot and mise en scène (such as the antiquated fashions seen in Dune). In the second, the films glory in discontinuity editing that confuses the viewer’s sense of time. The Watcher in the Woods is of the first type, as it uses gothic horror and antiquated locales to cleverly mislead the audience into thinking the film is a ghost story (rather than science fiction).

Thus, postmodern memory and its repercussion on how films conceive of time/space can be added to a list of the elements of science fiction film. While critics readily discern the genre’s predisposition to look toward the future, they often neglect the just as conspicuous tendency for the films to look into the past.

I’ve included some screenshots from The Watcher in the Woods. I thought they might be useful in understanding why I subconsciously found the scene so gripping. If you haven’t seen the film, I would suggest it. (Annabel, at the very least, got some laughs when she revisited it.) I think it really embodies the generic tension between horror and sci-fi that Sobchack identified, even more so than Metropolis. (More on that later.)

:: Bibliography ::

Sobchack, Vivian. Screening Space. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1997.

Redmond, Sean. Liquid Metal. New York: Wallflower Press, 2004.

The Watcher in the Woods. Dir. John Hough. Perf. Bette Davis, Lynn-Holly Johnson, Kyle Richards, Carroll Baker, and David McCallum. 1980/1. DVD. Anchor Bay Entertainment. April 2, 2002.

L’amour de l’étymologie is a feature exploring the etymology of English words. Today’s entry: the noun vertigo! You may rarely find this word spelled (vertego, verteego, virtigo) and pronounced (although this is the standard pronunciation) in any number of ways. If you’re feeling adventuresome, branch out and use related words such as the adjective “vertiginous”!

Let’s get one thing out of the way: Vertigo should not be confused with acrophobia, the fear of heights.

I have been consistently fascinated by the word vertigo since childhood, having seen Hitchcock’s classic of the same name at a tender age. Hypnotized by the film’s salient imagery, captivating score, and general pathos, I found myself returning to the term time and again. Only about a year ago I discovered that the title - Hitchcock’s personal favorite for the film - barely survived the journey to the marquee. (There were around fifty suggested titles ready and waiting to oust Vertigo.) In late October of 1957 the studio asserted that “No execs like Vertigo and believe it handicap to selling and advertising picture whether potential customers know what word vertigo means or not”. (Auiler 113)

This quote most likely explains why the original trailer for Vertigo opens with a shot of a dictionary. The book opens and the camera zooms in on a page as a quick dissolve takes viewers to a detail shot of the entry for “vertigo”. A voice-over informs the audience that the word means “a feeling of dizziness … a swimming in the head … figuratively a state in which all things seem to be engulfed in a whirlpool of terror.” As the book spins and dissolves into one of Saul Bass and John Whitney’s iconic spiral motifs - known properly by the name “Lissajous spirals” - it seems reasonable to ask just how much of this definition is fact and how much is hyperbole.

In truth, the clever mind that thought up this educational prelude got the meaning pretty much right.

In the original Latin, vertigo meant “a turning around, giddiness”. The Romantic languages inherited this term, and it can be assumed that Anglophones adopted the word from either French or Spanish. The first known use of vertigo in English has been dated to 1528 in Paynell’s Salerne’s Regim, which describes “The heed ache called vertigo: whiche maketh a man to wene that the world turneth”. The main gist of vertigo has followed this pathological assessment. The Oxford English Dictionary’s primary entry: “A disordered condition in which the person affected has a sensation of whirling, either of external objects or of himself, and tends to lose equilibrium and consciousness; swimming in the head; giddiness, dizziness”. The term can also be applied to animals such as horses, sheep, and hawks–although any link between dizziness and these animals’ diseases seems tenuous.

All that jazz is without adding an article. You can slap an “a” or “the” before vertigo if you don’t mind sounding a bit backward. Similarly, using plural forms (vertigos, vertigoes, verteegoes, vertigines) may sound awkward to contemporary ears.

Figurative uses of the word came along later, with the first recorded use in 1634. Vertigo in this case means “A disordered state of mind, or of things, comparable to giddiness.” The OED quotes people who wrote that art, power, and intellectualism may induce this state.

The final use of vertigo is as a noun which encapsulates the “act of whirling round and round.” Although loaded with poetic potential, this usage seems relatively rare; the only historical quote the OED cites is 19th Century writer Thomas de Quincey’s use of the word to describe a top in his Autobiographical Sketches.

That’s all she wrote. Stay tuned for more etymologies and musings on Hitchcock’s Vertigo!

:: Bibliography ::

Auiler, Dan. Vertigo: The Making of a Hitchcock Classic. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998. ISBN: 0312169159.

“Vertigo.” Oxford English Dictionary. 2008. 2 Jan. 2008 <http://dictionary.oed.com/cgi/findword?query_type=word&queryword=vertigo&find.x=0&find.y=0&find=Find+word>.