Sixty-five is traditionally a retirement age, yet some will work the rest of their existence doing what they love. Still, others will toil until they die with resentment in their hearts, yearning for the opportunity to be young and relevant again. Our twilight years should be spent enjoying our achievements and quietly admiring the new generations’ bodies of work. If films were living beings, only a select few have the prestige and timelessness to continue ‘working’ well into a seventh decade. Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958) is that wrinkly old dude who can somehow still clock in and rock your screen like Iggy Pop.
The sixty-five-year-old film has flaws, but leathered skin and a dated script won’t stop the locomotion of a steam-powered legacy. With almost 50 films under his belt, Hitchcock is a household name that transcends generations of moviegoers. His reputation is sewn into film history, giving the horror and thriller genres an aesthetic they can safely cozy into whenever they feel nostalgic. Who wouldn’t give anything for a chance to snuggle up under the safe embrace of a lost grandparent?
Today’s audiences are fickle about their content, but the look of something is often more important than the substance. That is unless there is something… anything… about it that could be construed as offensive in the modern cultural climate. Less recent generations learned to separate the art from the artist, but in this new century, it’s become easier to throw away traditions and influences that can be interpreted as toxic.
The line in the sand reads “Cancel Culture” on one side and “Accountability and Consequences” on the other. Good old Jimmy Stewart is the personification of wholesome tradition. Credited in Vertigo as James Stewart, he plays a man of the law who’s been stricken with a fear of heights after a fellow officer falls to his death in their pursuit of a perp. His character is written by Alec Coppel and Samuel Taylor (adapted from the novel D’Entre Les Morts by Pierre Boileau) as an upstanding guy whose intentions are good. Still, by today’s standards, he comes off as a manipulative skirt-chaser whose objectification of women is central to the plot.
Objectively, Vertigo easily deserves its place as one of America’s best films in history. Selected in 1989 by the Library of Congress to be preserved for the National Film Registry for being “culturally, historically, and aesthetically significant,” Vertigo wears an institutional suit of armor that protects it from scrutiny.
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Through no fault of Alfred Hitchcock’s cinematic genius, Vertigo wears a target of predatory behavior that may never be recognized, and we might be okay never acknowledging that. Don’t pay attention to what Grandpa says. He’s old. But he fought in World War II. Just let it go if he offends you.
John ‘Scottie’ Ferguson, James Stewart’s character, will more likely be protected by a new generation’s general lack of interest in the shoulders of the giants they stand on. Classic films aren’t necessarily classic or even relevant for psychological thriller audiences today. Dragging women around like rag dolls and urging them to dress and wear their hair like a deceased loved one is only acceptable when you’re forced into telling a complex twisted tale in two hours.
Kim Novak’s characters, Madeleine Elster and Judy Barton, aren’t people. They’re playthings and possessions for Scottie and Gavin Elster (Tom Helmore); nothing more than plot devices designed to move James Stewart’s character past the mental barriers he must overcome. His desperate need to be loved by the imposter woman he slowly discovers is nearly as pathetic as her unquenchable desire to be wanted by a man.
Here’s the problem with viewing that picture through a 65-year-old lens. With tradition, culture, and “the way things were,” it’s easy to imagine that many women might have consented to dress as a new lover’s former lover to bag a man. Even the tertiary character of Midge (Barbara Bel Geddes), who plays Scottie’s much younger, career-oriented ex-fiancee, is heartbroken while watching him lose in love over and over again. She’s married to her ambition, though, and aesthetically treated as a chum rather than someone with any value as a woman (i.e., not marriage material). Women’s Lib doesn’t begin for another decade.
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The real Madeleine Elster never even speaks a line. Her existence as a character is simply to fall to her death. Knowing she’s died does not affect anyone. No one mourns her. The script uses her as an extra device to fool you (and the players) into thinking the person you’ve come to know is dead. Even when the imposter suffers the same fate, we are meant to feel compassion for the witness rather than the victim.
There’s no denying that Hitchcock lent uncountable terms and techniques to the film industry through his ingenuity and brilliance as a director. His resume remains at the top of Hollywood’s best for good reason. But we would do the evolution of passionate story-telling a disservice if we ignored exploitation and problematic practices of the past.
Still, though, listen to Grandpa. I promise he’s got some amazing stories to tell. Just ignore it when he says anything that offends you. It’s not worth an argument. When Vertigo is dead and buried, we’ll still salute his picture on the wall and forget about how he treated Grandma.
