Peter Conrad on Alfred Hitchcock

eter Conrad does something very interesting in his new book The Hitchcock Murders (Faber and Faber, 362 pages, $25, ISBN 0.57120.023.0). He never mentions Robin Wood.

A new Hitchcock book without ritual obeisance to Wood is almost unimaginable, but the man who more or less ignited Hitchcock studies in the English speaking world goes uncited. Nor does Conrad refer to Raymond Durgnat, whose own quirky book on The Master has had some influence. Conrad makes passing references to Truffaut's interview book on the director, but that's about it: there's no mention of James Naremore, Leonard Leff, or any of the scores of writers who have tackled the man whom a friend of mine once characterized as the "fat pandered" (he has since revised his opinion).

Conrad's book is a critic free zone. Instead, he prefers to explore his own lifelong fascination with the director in an effort to make as many connections as he can among the films themselves.

Conrad seems to have two strategies. First, he takes Hitchcock's films as an unofficial autobiography. He seems to see the filmography as much more personal than any other critic before him. And second, Conrad returns to the sources of Hitchcock's films, finding a great deal of interest in what Hitchcock and his screenwriters left out or dropped from the various novels, short stories, and plays, often suggesting that what Hitchcock deleted were the very things that drew him to the material in the first place, but which would be too revelatory if finally included (the sadism of Laughton in The Paradine Case, for example).

hile erecting this machinery, Conrad's arias are breathtaking. He skips among many films and makes numerous connections, but the book never feels superficial. One randomly picked page reveals citations and linkages among the following subjects: Godard, Henry Fonda in The Wrong Man, Dreyer's Ordet, The Lodger, God, divine intervention, Mount Rushmore, Saboteur, The British Museum (it's page 46 if you want to see how he connects the dots).

Conrad, an Australian teaching in England, offers up a rich diet of insights, associations, interpretations, and beautifully phrased analogies (motels like the one in Psycho "institutionalize our transitoriness"). Conrad's bottomless energy reminds the reader of the early David Thomson (Movie Man) before Thomson's desire to join the movie industry shifted his sympathies from directors to producers. It comes as a logical surprise, than, when Thomson himself reviews the book for the New Republic's October 1 issue (typically, after what seems like a celebration, it ends on the sour note disparaging Hitchcock).

onrad's enthusiasm is so detailed, his memory and research so good, that you actually begin to doubt yourself. Originally, I thought I had detected an error on page 50, where he describes Jimmy Stewart's bell tower escape from the church in The Man Who Knew Too Much. I had forgotten the end of that sequence. Conrad made me see the film with fresh eyes. Nevertheless, I think he slightly misinterprets Hitchcock's meaning when the director said that "The best screen actor is the man who can do nothing extremely well," quoted on page 88. Surely Hitchcock was not deriding actors, but noting that there are certain people the camera loves even when they are inactive. Also, I don't remember that Stewart's character in Rope is in publishing, rather than the killers' (former) teacher, but I haven't seen the movie for a while, and Jane Sloan's excellent bibliography for once doesn't go into exhaustive detail (I will update this remark when I get the DVD). Nevertheless, Conrad's book is an invigorating read. There are right now at least 15 recent Hitchcock publications on my shelf, most occasioned by the Hitchcock centenary, with more to come (such as Patrick McGiligan's forthcoming bio). But Conrad's book instantly demanded a thorough reading.

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