Vertigo

(1958)

Directed by

Alfred Hitchcock

Review by Zach Saltz

Theodor Reik tells us that the supreme goal of human love, as of “mystical love,” is identification with the loved one.  A romantic relationship between two people is defined as a unit, a single cohesive bond.  The very act of sexual intercourse involves two bodies forming a harmonious single figure; any fan of Gothic literature knows that the most enduring love scene of the genre is between Cathy and Heathcliff, when Cathy quietly tells herself that she, herself, is Heathcliff. 

The perception becomes difficult when we consider how a woman’s identity is inherently shaped by the man who controls her.  This is not a two-way street, however; the man, bequeathed in Apollonian brute and intellect, is the proprietor, not the consumer.  She is his pawn, and in Vertigo (1958), she lives and breathes not in her identity, Judy, but in the identity the man she loves wants her to become -- that of disillusioned and troubled Madeleine, who herself is possessed by the dead spirit of Carlotta.  Judy becomes Madeleine because Scotty tells her so, and Madeleine becomes Carlotta because Gavin tells her so.  What is unaccounted for, however, is the paralyzing effect this has on the viewer; are we watching a psychological thriller, a murder mystery, or a perverse, voyeuristic tale of sexual fantasies?

What Vertigo isn’t, simply, is the story of a man who falls in love with three different women all contained within the same body; it’s something much more elusive and abstract, like the dream sequence midway through the film (a hallmark of Hitchcock seen in some of his other films).  Perhaps the dream provides the necessary evidence to explicate the meaning of the film; for that sequence provides the barrier in between a routine detective procedural (man stalks woman hoping to find catalyst to her insanity) and surrealist painting (man attempts to reincarnate sentimentalized vision of fractured beauty).  The dream transforms everything -- what is real, what isn’t, and what we should truly be afraid of.

The central theme of Alfred Hitchcock’s films is that of identity.  Whether it’s a deadly game of false identities (Notorious), identities that should have remained secret (The Man Who Knew Too Much), or complete amnesic submission into the subconscious (Spellbound), the Master of Suspense was obsessed with the concept that it is our identity, and its subsequent loss, that creates the most terrifying and chilling tales.  That prospect may be frightening, but what is more disturbing, the wonderfully gothic Vertigo suggests, is trying to dig up that very same identity which we have lost.

One must finally ask the question whether the film misogynistic in its underpinnings.  I do not think so, for a number of reasons.  First, the central psychological conflict -- that of a fear of heights, or, vertigo -- renders the traditionally imperious male hero incompetent and unable to control his sentimental emotions, something traditionally attached to the diminutive female.  The ploy surrounding Madeleine’s idolatry of Carlotta is later revealed to be a ploy with the purpose of duping fearful Scottie -- and it works beautifully, of course. 

There are also many elements laced throughout Vertigo that can be easily mistaken for overt sexism.  For instance, the film is told almost completely from Scottie’s perspective, and the one scene presented from Judy/Madeleine’s viewpoint -- the revelation concerning the murder -- is quickly torn up into pieces.  Hitchcock is not suggesting that the woman’s perspective is unimportant; it’s almost the complete opposite.  In this scene, we are shown the raw reality, unencumbered by male sexual drives of grandeur and fantasy.  The woman wants the truth, however much it may hurt, and she knows that the man will not be able to accept it.  By tearing up the past, she is protecting herself against the anger and manipulation of the man who only thinks he knows what he’s dealing with.

The film’s palette may suggest another facet beneath the façade of convention.  Hitchcock uses vibrant reds to exclamate traditional sensuality expressed in the color; when we first glimpse the rapturous figure of Judy/Madeleine, her surroundings are drenched in red, pulsating blood from the veins into the heart.  The opening images, undoubtedly influenced by the electric pop art modes of the emerging French New Wave, focus on the jigsaw-like puzzle of a woman’s visage, perpetuating radiant sensuality and shades of green and grey, however, are Hitchcock’s reality; for even in the transcendent first image of Judy/Madeleine, she is wearing a green dress, and in the unforgettable shot of Judy/Madeleine in the grey suit, beneath the green fog.

Perhaps the final curiosity of Vertigo is the character of Midge.  Her purpose in the film is unclear; she is not Scottie’s secretary or love interest or really any sort of vital character rendering a major effect on the outcome of the story.  The only way we can assess her is by labeling her Scottie’s “best buddy”, an archetype confined nearly inseparably to someone of the same gender as the hero.  Midge, though quietly sexy, is polymorphously androgenic, appropriately labeled “boyish yet motherly” by Karen Hollinger.  Her playful banter with Scotty suggests a sexually ambiguous persona, but it isn’t until she paints her head on the body of Carlotta (in a scene Dali would appreciate) that we learn of her longing for Scotty.  But she will never be recognized because her sexuality is too quiet, to say the least.  The only red she wears are in the rims of her eyeglasses.  But is this all she serves?  Or does Midge really hold the keys to something more integral to the story than we may think, on the surface?

Rating:

# 63 on Top 100