What Makes the ‘Greatest Film
of All Time’ So Great?
By Jon N. Hall
December 2016
(WARNING: here lie embedded videos.)
The first movie that I ever
really studied is now regarded by some film critics as the “greatest film of
all time.” I discovered it in the mid-1980s after reading a review by James
Loutzenhiser, a Kansas City psychiatrist who moonlighted as a movie critic. The
review was intriguing enough that I drove out to Watts Mill to screen the thing
at the dollar cinema.
And there, in that darkened low-rent little theatre began my long and
unwholesome fixation with Madeleine Elster.
With that first screening, I
knew I had found something special. And soon after, the film ran on cable, so I
taped it. That allowed me to screen it over and over again, until deep engrams were
burnt into my young brain, leaving it permanently etched with the director’s
dark obsessions.
Mostly I watched my find on
the weekends. I’d settle on a chilled libation and then settle in to watch my
contraband VHS tape. But viewing was not always orderly, as sometimes I’d
fast-forward to certain scenes that are emotionally powerful for me; scenes of
“high sentiment.”
Let’s cut the suspense: the
film is Alfred Hitchcock’s 1958 masterpiece Vertigo.
Although Vertigo is classified as a thriller,
it has elements from other genres, too. There’s a bit of crime, mystery, and
even the supernatural. But what Vertigo
really is, in my estimation, is a love story.
Sounds like a chick
flick, right? But I’m not sure if
chicks can really understand Vertigo
and its protagonist’s psyche. The heart of Vertigo
is the obsession that one “Scottie” Ferguson has for the aforementioned Madeleine,
and how, after he loses her, he tries to transform another woman, Judy, into
Madeleine. Vertigo is about a man’s
obsession with a particular “look.” Although feminine allure can come in all
manner of packages, our hero will settle for only one. His dilemma is summed up
by the lady at Ransohoff's helping Scottie to find for Judy the exact grey suit
that Madeleine wore: “You certainly do
know what you want, sir.”
Vertigo did not do very well at the box office in 1958. And
for a while it was unavailable in America and regarded as a “lost film.” But in
1982, not long before I saw it at Watts Mill, Vertigo made the Critic’s Top Ten Poll. I refer to the poll to determine the greatest films of all time conducted every ten years since 1952 by Sight & Sound magazine. I was
unaware of this when I began my repeated viewing of the film, which was
probably a good thing. In any event, my taste in cinema was vindicated in 2012,
when Vertigo ascended to the top of the list.
To really appreciate Vertigo, I contend that the viewer must
be emotionally strung together in a particular way. Some may just not appreciate
the film because the story is rather farfetched and implausible. In fact,
Hitchcock was aware of this when he spoke of the “hole in the story,” which I
learned of in the excellent documentary Hitchcock/Truffaut (2015) by director Kent Jones.
With the possible exception
of Psycho, Jones spends more time on Vertigo than any of Hitch’s other films.
I’ll let you discover what Jones’s interviewees had to say, but allow me to
quote one, director James Gray: “I think Kim Novak coming out of the bathroom
is the single greatest moment in the history of movies.”
That’s bold talk for a
four-eyed movie director. But what, pray, makes Vertigo so great? None of the auteurs
Jones interviews fully answers that question, but I’m gonna show you.
“The Gentleman Seems to Know
What He Wants”
When my “thing” for Vertigo really got going, I shared my passion
for it with my friends. Feeling expansive one day at work, I announced to my
workmate in the cubicle next to mine that Vertigo
is really an opera. Of course, it’s not
really an opera, as it’s not sung. But, like opera, the flick has a
powerful score. In fact, the score operates like Wagner: throughout the film we
hear leitmotifs, short themes called “cells,” that
recur over and over but with subtle variations.
Due to the good graces of
YouTube, I can demonstrate some of what makes Vertigo so great. I’ll use James Conlon’s 1999 recording, as it has
of all the original music from the movie, which the 1958 soundtrack does not. I’ve
never read Bernard Herrmann’s score, and don’t know what, if anything, he called his motifs, but go
to Wikipedia for the breakdown of the music “cues,” as well as to get info on the recordings.
Let’s look at the central
motif, what we’ll call the “Love Theme,” and notice how Mr. Herrmann varies it
and builds upon it. This little exercise consists of eight videos, and to save
time I’ve positioned them to start at the exact moments when the Love Theme
emerges. Four of the variations last fewer than 30 seconds each and those videos
will stop by themselves. (Be sure each video has stopped playing before
clicking on the next one. To stop it playing, simply click in the middle of a
video’s screen.) The other variations last for minutes, and in them Herrmann
develops the Love Theme about as much as possible, wringing every last drop of
sentiment and meaning out of it.
The first time we hear the
Love Theme is when Madeleine drives her Jaguar out to the redwoods at Muir
Woods, Scottie’s in the passenger seat. Oddly, the original soundtrack doesn’t
have this important passage. It’s called “The Outing,” and do notice its
serenity.
We next hear the Love Theme in “3 A.M.” In this variation the motif is wistful, plaintive. It accompanies a night shot of San Francisco’s Union Square where Scottie, unable to sleep, is walking. When the theme ends we see Scottie back at his apartment asleep on his sofa still dressed in his street clothes. The doorbell rings and Scottie awakens. It’s Madeleine and she’s just remembered more of her disturbing dream. Scottie is familiar with what she describes; it’s the old Spanish mission in San Juan Bautista.
Later that day our pair takes
Madeleine’s Jag to the mission, where things go tragically wrong. The Love
Theme here is varied by lengthening the first three notes, especially the first
note. I believe this is important because it “grounds” the motif, making it
more heartfelt. This is fitting as it accompanies the moment when Scottie first
confesses his love for Madeleine, perhaps the most romantic moment in the movie.
The scene is called “Farewell.”
So Scottie has lost his love,
and is suffering. The next iteration of the Love Theme is at the beginning of “The
Nightmare.” Notice how sad the motif has become as Scottie visits Madeleine’s
grave. The video will stop before we get into the actual nightmare.
The next iteration of the
Love Theme is toward the end of “Dawn.” This variation is blared out with a
vengeance by the French horns as the camera pans across the façade of the Brocklebank
Apartments, where Madeleine lived. We then see Scottie looking at the building,
and although he’s been discharged from the sanitarium, the music tells us he’s
still haunted by the loss of Madeleine.
“The Hair Color” variation
accompanies one of the most emotionally riveting scenes in the movie. Scottie
has just bought new clothes for Judy at Ransohoff’s. But Judy is upset that
Scottie is trying to remake her into Madeleine. Rather than using the Conlon
recording, let’s view the scene from the movie. The scene has no music until
just before Scottie says “the color of your hair.” The insertion of the Love
Theme at this exact moment is masterful.
Performed in concert halls as
a stand-alone excerpt, the famous “Scene D’Amour” is the penultimate appearance
of the Love Theme. It’s the scene that includes the moment that director James
Gray thinks is “the greatest moment in the history of movies.” It’s when Judy
has been transformed into Madeleine and Scottie once again embraces his lost
love. This climax might put one in mind of Wagner, perhaps Tristan. But the part of the “Scene D’Amour” that is the most
powerful for me is its very beginning, when Scottie waits for Judy to return
from the beauty salon; we hear the Love Theme in its most tender and intimate
rendering.
In “Finale” we get the final
iteration of the Love Theme. Scottie is now aware of the fraud committed
against him, and has dragged Judy to the top of the mission bell tower to
confront her. But a nun enters the scene, scaring Judy who falls to her death.
The movie ends with Scottie standing on the sheer parapet from which Judy has
just fallen, as fortissimo French horns cruelly repeat the Love Theme. Though
cured of his vertigo, Scottie has lost his idealized dream of love for a second
time.
If these examples of the
movie’s main musical motif don’t “do it” for you, as Judy might put it, then I
doubt that Vertigo is the movie for
you. But if you are moved, know that there are several other powerful motifs in
the film, and like the Love Theme, these other motifs recur. There is one bit
of music, though, that appears only once in the body of the movie itself, but which
we hear in the first three or four seconds of the film and during the opening credits
that follow. These simple arpeggios tell us what the film is really about. Your
assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to find the one scene where we hear
this simple music. To help you in that task, here’s the 1999 recording by James Conlon, complete with playlist.
Despite Hitchcock’s genius, Vertigo wouldn’t work without Bernard
Herrmann’s wonderful music; the implausible storyline would be just too
off-putting. But with the score, the story recedes in importance and the movie
lover can luxuriate in the fusion of two art forms, the visual and the musical.
Without Bernard Herrmann’s great score, Vertigo
would not be “the greatest film of all time.”
Jon N. Hall of ULTRACON
OPINION is a programmer from Kansas City. An earlier version
of this article appeared at The Federalist in 2016.
Comments
Post a Comment