The development of the continuity or matching cut reflects the realization that effective storytelling requires the filmmaker to depict simultaneously perceived areas of space even as his filmstrip continues to run forward sequentially. Not surprisingly, one of the most common inspirations for practical continuity management arose from the need to establish or Identify a location from its exterior before proceeding to detail action transpiring on the interior.


                  The Haverstraw Tunnel,

                    Biograph, USA, 1897

Experiments in a Tunnel

  Consider a little film called The Haverstraw Tunnel, which, though perhaps more in the nature of a “gag” than a “story,” was the most popular Biograph film of 1897 (see Figure R8.1). The film did little more than demonstrate the results of mounting a camera on the front of a train and then running the train through a tunnel. The visceral impact, however, was powerful, and before long, so called “phantom rides” were popular attractions at motion picture shows on both sides of the Atlantic. When the novelty began to wear off, the English filmmaker G.A. Smith took a studio-made shot of a couple kissing in a railroad car and recommended that exhibitors insert it in the middle of a “phantom” train ride (see Figure 5.8). Later in the same year (1899), the English firm Bamforth and Company, which specialized in one-shot imitations of other producers’ subjects, took Smith’s idea one (small) step further, furnishing exhibitors with a complete three-shot gag in The Kiss in the Tunnel: an exterior shot of a train entering a tunnel cuts to an interior shot of two people stealing a kiss in the “dark” and then cuts back to another exterior shot of the train as it exits the tunnel.[1]

The terms of the gag can be transposed, as in Edwin S. Porter’s What Happened in the Tunnel (1903). The first shot opens on the interior of the train, where a young man flirts with a young woman who’s accompanied by a black maid; the film then cuts to darkness as the train enters a tunnel (still an interior shot) and then, cutting again, returns to the interior scene, where—by means of stop action—the maid has taken the young woman’s place and so receives the hero’s stolen kiss. Porter’s film, of course, makes use of a direct cut solely in order to mask the stop-action trick; it attempts no true cutting on action. Likewise, the Bamforth version of The Kiss in the Tunnel imitates such a cut only in a limited technical sense: the first and third shots record “action” in the sense that the train is in motion but are not matched for continuity to the movement enacted in the middle shot.


                   The Kiss in the Tunnel,

                  Bamforth & Co., UK, 1899

Does The Kiss in the Tunnel nevertheless simulate an unobtrusive transition that condenses time and space? Is continuity, in other words, a goal of the scenic construction in its most fundamental sense? It’s impossible to tell: the duration of the train’s passage through the tunnel—from the moment it enters at the end of Shot 1 to the time it exits at the beginning of Shot 3—is apparently the same as the duration of the kiss in Shot 2. More importantly, we can confirm this conclusion because the film establishes only one perspective on the action captured in Shot 2. The perspective on the train in Shots 1 and 3 bears no inherent constructive relationship to the perspective established with the cut to Shot 2. To put it simply, the challenge of continuity isn’t met because the challenge of simultaneity isn’t acknowledged. Nothing in the shot construction of the sequence asks the viewer to posit two simultaneous perspectives on the same action; if we’re inclined to assume “continuity” among the three shots, it’s because nothing in their content prompts us to do otherwise.

North by Northwest: The Story Value of the Train-in-the-Tunnel Gag

  The train-in-the-tunnel gag can be transformed into an elaborate jest when taken up by a director like Alfred Hitchcock. Let's consider three sequences from North by Northwest, a combination thriller and romantic comedy released in 1959. The first sequence occurs at the very end of the film and is excerpted by the series of shots in Figure R8.2. Pursued by a gang of murderous international spies, Roger Thornhill (Cary Grant) and Eve Kendall (Eva Marie Saint) find themselves cornered atop the famous Mount Rushmore monument (Figure R8.2/Shots 1,2). Their only hope is to climb down by negotiating the gigantic presidential busts. After a skirmish and a fall, Thornhill is left holding Kendall with one hand and clinging to a rock ledge with the other; to make matters worse, one of the villains is crunching the hero’s knuckles under his shoe (Figure R8.2/Shot 3). The villain will be shot by police officers stationed above, but the predicament of the hero and heroine—from a strictly physical point of view—is beyond precarious: it’s seemingly impossible for Thornhill to recover his grip and, suspended entirely without leverage, lift Kendall to safety with one hand. Hitchcock’s solution amounts simply to begging the question: he cuts back and forth between closeups of the two principals’ faces (Figure R8.2/Shot 4) until we suddenly realize that Thornhill is seated comfortably in the upper berth of a sleeper on a train. He pulls Kendall into bed with him (Figure R8.2/Shot 5), for they are now not only safe but happily married. The final shot of the film is a high-angle long shot of the train as it enters a tunnel (Figure R8.2/Shot 6).

The Romantic Comedy

  Hitchcock called the final shot of North by Northwest “one of the most impudent shots I ever made” because his deployment of its imagery makes overt what was always implicit in primitive variations on the old joke, such as The Kiss in the Tunnel: the tunnel is vaginal, the train phallic, and in a climax celebrating sexual union, what Hitchcock acknowledges to be a “phallic symbol” is a genial means of underscoring the film’s resolution in the moment in which the two lovers are finally allowed to come together.[2]


                       North by Northwest:

                    Sleeper Car Seduction

For North by Northwest, according to philosopher-critic Stanley Cavell, is a romantic comedy in the sense that it inherits “the preoccupations and discoveries of Shakespearean romantic comedy.” To appreciate this argument fully, it’s helpful to emphasize one element in the film’s plot: namely, the fact that Thornhill and Kendall have already met, united in romantic love, and been separated by forces both within and beyond their control. As a result of machinations engineered by her lover, the villain Vandamm, Kendall has seduced Thornhill during a train trip from New York to Chicago, sharing a sleeping compartment exactly like the one in which they’ll take their honeymoon at film’s end. As a result of machinations engineered by a U.S. government counterespionage agency, she has reluctantly abandoned Thornhill (indeed, sent him to his death in a cornfield—see Figure 8.14) and rejoined her lover. The resolution of North by Northwest thus concerns “remarriage”—that is, a metaphorical variation on the effort of two lovers to restore a sundered relationship. The “comedy of remarriage,” reports Cavell, borrows from the traditions of both

Old and New Comedy: while both, being forms of romantic comedy, show a young pair overcoming individual and social obstacles to their happiness, figured as a concluding marriage that achieves individual and social reconciliations, New Comedy stresses the young man’s efforts to overcome obstacles posed by an older man
. . . to winning the young woman of his choice, whereas Old Comedy puts particular stress on the heroine, who may hold the key to the successful conclusion of the plot . . . and who may undergo something like death and restoration. . . . [T]he drive of [the] plot [of the comedy of remarriage] is not to get the central pair together, but to get them back together, together again.

Listen to the audio


                      Alfred Hitchcock and

                    François Truffaut, 1962

One feature of the genre, adds Cavell, is “the narrative’s removal of the pair to a place of perspective in which the complication of the plot will achieve what resolution it can.”[4] Hitchcock’s site for that perspective is chosen in part because “I’ve always wanted to do a chase sequence across the faces of Mount Rushmore.” To a large extent, he told French critic-director François Truffaut, “I made North by Northwest with tongue in cheek. . . . When Cary Grant was on Mount Rushmore, I would have liked to put him inside Lincoln’s nostril and let him [Lincoln or Grant?] have a sneezing fit.”[5] Mount Rushmore was chosen in part because such “situations are so familiar that you have to put into them unfamiliar pieces of activity so that it makes the whole of the activity fresh. You can’t take [an ordinary] street. That’s not enough,” Hitchcock has explained elsewhere. “But the Statue of Liberty, Mount Rushmore . . . are symbols [of order],” and the morality of a story is brought home more forcefully when people are surprised by the irruption of evil in places that symbolize order, for “evil,” in Hitchcock’s scheme of things, “is complete disorder.”[6]

Lucky Coincidence and Mundane Miracles

  Which brings us back not merely to the image and function of Mount Rushmore in North by Northwest, but, more particularly, to the question of how Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint manage to extricate themselves from the impossible position in which they find themselves in Figure R8.3, get off the mountain, and find refuge in a sleeper car. We can argue, of course, that they were rescued by the same police officers who dispatched the villain who was stepping on the hero’s hand. But that would be questing irritably after a plausibility that we could in any case find only too late: it requires only the twenty fourth of a second between cuts for Hitchcock to get them off the mountain and into bed. “I’m not concerned with plausibility,” he told Truffaut:

That’s the easiest part of it, so why bother. . . . [I]f you’re going to analyze everything in terms of plausibility or credibility, then no fiction script can stand up to that approach, and you wind up doing a documentary. . . . In the documentary, the basic material has been created by God, whereas in the fiction film, the director is the god; he must create life. And in the process of that creation, there are lots of feelings, forms of expression, and viewpoints that have to be juxtaposed. We should have total freedom to do just as we like, just so long as it’s not dull.[7]

Perhaps, then, we’re better advised to fall back upon an answer that requires only a modicum of plausibility (or even just the merest glimmer of faith in plausibility): our hero and heroine were very fortunate. According to one reading of the film, this treatment of the theme of fortune or chance is quite compatible with the elements of romance, as in romantic comedy: “In the world of romance,” says Lesley Brill,[8]

. . . the ordinary constraints of natural law are loosened. As in dreams and nightmares, reality mixes with projections of desire and anxiety. . . .

The plot of romance leads to adventure, with the killing of [an] . . . evil figure the usual penultimate action and the winning of a mate the conclusion . . . The plot usually revolves about a quest (often thrust upon the protagonist rather than chosen) and entails perilous journeys, violent struggles, mountaintop epiphanies, disappearances and apparent deaths, and triumphant returns. Rather than being rationalized or made plausible, such plots emphasize lucky coincidence and exhibit a high degree of conventionality and artificiality. . . . Good and evil figures embody radically competing worldviews.


                      North by Northwest:

                Love as Romantic Fiction

As in North by Northwest, the good characters struggle to establish an “innocent world” against the world corrupted by experience: clearly, the activities of both Vandamm and the unspecified government agency (headed by an unnamed “Professor”) have corrupted the world that was made for lovers, two of whom it has wrested from innocence (at least political innocence) and hurled into the Cold War. Innocence, however, is often aided by “the miraculous,” not the least important manifestation of which is the fact that two people can meet and fall in love. “It is typical of Hitchcock, and of romantic fictions,” says Brill,

that the concluding marriage should resolve the problems of both partners. There is a structural logic behind such plot configurations. Humans, injured and deficient by nature, can be healed and made whole only by the mundane miracle of love. . . .

To judge by the condition of all the characters at the beginning of North by Northwest, humans are personally fragmented . . . and ruled by laws that regulate their disorder but do not meliorate it. To judge by the condition of Thornhill and Eve at the end of the film, the maladies of being human are not beyond remedy. The cure is love, the most miraculous and unreasonable of the implausibilities of romance.[9]

What to Do with the Viewpoint of a Cow Watching a Train Go By

  At the opening of the second sequence in which we’re interested, we should note the way Hitchcock contrives the meeting of Thornhill and Kendall: they’re strangers who literally bump into one another on a train. Thornhill hides from the police by ducking into a convenient compartment, and she—inexplicably, at least for the moment—helps him by misleading his pursuers. They part without exchanging any meaningful information, and Thornhill now finds himself trapped on the very train for which he’d earlier failed to get a ticket. Lowering his sunglasses, he peers through a window, where he sees the uniformed legs of a policeman, and then Hitchcock's camera performs the following maneuvers:


                      North by Northwest:

            Window on the World Outside

After the conductors pass the camera, Thornhill emerges from a door marked “Toilet.” Hero and heroine then meet again in the dining car, where they’re seated next to a window. In a lengthy series of two and full shots, they converse while the landscape passes by outside (Figure R8.4). When the train comes unexpectedly to a stop, Kendall warns Thornhill that the police are about to search the train: we see the police from her perspective and then from his—looking in both views from inside the train onto the activity on the platform outside. On two subsequent occasions, the camera will again take up a “point of view” from what appears to be the side of the moving train (it’s actually placed on the rear platform—see Figure R8.5), and it won’t take up an objective point of view from outside the train until Thornhill and Kendall have left it: for the duration of this sequence, the interior world of lovers on a train has become the “real” world—the only space in which the camera is permitted to chronicle the progress of their romance.

Unlike the early filmmakers who would ultimately be at pains to establish the relationship between the space outside the train and the space inside it by integrating into a continuous whole the various objective and “subjective” ways of capturing “real” space, Hitchcock uses the much more sophisticated cinematic strategy at his command to transform one level of objective reality into another: rather than link the worlds inside and outside the train by identifying the multiple perspectives from which they may be seen, Hitchcock contrives to detach the “inside” world and to aggrandize it at the expense of the “outside” world, which is placed temporarily in abeyance. Thus he forgoes any objective long shots of the train seen from outside. For one thing, he explained to Truffaut, “planting the camera in the countryside to shoot a passing train would merely give us the viewpoint of a cow watching a train go by. I tried to keep the public inside the train, with the train.”[10]

Images in the Frame

  The interlude inside the train, of course, is an integral part of a much more complex story that transpires mostly outside of the train, but for Hitchcock, the art of telling the cinematic story includes the art of creating images within the frame, not merely of establishing perspectival and other relationships between frames. When Truffaut suggests that “to inject realism into a given frame, a director must allow for a certain amount of unreality in the space immediately surrounding that frame,” Hitchcock agrees, adding that “the placing of images on the screen, in terms of what you're expressing, should never be dealt with in a factual manner. Never! You can get anything you want through the proper use of cinematic techniques, which enable you to work out any image you need.”[11]

See the excerpt


                      North by Northwest:

                        Osculant Framing

The Kiss  The practice of devising “cinematic techniques” to refashion “reality” within the confines of the frame accounts for what Brlll calls “the conspicuous artifice and artificiality of North by Northwest.”[12] Perhaps the most notable example occurs when Thornhill and Kendall, having evaded the police in her sleeping compartment, share the long (albeit fragmented) kiss featured in the final sequence that we want to analyze (see Figure R8.6). In effect, the scene rehearses on a more strictly spatial level the same principle that governs Hitchcock’s rejection of conventional continuity when he declines to locate any perspective placing the train itself in the context of objective reality: Many directors, he told Truffaut, “will shoot a scene within the context of the whole setting rather than solely in the context of [the] frame, which ultimately is what appears on the screen . . . [T]hey should be concerned only with what’s going to come up on the screen.”[13] What’s important about this scene is the union of the lovers, and that event is the only facet of “reality” that demands to be expressed in the imagery contained in the frame. Hitchcock explained the rationale behind a similar scene—a marathon kiss between Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman in Notorious (1946)—as follows:

I conceived that scene in terms of the participants’ desire not to interrupt the romantic moment. It was essential not to break up the mood, the dramatic atmosphere. Had they broken apart, all of the emotion would have dissipated . . . . I felt it indispensable that they should not separate, and I also felt that the public, represented by the camera, was the third party to this embrace . . . . [In the North by Northwest kiss] we applied the same
rule. . . .

Punctuated by an exchange of romantic dialogue (THORNHILL: “[There’s] only one bed. I think that’s a good omen, don’t you?" KENDALL: “Wonderful”), the scene consists primarily of two shots—reverse-angle shots taken over one figure’s shoulder and including both characters in the frame. We notice, however, that although Kendall is backed up against the wall, the camera seems to be able to make room for itself whenever it’s called upon to shoot over her shoulder: conventional continuity, in other words, has been jettisoned in favor of an artifice of technique that not only expresses the director’s dramatic concept of the scene, but privileges the action as something that transpires in a moment divorced from ordinary “real” space.

Internal Scenarios

  The lovers are in a world of their own, but it’s not quite the “innocent” world that it’s their function to hold up against the corrupt world in which they find themselves. It’s important to remember that North by Northwest includes certain “internal scenarios” other than the scenario devised by Hitchcock—that is, the one in which Thornhill and Kendall fall in love, marry, and find refuge in an innocent world safe from the infections of the larger corrupt world. “In the characters of the Professor and Vandamm,” observes Marian Keane, “Hitchcock continues a lineage of figures whose intentions resemble and also challenge his own act of authoring the world of the film. Both characters have scripts which are subversive to Hitchcock’s own, and both devise little acts of theater, of playacting and violence, in order to achieve their ends.”[15]


                      North by Northwest:

                    Plotting the Romance

Indeed, the whole adventure on the train unfolds according to a scenario scripted by Vandamm, who’s determined to murder Thornhill because he believes him to be a government operative named George Kaplan. Meanwhile, the Professor, fully aware that the innocent Thornhill has been accidentally pulled into the undertow of Vandamm’s intrigue, decides to leave him hanging because his presence diverts Vandamm’s attention from the agency’s real operative (Kendall) (see Figure R8.7). “The Professor's plot,” concludes Keane, is thus “inseparable from Vandamm’s, and both strategies are inseparable from Hitchcock’s. Through these characters, and by distinguishing himself from them, Hitchcock announces who he is as a filmmaker, asserts his own presence, and contemplates the conditions of his authoring presence behind the camera.”[16]

From behind the camera, Hitchcock privileges the moment of the kiss, elevating it from the corrupt world that’s plotted it and signaling his determination to do so with a display of technical artifice—namely, the deployment of spatially “impossible” two shots from over Eve Kendall’s shoulder. The kiss is important not merely to the characters but to Hitchcock as the author of his scenario. The scenarios plotted by both Vandamm and the Professor begin to unravel at precisely this moment because the Thornhill/Kendall kiss embodies the irruption into the world of the internal scenarists of an unpredictable variable: the two pawns fall in love. “In the world of [Hitchcock’s] romantic narratives,” concludes Brill,

human life achieves integrity and joy through the miraculous coincidences and irrational feelings that make people more than a series of premises and conclusions. . . .

Love between men and women, the most illogical and most common of the miracles in romantic fictions, is the central subject of nearly all Hitchcock’s films. Like divine grace, love cannot be earned or deserved; it must be “amazing.” And like divine grace, it brings clarity and purpose to a desperately corrupt world. . . . [H]eterosexual love in Hitchcock’s films [thus] tends to be an analogue of divine grace. . . .[17]


                        Claude Chabrol (left) and Eric Rohmer

What Is a “Catholic Artist”?

  Does this mean that, along with the French critic-directors Eric Rohmer and Claude Chabrol, we should regard Hitchcock as “a Catholic auteur”? Does he regard “corruption” as so thoroughly a “part of our very nature,” so indelibly “the heritage of original sin . . ., that without reference to Christian dogma, to the idea of Grace, the pessimism of [his] attitude would rightly make us angry”?[18] For his own part, Hitchcock reminded Truffaut that “I come from a Catholic family, and I had a strict, religious upbringing. . . . I don’t think I can be labeled a Catholic artist, but it may be that one’s early upbringing influences a man’s life and guides his instinct.”[19] Perhaps we’re on safer ground in reaffirming Brill’s use the term “analogue”: the Catholic concept of grace—of divine love freely (and miraculously) bestowed—prompts us to make a logical inference about the role of love and other purely fortuitous phenomena in our quotidian lives. Conversely, of course, we can argue that Hitchcock invites us to use a complex of moral and psychosexual insights to interpret theological teaching, agreeing with Rohmer and Chabrol that his concept of corruption is “less of a moral than of a metaphysical order.”[20]

Neither point of view precludes a preference for seeing Hitchcock as a moralist in the humanistic vein. For Canadian critic Robin Wood, the Rohmer-Chabrol approach tends to reduce Hitchcock’s films “to theoretical skeletons.” We’re better advised, he argues, to look for “themes expressed in [their] form and style . . . as much as any extractable ‘content.’”[21] If we take this approach, says Wood, we will discover two reasons why Hitchcock’s films succeed in “disturbing” us:

One is Hitchcock’s complex and disconcerting moral sense, in which good and evil are seen to be so interwoven as to be virtually inseparable, and which insists on the existence of evil impulses in all of us. The other is his ability to make us aware, perhaps not quite at a conscious level . . ., of the impurity of our own desires.[22]

If, in turn, we look more closely at the character of Roger Thornhill, we see that North by Northwest entertains us because we recognize the hero’s specifically human qualities, both those that contribute to his dilemma and those that help him to survive it: “[H]e is a man,” according to Wood,

See the excerpt


                      North by Northwest:

                         Restoring Order

. . . who lives purely on the surface, refusing all commitment or responsibility . . ., a man who relies above all on the exterior trappings of modern civilization. . . . We . . . attach ourselves to his smug confidence in being in control of his environment.

And then, abruptly . . , the ground is cut away from under his/our feet. Hitchcock’s sense of the precariousness of all human order [takes over].

[The first part of the film] is devoted to a systematic stripping away of all the protective armor of the modern city man on which Thornhill relies. . . . The opportunist has been defeated by chance. . . .

[But when] he learns that [Eve’s] life may depend on him . . ., in agreeing to be Kaplan, he is accepting his responsibility and his involvement in a deep relationship. . . . [T]he significance of Mount Rushmore . . . [is that] it suggests the order and stability toward which Thornhill is progressing and to which the acceptance of a strong relationship with its accompanying responsibilities is the essential step.[23]

[1] For Figure R8.1, see Charles Musser, The Emergence of Cinema: The American Screen to 1907 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1990), pp. 228, 232-34. On The Haverstraw Tunnel as a vaudeville attraction, see Robert C. Allen, “The Movies in Vaudeville: Historical Context of the Movies as Popular Entertainment,” in The American Film Industry, ed. Tino Balio, rev.ed. (Madison: Univ. of Wisconsin Press, 1985), esp. pp. 71-73, at (accessed June 17, 2016).

On Bamforth and The Kiss in the Tunnel, see esp. Richard Brown, “Film and Postcards—Cross Media Symbiosis in Early Bamforth Films,” in Visual Delights—Two: Exhibition and Reception, ed. Vanessa Toulmin and Simon Popple (Eastleigh, UK: John Libbey, 2005), pp. 236-52. See also Joe Kember, “Bamforth, James (1842-?),” Screenonline (British Film Institute, 2003-14), at (accessed June 17, 2016); Kember, “Bamforth and Co.,” Screenonline (BFI Screenonline, 2003-14), at (accessed June 17, 2016); Richard Brown and John Barnes, “James Bamforth,” Who’s Who of Victorian Cinema (British Film Institute, 2014), at (accessed June 17, 2016).

On phantom rides, see esp. Tom Gunning, “Landscape and the Fantasy of Moving Pictures: Early Cinema’s Phantom Rides,” in Cinema and Landscape, ed. Graeme Harper and Joanathan Raynor (Chicago: Intellect Books, 2010), pp. 31-70; Lauren Rabinowitz, “From Hale’s Tours to Star Tours: Virtual Voyages and the Delirium of the Hyper-Real,” Iris No. 25 (1998), pp. 133-52. See also Jeffrey Geiger, Documentary Film: Projecting the Nation (Edinburgh: Edinburgh Univ. Press, 2011), esp. pp. 42-44, at (accessed June 17, 2016); Christian Hayes, “Phantom Rides,” Screenonline (BFI Screenonline, 2003-14), at (accessed June 17, 2016).

[2] François Truffaut with Helen G. Scott, Hitchcock (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1967), pp. 107, 108. On François Truffaut, see Reading 7.3. On the Truffaut-Hitchcock collaboration on the book, see Antoine de Baecque and Serge Toubiana, Truffaut, trans. Catherine Temerson (1999; rpt. Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 2000), pp. 194-99, 221-23. For a critique of Truffaut’s editorial practices in assembling the book, see Janet Bergstrom, “Lost in Translation? Listening to the Hitchcock-Truffaut Interview,” in A Companion to Alfred Hitchcock, ed. Thomas Leitch and Leland Poague (Oxford, UK, and Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011), ch. 21. See also Jonathan Everett Haynes, “Truffaut-Hitchcock,” in A Companion to François Truffaut, ed. Dudley Andrew and Anne Gillain (Oxford, UK, and Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013), Ch. 13.

[3] Pursuits of Happiness: The Hollywood Comedy of Remarriage (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1981), pp. 1-2. See also Cavell, “North by Northwest” (1981), in Cavell, Themes Out of School: Effects and Causes (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1984), pp. 152-72, at (accessed June 17, 2016). Rpt. in Cavell, Cavell on Film, ed. William Rothman (Albany: SUNY Press, 2005), Ch. 3. Rpt. in A Hitchcock Reader, ed. Marshall Deutelbaum and Leland Poague, 2nd ed. (1986; rpt. Oxford, UK, and Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), Ch.19.

[4] Pursuits of Happiness, p. 29.

[5] Hitchcock, p. 70.

[6] Richard Schickel, The Men Who Made the Movies (New York: Atheneum, 1975), p. 278. Schickel’s book is a companion volume to a series of documentary films on American directors produced in 1973. The Hitchcock installment can be seen as “The Men Who Made the Movies: Hitchcock (1973),” at The Alfred Hitchcock Wiki, n.d., at (accessed June 17, 2016), and Cinephilia & Beyond, n.d., at (accessed June 17, 2016).

Not surprisingly, the question of evil is a thoroughly examined Hitchcockian theme. See, for example: Mike Frank, “The Radical Monism of Alfred Hitchcock,” in The Changing Face of Evil in Film and Television, ed. Martin F. Norden (Amsterdam: Editions Rodopi, 2007), Ch. 3, at (accessed June 17, 2016); Philip Tallon, “Psycho: Horror, Hitchcock, and the Problem of Evil,” in Hitchcock and Philosophy, ed. David Baggett and William A. Drumin (Chicago: Open Court, 2013), Ch. 4; Allen Glover, “‘Evil Is Disorder,’” in Hitchcock by Hitchcock: Television and the Road to Psycho (New York: Paley Center for Media, 1995-2015), at (accessed June 17, 2016).

[7] Hitchcock, pp. 69 70.

[8] The Hitchcock Romance: Love and Irony in Hitchcock’s Films (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1988), esp. pp. 3-21. Chapter 1, which focuses on North by Northwest, is reprinted as “Hitchcock and Romance” in A Companion to Hitchcock, ed. Leitch and Poague, Ch.5. An undated essay entitled “I. Introduction: Hitchcock and Romance” covers more ground at (accessed June 17, 2016).

[9] The Hitchcock Romance, pp. 7, 9, 19.

[10] Hitchcock, p. 202.

[11] Hitchcock, pp. 200-01.

[12] The Hitchcock Romance, p. 17.

[13] Hitchcock, p. 199.

[14] Hitchcock, p. 199.

[15] Marian Keane, “The Designs of Authorship: An Essay on North by Northwest,” Wide Angle 4:1 (1980), p. 45.

[16] “The Designs of Authorship,” p. 45. Raymond Bellour discusses the “duplicity of the scenario” in North by Northwest in “Symbolic Blockage (on North by Northwest),” in The Analysis of Film, ed. Constance Penley (Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press, 2000), Ch. 4.

[17] The Hitchcock Romance p. 20.

[18] Hitchcock: The First Forty Four Films, trans. Stanley Hochman (New York: Frederick Ungar, 1979), pp. 25, 128.

[19] Hitchcock, p. 239.

[20] Hitchcock: The First Forty Four Films, p. 128. On Hitchcock's influence on the French Nouvelle Vague, or New Wave, especially on Chabrol and Rohmer, see John Orr, “Perverse Miracles: Hitchcock and the French New Wave,” in Hitchcock and Twentieth-Century Cinema (London: Wallflower Press, 2005), Ch. 6. On the New Wave, see Reading 6.1 and Reading 7.3.

[21] Hitchcock’s Films (1965; rpt. New York: Paperback Library, 1970), pp. 15, 21.

[22] Hitchcock’s Films, p. 21.

[23] Hitchcock’s Films, pp. 110-18. Hitchcock scholarship abounds in psychoanalytic readings of Roger Thornhill’s personality and propensities. On the role of “the phallic controlling mother” in North by Northwest, see Ayako Saito, “Hitchcock’s Trilogy: A Logic of Mis en Scène,” in Endless Night: Cinema and Psychoanalysis, Parallel Histories, ed. Janet Bergstrom (Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1999), esp. pp. 133-52. On “Freudian mother theory,” Thornhill’s relationship with his mother, and the relationship of motherhood to “patriarchy” (as represented by the Professor), see Paul Gordon, Dial “M” for Mother: A Freudian Hitchcock (Cranbury, NJ: Associated University Presses, 2008), esp. “Introduction.” On the “democratization of motherhood” and “political power” relations (again, as represented by the Professor), see Robert J. Corber, In the Name of National Security: Hitchcock, Homophobia, and the Political Construction of Gender in Postwar America (Durham, NC: Duke Univ. Press, 1993), esp. pp. 172-203.

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