THE HOUSE OF HITCHCOCK: Blu-ray re-issue (Universal, Paramount, Warner Bros. MGM, 1942-1970) Universal Home Video

“For me, the cinema is not a slice of life, but a piece of cake.” – Alfred Hitchcock

Alfred Hitchcock remains one of the most – if not the most – revered directors in Hollywood history, even if he occasionally gets slammed for making the same movie over and over again. When pressed by a reporter, regarding his affinity for thrillers, Hitchcock once quipped, “If I made Cinderella, they’d be looking for the body in the coach.” Indeed, by the mid-1940’s, Hitchcock’s name was synonymous with suspense. And Hitch’s forays into straight comedy, 1941’s Mr. and Mrs. Smith, was widely considered ‘a lesser effort’. So, Hitchcock stuck with what he knew, refining techniques to make our skin crawl with delightful anticipation for a really good fright. Droll, sophisticated, uber-witty, and exacting, Hitchcock was undeniably in a class apart. Consider his reply to a camera set-up man, candidly informing him that his star, Tallulah Bankhead was not wearing any underwear on the set of Lifeboat (1944) – “I don't know if this is a matter for the costume department, make-up, or hairdressing.” Apart from being a genius in his medium, Hitch’ was also not above a bit of shameless self-promotion, with a minor streak of masochism, bent on always making his audience ‘suffer’ his nail-biting tension as much as possible.  “Give them pleasure,” Hitchcock once explained, “…the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare.”  Hitchcock’s ‘where’s Waldo-esque’ cameos (originally born out of necessity to fill-in crowd scenes on his more stringently budgeted British films, where money for hiring extras was tight) inadvertently led to his own popularity and became a much-anticipated trademark during his American tenure. Yet, it was those reoccurring cameos, as well as his amusing introductions to his weekly TV show ‘Alfred Hitchcock Presents’ that made his visage and wry humor instantly recognizable.

Hitchcock’s affinity for the ‘wrong man’ scenario and ‘MacGuffins’ (tangible commodities within the story that are of only superficial importance to the actual plot) was to become passé by the mid-1960s; a particularly difficult period for Hitch’ who saw his own popularity steadily plummet after the release of Marnie in 1964. Did audiences turn against Hitchcock or did his movies simply become less proficient? The jury is still out on that one. Diehard fans insist the master never made a bad film, but troubled productions like Torn Curtain (1966) and Topaz (1969) suggest otherwise. There is little to deny that by the end of his career, Hitchcock’s critical reputation had slipped. But his legacy in totem never fell entirely out of fashion. Endlessly revived on late night television, and later, in various formats on home video, Hitchcock remains indestructible. He is probably the only director who can still command a viewing audience on name recognition alone – enough to sell out tickets virtually in minutes whenever his films are revived on the big screen. That alone is impressive. But more so is his body of work, that while dated in its star power, has arguably never aged in its ability to shock and delight us with Hitchcock’s uncanny sense of ‘pure cinema’. Any one of Hitchcock’s many movies would be enough to sustain another director’s reputation as an auteur. That Hitchcock repeatedly gave us such iconic and superior movies (hitting the bull’s eye dead on) is beyond reproach. He is the undisputed master of suspense and every film maker since his time – even a few during it – owe him an eternal debt for providing them with the templates on how to make the successful thriller.

Universal Home Video has decided to regurgitate its already well-repurposed ‘Masterpiece Collection’ – re-branded several times over the years since its debut in 2011, but now, rechristening with a few disposable goodies and a lot of needless swag, as ‘The House of Hitchcock’. Arguably, not every film in this set is ‘a classic’. And there remain glaring omissions from this set, that otherwise represents the bulk of Hitch’s tenure from 1942 to 1971. 1955’s To Catch a Thief (under rights to Paramount, for which, presumably either these rights were not granted, or were never, in fact, asked for by Universal) is just one glaring absence. But where oh where is Rebecca (1940), Foreign Correspondent (1940), Suspicion (1941), Mr. and Mrs. Smith (1941), Lifeboat (1944) Spellbound (1945), The Wrong Man (1950), Stage Fright (1951) and, Dial M for Murder (1954)? While one can argue, Universal had no ‘arrangement’ with Fox, the custodians of some of these titles, they most certainly were able to reach an agreement with Warner Bros., as this set still includes North by Northwest (1959 – an MGM release for which Warner’s currently holds the rights). Incidentally, of the product under Warner’s custodianship, only Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Stage Fright have yet to receive their hi-def debut. For shame! But I digress.

The first movie in Universal’s repackaged affair is Saboteur (1942); a variation on war-time espionage themes more fully fleshed out in Hitch’s own Foreign Correspondent made the same year. Produced independently for Walter Wanger, the story is that of Barry Kane (Robert Cummings) an aircraft factory worker who is suspected of being a Nazi saboteur after a mysterious fire destroyed the munitions plant he worked in, killing his best friend. On the lam, Barry meets kindly blind man, Phillip Martin (Vaughan Glasser) and his niece Pat (Priscilla Lane), who is too quick to believe the worst about this mysterious man hiding in her uncle’s cabin – even going so far as to make several failed attempts to return Barry to the authorities. Eventually winning Pat’s trust, Barry embarks on a cross country chase after Frank Fry (Norman Lloyd); the real saboteur. Despite some clever and engaging set pieces, Saboteur is something of a patchwork; its screenplay by Peter Viertel, Joan Harrison and Dorothy Parker, becoming extremely episodic. The final race through New York City is thrilling. But the early tensions are often interrupted with glib repartee between Cummings and Lane - occasionally veering dangerously into screwball comedy. As such, Saboteur is edgy, but not brilliant. It is second-tier Hitchcock.

There are several reasons why Hitch’ considered Shadow of a Doubt (1943) – the second movie in this box set – his personal favorite. First, it was his chance to break away from the authoritarian rule of David O. Selznick, the producer whom Hitch’ regarded as an oppressive force of nature at best. The production also realized Hitchcock’s dream to direct films he also produced; this being made for his very own company, Skirball Productions – peripherally aided by Walter Wanger. The film was also something of a throwback to Hitch’s early days as a filmmaker in Britain in that most of the action takes place within a single setting – in this case, the unassuming family home, nestled in the small town of Santa Rosa.  Here, we meet young Charlie Newton (Teresa Wright), a teenager wilting from boredom. She is stirred from her doldrums with the unexpected arrival of her mother’s brother; Uncle Charles (Joseph Cotten) – for whom she has been named. There’s just one problem: Uncle Charles is also The Merry Widow Strangler, responsible for a string of heinous murders of rich dowagers back east. Charles presents the Newtons with lavish gifts - token souvenirs from his brutal slayings. Yet, the motive for his killings has not been money. In one of the film's most chilling moments, Uncle Charlie illustrates his indelible contempt for “rich, fat, greedy women”, equating their useless lives to slovenly animals, fit for the slaughter. His declaration raises more than a few curious eyebrows around the dinner table, particularly young Charlie – who has begun to have her suspicions. With a bit of amateur sleuthing, Charlie learns the truth about her beloved uncle. But she is initially reluctant to share her findings with the rest of the family, particularly her emotionally fragile mother, Emma (Patricia Collinge) for whom Charles’ sudden reappearance in town has meant everything.

Shadow of a Doubt is a beautifully crafted drawing room murder mystery – methodically paced and quite stylish in its deconstruction of that idyllic portrait of midtown America; a place where nothing bad is ever supposed to happen. Hitchcock shoots the Newton home – an actual house in Santa Rosa – with appreciation for its cloistered sense of home and hearth, as though it were the epitome of small-town gracious living. He furthers this idealism by populating the home with a solid cast of stellar supporting performers, including Henry Travers as Mr. Newton, Hume Cronyn, as a humorously meddlesome neighbor, Herbie Hawkins, and Macdonald Carey (a Fox favorite) in probably his best role, as the sympathetic police detective, Jack Graham with whom Charlie has begun an adolescent infatuation. Next up: Hitchcock’s first effort as a freelance director and his first film in color - Rope (1948) based partly on the Leopold Loeb case, but more directly derived from Patrick Hamilton’s modestly successful stage play; ‘Rope’s End’. In the play a pair of homosexual school mates has strangled a straight colleague for kicks. They throw a party for the deceased’s family while the body remains hidden somewhere in the house. The film went one step further, placing the body inside a rather large credenza and then serving food and drinks to the family atop its closed lid, converted into a makeshift dining table. To augment the perversity in this exercise, the murderous duo also invites their old college professor, Rupert Cadell (James Stewart) to the party for two reasons: first, he is supposed to have instilled Nietzsche’s theory of the superman in them, thereby providing the justification for their thrill-kill, and second, as Cadell – at least in the play – has had a homosexual affair with at least one of the killers.

Given the climate of censorship in Hollywood at that time, Hitchcock could not directly suggest any of the aforementioned aspects about the crime, though he did succeed in creating a rather sycophantic closeness between the two actors who eventually played the murderers, Brandon Shaw (John Dall) and Philip Morgan (Farley Granger). For his part, Hitchcock used Rope as a technical exercise - his second attempt to shoot an entire movie on just one set; a gimmick he promoted this time around as a film having ‘no edits’ or shot in ‘one continuous take.’ The premise, while interesting from a technical standpoint, proved impractical as only ten minutes of film existed in a camera at any given time. Undaunted, Hitchcock endlessly rehearsed his camera movements, closing in on an actor’s back or close-up of a wall at the end of each ten-minute break before reloading the camera for his next reel. The assemblage of raw footage does give an awkward illusion of continuity – an ‘uninterrupted’ photographic account of the stage play. Regrettably, it also makes the viewer acutely aware of the gimmick every ten minutes throughout the story by exposing the 'edits' that Hitchcock was desperately trying to hide. In hindsight, the chief difficulty with Rope is its central casting of James Stewart as Rupert Cadell, the boy’s criminology professor. Unable to project even the subtext of homosexuality, Stewart places the central premise curiously off balance. One cannot fathom any intimate understanding ever transpiring between Brandon, Philip and Rupert. As such, Cadell is left with the rather mundane task of detecting the crime and bringing his former pupils to justice. When Rope was finally released it did respectable business but was by no means a resounding success.

Arguably, the start of Hitchcock’s real ‘reel’ golden period in the U.S. began with the release of Rear Window (1954), the next movie in this box set. Based on Cornell Woolrich's 1942 short story 'It Had To Be Murder', Rear Window is a watershed picture for Hitchcock in many ways. First, it was his foray into widescreen. Second, it reunited Hitch’ with his favorite cool blonde, Grace Kelly (the two having worked previously on Dial M for Murder) and, one of his favorite leading men - James Stewart. In Rear Window, Stewart is L.B Jeffries, a somewhat sexually repressed magazine photographer, laid up with a leg he broke while on assignment. To pass the time, Jeffries spies on his neighbors: the voluptuous Miss Torso (Georgine Darcy), forlorn Miss Lonely Heart (Judith Evelyn), frustrated composer (Ross Bagdasarian) and frisky newlyweds (Rand Harper, Havis Davenport).  However, Jeff's attentions shift to the spurious comings and goings of one Lars Thorwald (Raymond Burr) after Thorwald’s wife, Anna (Irene Winston) suddenly vanishes from their apartment without a trace in the middle of the night. At first both Jeff's girlfriend, fashion model, Lisa Fremont (Grace Kelly) and his physical therapist, straight shooter, Stella (Thelma Ritter) believe he has begun to suffer from cabin fever. But then there are Thorwald’s unexplained bits of business slyly observed by all through Jeff’s rear window that suggest a more sinister conclusion. Did Lars Thorwald murder his wife? It isn’t long before Lisa, itching for excitement, but also the opportunity to prove to Jeff she is his kind of gal, decides to play amateur sleuth and get to the bottom of things – a move that nearly gets her killed in the process.

Rear Window is a miracle of screen economy. Jeffries' apartment, courtyard and the facing facades were all built as one gigantic three-sided indoor set inside Paramount’s Stage 11, removing the false floor at ground level to create an even greater sense of depth and height, thereby allowing for total control of lighting and sound conditions. The set is, at once, unremarkable, yet claustrophobic, adding to the tension in John Michael Hayes' taut screenplay. Like so many of Hitchcock's most fondly remembered thrillers, there is more than one story unfolding inside L.B. Jeffries' modest apartment. The central narrative is undoubtedly focused on resolving the mystery behind Anna Thorwald's disappearance. But there is also a fascinating subtext of male sexual frigidity running through the Jeff/Lisa romance. Lisa has already decided Jeff is her guy - a curious choice indeed, given his modest income and her affinity for expensive clothes; his middle-age angst pitted against her youthful maturity, and finally, his absolute aversion to wedding chimes that Lisa hears peeling madly for both of them.  In truth, Jeff cannot think of a single reason not to marry Lisa. She is perfect. Perhaps, that is the problem. Jeff knows that he is not. Given his flourish of critical and box office success with Rear Window, Hitchcock’s decision to do a decidedly featherweight black comedy next, The Trouble with Harry (1955) seems odd. Perhaps, he simply needed a break from thrillers. Herein, Hitchcock dapples in murder played strictly for laughs – turning the gruesome into farce. Jack Trevor Story's novel approaches the subject matter with an irreverent disregard for taking anything too serious. Perhaps, this was the appeal for Hitchcock - as he had long been an adroit raconteur.

The trouble with Harry (Philip Truex) is that he is quite dead – assassinated in the pastoral woods of Vermont, or so it would seem. The body is discovered by a precocious tyke, Arnie Rogers (Jerry Mathers of Leave It to Beaver fame) who believes that his mother, Jenny (Shirley MacLaine) might have murdered Harry in cold blood with a milk bottle. Everyone living in this small hamlet seems to have an alternative theory of the crime. Town scatterbrain and amateur sleuth, Miss Ivy Gravely (Mildred Natwick) thinks Harry died from a blow to the head inflicted by her hiking boot, while Capt. Albert Wiles (Edmund Gwenn) is certain a wayward shot from his hunting rifle is responsible. Enter Sam Marlowe (John Forsythe) - a congenial local artist who takes an active interest in solving the crime - not necessarily to get to the bottom of things - but simply to occupy his free time. Besides, he is rather fond of Jenny and her son, and is just as interested as the rest in keeping the town's stoic sheriff (Royal Dano) from discovering the body. The Trouble with Harry was a costly misfire for Hitchcock. John Michael Hayes screenplay meanders, vacillating in the interplay between characters, yet giving them precious little to do except spark off each other's droll dialogue while relocating and re-relocating the corpse. Jennifer Rogers nonchalant reaction to her husband's death seems not so much playfully obtuse as downright cold-hearted and uncaring. Ditto for Sam's unrepentant lusting after her a mere few hours after Harry's death.

And then of course there is Miss Gravely's clinical approach to the crime that seems to set the whole curious affair completely off balance. Is this a fractured love story or a ‘whodunit?’ Digging up Harry repeatedly without addressing the body as a person - and more to the point – someone that everyone knew but never quite liked – is a fairly morbid premise to begin with, and, not at all the sort of comedy - dark or otherwise - that audiences were anticipating.  Even when viewed through today's more laissez faire morality, there remains something genuinely aberrant, rather than silly, about this exercise. Worse, the burgeoning romantic chemistry between Harry’s widow and Sam is antiseptic at best. In the end, the movie’s failure to catch on convinced Hitchcock to return to form with his next assignment, a remake of his own The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956). For years, Hitchcock had toyed with the idea of updating one of his biggest hits from his British period. Upon its release in 1956, Hitchcock would suggest that his earlier effort had been conceived by an amateur. However, both versions of The Man Who Knew Too Much have their merits – the remake actually made to fulfill Hitchcock's contractual obligations to Paramount. The studio willingly agreed to allow its star director a second bite at the same apple. But they pressed upon Hitchcock to cast Doris Day - then, a singing sensation in movies. Although Hitchcock begrudgingly accepted Day as his leading lady, and even conceded to the inclusion of a song expressly written for her – the chart-topping single, Que Sera, Sera, neatly fitted as a pivotal plot point – Hitchcock was to sincerely change his mind, garnering a new found respect for Day’s talents after shooting the scene where it is revealed to her character that the couple’s young son has been kidnapped.

In this remake, Dr. Ben McKenna (James Stewart) his wife, Jo (Doris Day) and their son, Hank (Christopher Olsen) are on holiday in Marrakech where Ben is attending a medical conference. Jo is newly retired from the London stage, but is still highly recognizable to her worldwide following. The McKennas are introduced to Lucy and Edward Drayton (Brenda de Banzie and Bernard Miles), two ‘seemingly innocuous’ admirers who ingratiate themselves into an invitation to dinner and later agree to show the McKennas the bustling market square. The McKennas also meet mysterious Frenchman, Louie Bernard (Daniel Gelin) who offers to act as their cultural liaison. However, when Bernard, disguised as an Arab, is brutally stabbed in the back before Jo and Ben’s eyes, he nevertheless manages to confide an ominous secret to Ben before dying; that a high-ranking political official is to be assassinated somewhere in London. The plot thickens as Ben learns the Draytons have kidnapped Hank and are holding him hostage to buy Ben’s silence until the assassination can take place. After telling Jo what has become of their child, the couple flies back to England where Ben pursues several false leads in the hopes of learning Hank's whereabouts.

Inspector Buchanan (Ralph Truman) encourages the McKennas to wait out their ordeal while the authorities take over. But Jo has already discovered the Drayton's hideaway inside a small church in White Chapel. Ben rushes to investigate and is knocked unconscious by Edward. Meanwhile, the Draytons take Hank to the Foreign Embassy. Jo pursues their hired gunman, Rien (Reggie Nalder) to Royal Albert Hall where she realizes the Foreign Prime Minister (Alexi Bobrimskoy) is the intended victim. Her screams foil the assassination and Ben bursts into Rien's balcony box, forcing him over the balcony railing to his death. In gratitude for saving the Prime Minister's life, the Foreign Ambassador (Mogens Wieth), who is also in on the murder plot, invites the McKennas to the embassy as his guests. Reluctantly, Jo and Ben acquiesce and are startled when Jo's song is echoed by Hank's faint whistling. As Jo proceeds to stretch out the verse and chorus, Ben follows the sound of Hank's whistle to an upstairs bedroom where Lucy Drayton is keeping him under lock and key. Ben is confronted by Edward Drayton - only this time he is prepared. The two men wrestle. Edward drops his gun and is thrown down a flight of stairs by Ben, who quickly escorts his wife and child to safety.

The Man Who Knew Too Much is an implausible espionage caper; elegant and full of McGuffins designed to keep the audience guessing. Under anyone else’s direction this material might have foundered. But the Hayes’ screenplay is slick and stylish, as are the performances from Doris Day and James Stewart. And Hitch’s cinematic genius repeatedly illustrates why no one else was more adept at telling this kind of story. For the scene where Ben is approached by the mortally wounded Louie Bernard, Hitchcock wanted the actor’s dark facial make-up to come off as he collapses in Ben’s arms, thereby revealing his true identity. Unfortunately, the thick brown pancake simply would not smudge. Eventually, Hitchcock came up with a clever solution – applying flesh-colored make-up to Jimmy Stewart’s palms and finger tips. As Ben catches Bernard’s face in his hands, he smears the flesh-toned palette against the actor's dark face, implying the opposite effect has occurred. The Man Who Knew Too Much was such a monumentally satisfying experience for all concerned, Hitchcock’s level of success arguably had nowhere else to go but down.

It is one of Hollywood’s great ironies – and perhaps even one of Hitchcock’s artistic tragedies that Vertigo (1958), arguably his most moodily ‘artistic’ and stylish film to date, was an abysmal flop when it opened. Indeed, the intricacies of the obsession-driven narrative went right over the heads of most critics and audience members. Nevertheless, the passage of time has rectified and elevated our collective appreciation for the movie ever since; an exemplary – even peerless - thriller. Without question, Vertigo is a departure from Hitchcock’s other suspense stories. Diabolically tragic, yet rather tawdry too, its audacious originality would remain unchallenged and never equaled for its psychological complexity. Based on Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac's D'entre les mort (a.k.a. ‘From Among the Dead’), the screenplay by Samuel Taylor and Alec Coppel is as much a faithful adaptation of that harrowing French literary masterpiece as it proved an occasion for Hitchcock to create a magnificent travelogue dedicated to the city Hitchcock considered among the most cosmopolitan he had ever visited - San Francisco. Robert Burke's spectacular cinematography manages at once to extol Hitch’s obvious love for Frisco, yet with an evocative sense of foreboding.

For Vertigo, Hitchcock once again turned to his favorite 'every man', James Stewart; this time cast as retired police detective/turned private investigator, Scottie Ferguson. Suffering from bouts of dizziness in high places ever since witnessing the death of a police officer, Ferguson’s professional days seem to be at an end. He is brought out of retirement by former college acquaintance, Gavin Elstor (Tom Helmore); a shipbuilder whose lavish lifestyle is owed to his wife's formidable family fortunes. But it seems Elstor’s wife, the cool and strangely aloof Madeleine (Kim Novak) is plagued by mysterious blackouts. Elstor confides in Scottie, he believes in the very real possibility Madeleine is possessed by the spirit of Carlotta Vance – a well-known historical figure who met with a tragic end, and who will not rest until she has driven Madeleine to suicide. At first, Ferguson refuses to believe this far-fetched tale. Gradually, however, he begins to piece together a premise that does indeed suggest some other worldly possession has taken place. Scottie tails Madeleine all over the city. She buys flowers that resemble those held in a portrait of Carlotta hanging in the national gallery. Later, Madeleine registers at a hotel under the name Carlotta. She even visits Carlotta's grave, plucking petals to spread about the ground.

After rescuing Madeleine from a failed suicide attempt at Golden Gate Park, Scottie discovers he has begun to fall in love with her himself, much to the chagrin of his best friend and graphic artist, Midge Wood (Barbara Bel Geddes) who has been sincerely hoping Scottie will take a romantic interest in her. What Scottie does not realize as yet is he is part of an elaborate con concocted by Elstor and Judy – the woman impersonating his wife, whom Elstor has already murdered. Luring Scottie to the mission bell tower at Old San Juan Batista – and knowing his vertigo will prevent him from catching up to her in time - Judy/Madeleine appears to commit suicide by throwing herself off the belfry. Driven into a catatonic state, Scottie is gradually nursed back to health by Midge, only to accidentally run into Judy as a natural brunette. After an awkward first meeting, Judy agrees to go out with Scottie - hoping against hope he will come to love her for herself. But Scottie has become obsessed with remaking Judy over into the spot-on image of his dead love interest. Judy goes along with Scottie's wishes to a point, all the while fearing he will connect the dots and realize the truth about her deception. Eventually, he does, forcing Judy to recreate the scene of the crime inside San Juan Batista to prove his point. Only Judy slips at the last possible moment and dies the same tragic death as her alter ego, leaving an emotionally scarred Scottie once more to pick up the pieces of his shattered romantic life.

In many ways, Vertigo shows off Hitchcock’s cinematic prowess to its very best advantage. From the inventive spiraling main title sequence designed by Saul Bass, to Hitchcock’s extraordinary usage of color to evoke mood, to his memorable montage illustrating Scottie’s dizzy spells (a forward zoom/reverse tracking bit of camera trickery devised by Irmin Roberts and since overused in films and on TV), Vertigo is a movie-lover's feast. James Stewart is haunting as the fragile neurotic. When his disheveled hair and wild eyes stare directly into the camera, we believe every moment of his performance. Regrettably, the same cannot be said for Kim Novak's rather asexual turn as the vixen/con artist. Novak's particular brand of icy allure has always escaped me. Equating her rigidity to sexual frustration does not entirely work either, and Novak really does not give us much else except a few brief moments of compelling fear to believe in. Despite this central weakness in casting, Vertigo clings together with an almost hypnotic brilliance. And Hitchcock, by now savvy to what the public wanted to see, capped off his fifties’ tenure with arguably the greatest of all his ‘wrong man’ inspired thrillers, North by Northwest (1959); a return to his more reliable blend of dark sadism and light humor. North by Northwest is the last of its breed – a slick and stylish, tightly scripted, glossy and elegant, thrill-a-minute roller coaster ride, starring the perennially peerless Cary Grant as a pampered ad man about to be rudely awakened from his daily complacency by a case of mistaken identity run amok. Ernest Lehman’s screenplay is chocked full of deliberate flights into fancy, with some of the most memorable set pieces ever conceived for a Hitchcock thriller.

Grant is Roger O. Thornhill (Hitchcock poking fun at the ‘O’ in David O. Selznick’s name, which actually stood for nothing). After being mistaken for a secret agent by Phillip Van Damme (James Mason), Roger quickly discovers he is a sitting duck, rift for multiple assassination attempts by Van Damme’s henchmen unless he can get to the bottom of things. Unfortunately, Roger’s attempts at contacting UN political analyst, Lester Townsend (Philip Ober) go horribly awry when one of Van Damme’s assassins murders Townsend in the middle of the United Nations lobby, making it appear as though Roger is the killer. Considered a fugitive from justice, Roger next stumbles into Eve Kendell (Eva Marie Saint), a slinky flirt traveling by train, intent on helping Roger elude the authorities. Slowly Roger comes to trust Eve and the two have an affair. However, when Eve appears to be working for Van Damme, Roger confronts their motley crew during a public auction, thereby exposing Eve to terrible danger. You see, Eve is the double agent actually working for the U.S. government. Hitchcock relied heavily on matte paintings and process photography to sustain this level of pure escapist make-believe. The film’s two most memorable set pieces – a bi-plane assault on Roger in North Dakota, and the scaling of Presidential faces carved into Mount Rushmore were both elaborately and convincingly staged at MGM in front of process screens. Some surviving studio memos indicate that the final race across Rushmore was recreated out of necessity rather than from Hitchcock’s innate dislike of locations, after the State Park denied MGM access or even permission to use the real location.

By 1960, Hitchcock was internationally acclaimed and instantly recognizable around the world. Only part of this notoriety was due to his films. Hitchcock’s more palpable celebrity came from his weekly appearances on TV, introducing segments of Alfred Hitchcock Presents to his legion of fans. TV’s budgetary restrictions and the fast pace of shooting an episodic series would serve as a template for Hitchcock’s next and most celebrated thriller. Often cited as the film that matured American cinema into its present state of sublime cynicism, Psycho (1960) is based on a novel by Robert Bloch, rooted in the real-life serial killings by Ed Gein, a deranged, yet unassuming New England farmer who quietly butchered his neighbors. In the book, Norman Bates is a rather pudgy middle-aged recluse – easily identifiable as someone with a darker side. In transplanting these attributes onto the seemingly normal and youthfully handsome Anthony Perkins, Hitchcock played upon an erroneous - yet almost universal movie-land mis-perception; that evil is easily identifiable or, as Shakespeare more astutely observed, “he who smiles may smile and be a villain.” Budgeted at a remarkably modest $800,000, Psycho went on to earn forty-million in its initial release – a telling sign of the cost-cutting that would come to exemplify film-making more and more throughout the 1960s. Joseph Stephano’s screenplay is imbued with an immersive underlay of psychoanalysis, perhaps because Stephano was also in therapy at the time the script was being written.

The story concerns Marion Crane (Janet Leigh) …or so we are initially led to believe. Marion is a hot and bothered secretary whose lover, hardware salesman, Sam Loomis’ (John Gavin) is unable to commit to marriage because he is struggling to pay off his ex-wife’s alimony. To expedite their way to the altar, Marion decides to steal fifty thousand dollars from her employer as a runaway down payment on that fantasy life she mis-perceives can be theirs. Unfortunately, en route from Phoenix to Fairfax, the weather turns ugly, forcing Marion to take a night’s refuge at the Bates Motel from which she will never return. The motel’s proprietor, Norman Bates is a congenial mama’s boy on the surface, but quickly develops a paralytic sexual frustration that manifests itself as murderous psychosis. After assuming the manner and attire of his dead mother, and brutally stabbing Marion to death inside one of the motel showers, Norman disposes of her body in a nearby swamp. Enter private investigator, Milton Arbogast (Martin Balsam). Assigned by Marion’s employer to track her down, Arbogast eventually traces Marion to the Bates Motel and shortly thereafter suffers the same fate as our heroine.

Forced to take matters into their own hands, Marion’s sister Lila (Vera Miles) and Sam journey to the motel and that now infamous old Gothic house on the hill just beyond – actually a free-standing set, built on Universal’s back lot. After Sam diverts Norman's attentions, Lila hurries up to the house in search of ‘Mrs. Bates’. Having earlier been told by Arbogast that Norman's mother is an invalid, Lila is determined to question the old woman. But Norman becomes unsettled by Sam's probing questions. After temporarily knocking Sam unconscious, Norman hurries to confront Lila who has hidden in the cellar, the last place she thinks anyone will look for her. Unfortunately, the basement is home to the real truth about Norman Bates; his mother, who figured prominently as a possible suspect in Marion’s disappearance, is actually a mummified corpse, dressed in her favorite shawl and wig, but rotted through nonetheless. Hitchcock frames Lila’s terrifying moment of realization in extreme close-up, with mother’s back to the camera. He then slowly spins her chair around to reveal the shriveled corpse, its cavernous and blank eye sockets staring to some unfixed point beyond the camera. Lila's shrieks draw Norman to the cellar, dressed in his mother's clothes and toting a butcher knife for the next kill. But Sam arrives in the nick of time to thwart Lila's murder and apprehend filmdom's most celebrated serial killer.

Viewed today, the final act of Psycho is dedicated to a somewhat laborious explanation by Dr. Fred Richmond (Simon Oakland) regarding Norman's 'condition' – explained away as an inability to reconcile his matricide by giving half his life to a schizophrenic counterpart that becomes jealous whenever Norman is sexually aroused by other women. Although brilliantly explained for its time, this finale, with Hitchcock slowly transposing the image of ‘mother’ over Norman’s wickedly grinning face, while a disturbing revelation, remains somewhat anti-climactic when viewed today. Of the picture’s many riveting moments, the shower scene remains one of the most effective and masterful bits of editing ever put on film. Involving ninety cuts, a partially nude stand-in for Janet Leigh, and a melon being slashed to simulate the sound of steel cutting into flesh – the sequence unravels as an assault on the senses – its quickly panned horizontal and vertical slashes reassembled inside our collective mindset as a brutal homicide that, in reality, is never entirely visualized on the screen. Psycho was denounced by the Catholic League of Decency as well as by a select few film critics who thought Hitchcock had gone too far. The backlash, coupled with Paramount’s clever marketing only served to further fuel the public’s rabid fascination to see it. As a result, Psycho proved to be Hitchcock’s most profitable thriller. Three years later Hitch’ would startle audiences yet again, in his penultimate terror-fest, The Birds (1963); a technologically brilliant reworking of a short story by Daphne du Maurier (Hitchcock’s favorite author and a personal friend), superbly fleshed out by screenwriter, Evan Hunter.

After some searching, Hitch' found his leading lady in Tippi Hedren, a statuesque beauty who had appeared in a shampoo commercial on television. Squiring the ingénue through various screen test and rehearsals, and even a private wardrobe fitting with imminent costumer, Edith Head, Hitchcock finally revealed to Hedren that she had won the coveted role in his next big movie project; eliciting tears of joy from the former model. Given Hedren’s previous glowing accounts of working with Hitchcock, her more recent denouncement in her autobiography and claims of a sexual assault are not only off-putting but highly suspect. While no one could deny Hitch’ had an affinity for blondes, stretching it to include a sexual compunction is a bit much. The plot of The Birds eventually concocted by Hunter is centered in the quaint fictional hamlet of Bodega Bay: weekend getaway for hotshot defense attorney, Mitchell Brenner (Rod Taylor). While in San Francisco, Mitch tweaks the nose of Melanie Daniels (Tippi Hedren), a wealthy socialite and practical joker whose wild past has been regularly expounded upon in the tabloids. Mitch and Melanie quickly escalate their mutual antagonism from tempestuous rivalry to smoldering romance; quietly abhorred by Lydia (Jessica Tandy), Mitch’s mother and even more painfully observed with passive jealousy by Mitch's old flame, school teacher Annie Haywood (Suzanne Pleshette).

Mitch invites Melanie to his kid sister, Cathy's (Veronica Cartwright) birthday party. As there are no available rooms in town Melanie stays with Annie for the weekend. Despite their competing interests for Mitch’s affections, the mood between Melanie and Annie becomes friendly, with Annie admitting Lydia broke apart her relationship with Mitch years ago. Cathy’s party is interrupted by a flock of seagulls that dive bomb the children. Only a day earlier, Melanie was struck in the head by a wayward seagull while sailing off the coast of Bodega Bay. That incident might have been easily construed as isolated - but not the party: especially after a swarm of finches flies down the chimney later in the evening, transforming the Brenner's living room into a feathery mess. The next day, Lydia drives out to Dan Forsythe's farm to make her inquiries about some chicken feed her fowl refuse to eat, only to make the gruesome discovery of Dan's badly mangled body, eyes pecked out, lying in a corner of the bedroom.  As the Santa Rosa police begin their investigation, Melanie offers to pick up Cathy from school. However, while waiting for class to let out, Melanie becomes acutely aware of a sinister flock of crows amassing on the jungle gym.

From here, Hitchcock ups the ante for his subsequent bird attacks. The crows descend upon the children but take no victims. In town, the gulls retaliate, knocking a gas station attendant unconscious. This assault starts a fire that the birds use to their advantage to launch their all-out attack on Bodega Bay. Melanie narrowly escapes becoming their next victim. But Annie dies while pushing Cathy indoors to relative safety. That night, Mitch boards up all of the windows in the Brenner home where Melanie, Cathy and Lydia wait out the next deluge. The sound of flapping wings and screeching outside is deafening, but then, even more ominously dies out. Have the birds gone away?  After Lydia, Cathy and Mitch have fallen asleep, Melanie is stirred by the nearby sound of fluttering wings, the beam from her flashlight inadvertently startling a mixed flock that have managed to peck through the roof. The birds pounce on Melanie, tearing at her hair and clothes and sending her into a catatonic state. Barely rescued from the attic, Melanie is carried to the car by Mitch, the family narrowly escaping as the birds plot their next attack.

From a purely technical standpoint, The Birds is undeniably Hitchcock’s most ambitious movie, relying heavily on old school photographic trickery that only occasionally belies its origins under today’s closer scrutiny. The sodium vapor matte process employed for the film was largely the invention of Disney SFX specialist, Ub Iwerks, who was called upon after Hitchcock became dissatisfied with the less than stellar results reproduced by the more traditional ‘blue screen’ process. In hindsight, The Birds would be Hitchcock’s last hurrah. Although he would continue to make pictures well beyond it, none would recapture his former glory. At the time of its release, Marnie (1964) was billed as a Freudian sex mystery. Hitchcock, who had earmarked the project for Grace Kelly’s splashy return to the movies, settled on Tippi Hedren instead after Kelly declined the part, citing royal commitments. Again, Joseph Stephano was brought in to write a preliminary draft. But Evan Hunter was then given the assignment to complete the finished script. Regrettably, Hunter ran into a brick wall with Hitchcock over the ‘rape scene’ depicted in the original Winston Graham novel. In Graham's novel, Marnie is forced to have sex with her husband, Mark Rutland (Sean Connery) after a particularly nasty spat. Hunter tried unsuccessfully to argue the irredeemable quality of rape for which no one in the audience would have any sympathy for the man who had committed it – even out of his own sexual frustration. But Hitchcock disagreed and promptly fired Hunter, hiring Jay Presson Allen (a relative novice in the medium of film with only two professional stage-writing credits). After rewriting the rape scene, Hitchcock also had Allen alter key sequences in Stephano’s original treatment; changing the office lover’s triangle between two men, Mark and another rival for Marnie’s affections – Terry – to the more subversive pseudo-lesbian fascination, finally realized by the character of Lil,’ Mainwaring (Diane Baker).

Allen's rewrites also removed a key sequence where Marnie seeks professional treatment for her compulsive thievery from a psychoanalyst. Henceforth, the responsibility of getting at the crux of Marnie’s sexual repressions fell to the character of Mark – possibly as a way of redeeming his character after the rape. Clearly, an attempt on Hitchcock’s part to revisit themes superficially explored in Spellbound, upon its release, Marnie received almost unanimous negative reviews. At any rate, Marnie is not a ‘sex mystery’. Even if one chooses to regard Marnie as a straight forward thriller, there is something off-putting about the way Hitchcock ‘borrows’ from his past successes to fill the picture’s running time. His camera descending down a grand staircase during a party at Mark’s home, as example, is a shameless rip-off of a virtually identical shot in 1946’s uber-elegant, Notorious. Hence, there is an overall ennui to the piece, particularly distracting for those who remember Hitchcock thrillers in their prime. In hindsight, Marnie also marked the unofficial finale to Hitchcock’s American tenure. Although Hitchcock continued to make movies for Universal, for perhaps the very first time in his career, he had mislaid his fingers on the pulse of the average movie goer with Marnie, something he arguably never reclaimed.

What followed was Torn Curtain (1966), probably Hitchcock’s most awkwardly miscast thriller, with fresh-faced pert and plucky, Julie Andrews as Dr. Sarah Louise Sherman, pitted against Paul Newman, as her fiancée/ brilliant lecturer/scientist, Professor Michael Armstrong. The pair are in Copenhagen for a conference when Sarah begins to suspect Mike is a communist defector. Like Lina’s contemplation over her husband’s belabored innocence in Hitchcock’s Suspicion, made nearly two decades before it, Sarah’s assumptions about Michael in Torn Curtain turn out to be false and misleading – the screenplay by Brian Moore, incessantly toying with ‘what if’ scenarios and generally blowing them out of proportion with ironically timed unhappy accidents. From pre-production on, Torn Curtain struck a decidedly sour note for all concerned.  There are no grand set pieces in it - nowhere for the master of suspense to use his camera as ‘pure cinema’ without weighty exposition. The humorous bits, as in the sequence where a Polish Countess (Lila Kedova) tries to blackmail Michael into becoming her sponsor to America, are not funny, while the dramatic moments, featuring a bird-like Russian ballerina (Tamara Toumanova) lack suspense. Worse for Hitchcock, he encountered considerable resistance from his leading man; Newman, chronically questioning his director’s instructions and even taking several opportunities to offer up suggestions on how to improve the picture.

If Torn Curtain has a memorable moment, it is the extended murder of the bodyguard, Hermann Gromek (Wolfgang Kieling) who realizes too late Michael’s defection is a fraud. Here, Hitchcock illustrates just how difficult it is to kill a man – particularly when the adversaries are evenly matched. With the aid of a housewife, Michael attempts to first strangle, then stab, strike down with a metal skillet, choke, and finally gas his assailant inside a small cottage in the middle of nowhere. He is successful only in the last of these methods. In the end, no one was happy with the results. Hitchcock lamented that with Andrews in the cast, everyone kept expecting her to burst into song. As for Newman, Hitchcock quickly realized he had been given an impossible cohort with whom to successfully collaborate; Newman’s ‘method’ style of acting at odds with Hitchcock’s classically-trained direction. After Torn Curtain’s cataclysmic thud at the box office, Hitchcock took nearly three years off before his next feature, Topaz (1969); a cloak and dagger thriller based on the best-seller by Leon Uris. Alas, the novel proved just as problematic for Hitchcock to adapt; its James Bond-ish spy plot within the Russian and U.S. government, woefully jumbled in Samuel Taylor's convoluted and ineffectual screenplay.

We begin with the defection of a high-ranking Russian diplomat, Boris Kusenov (Per-Axel Arosenius) to America. After a lengthy prologue in which Kusenov and his family narrowly escape KGB agents in Denmark, the picture settles into a terribly pedestrian and plodding bit of cloak and dagger; the wrinkle, Kusenov’s defection might actually have been set up by the Russians. Enter Agent Michael Nordstrom (John Forsythe); a benign milquetoast who enlists the aid of the more flamboyant French spy and personal friend, Andre Devereaux (Frederick Stafford) to do a bit of homegrown subversion abroad, involving Castro-esque dictator, Rico Parra (John Vernon).  André accepts the assignment, even though his wife, Nicole (Dany Robin) suspects part of the allure for him has to do with sultry Cuban revolutionary gal-pal, Juanita de Cordoba (Karin Dor) the wife of a dead freedom fighter, but actually a double agent working for the Americans. Andre uses CIA operative, Philippe Noiret (Roscoe Lee Brown), posing as an interviewer for Look Magazine to infiltrate the hotel where Parra and his entourage are staying. Noiret ingratiates himself to Luis Uribe (Donald Randolph). However, the two are caught spying on Parra’s private attaché and Noiret barely escapes with his life.  The plot is then further complicated with the introduction of Andre’s son-in-law, Michèle Picard (Claude Jade) - a reporter who inadvertently uncovers a murder plot - then nearly becomes part of the body count himself.

With the success of the James Bond film franchise in the back of his mind, Hitchcock dove deeply into this espionage caper, but with Uris’ detailed narrative proving too involved and complex for him to unravel. Given the engaging subject matter, the movie’s glacial pace and utterly dull and uninspired vignettes remain something of a grand disappointment. Hitchcock’s first sneak preview of Topaz was an absolute disaster, universally panned by the preview audience in their response cards. In planning another ending, Hitchcock made two compromises, neither completely satisfying – the latter with André and Nicole departing on a plane for France with their seemingly shattered marriage brought back into perspective; the other involving the off-camera suicide of Claude Martin (John Van Dreelan) – the suspected head of the international cartel who has had an affair with Nicole. To suggest that Hitchcock’s directorial sensibilities are painfully out of touch on Topaz is perhaps a tad harsh. However, film critic, Leonard Maltin’s soft touch - that Hitchcock was making a more personal film, perhaps not in tune with immediate public tastes, though solid entertainment nevertheless – is far too forgiving a critique than any screening of Topaz, then or now, allows. The movie is sluggishly paced and confusing to follow, particularly during its final reels. Visually it sinks like a stone, perhaps the one truly unforgivable blight on Hitchcock's American film-making career.  Topaz is not just a bad movie. It is a horrendously un-Hitchcock-esque one!

Hitchcock would return to form - marginally - and to his roots - definitely - with Frenzy (1972) hardly a stellar example of the master in his prime, but competent and moderately enjoyable nonetheless. At its best, Frenzy is a modestly budgeted thriller with solid performances throughout. At its worst, it caters to the crass, B-budget exploitation flick that had taken the place of the stylish murder mystery to become its popular pot boiler derivative, fit for the drive-in. Based on Arthur La Bern’s novel, Farewell Piccadilly, So Long Lester Square, Frenzy is Hitchcock at his most uncharacteristic and undeniably gruesome. In many ways, the film is a throwback to the kind of entertainment Hitchcock had made in Britain. Shot on location in the UK, Frenzy opens with the discovery of a naked female corpse floating face down in the Thames; the latest victim of The Necktie Killer. After Hitchcock’s prerequisite cameo, the narrative constructed by screenwriter, Anthony Shaffer settles on the firing of bartender, Richard Blaney (Jon Finch), caught by his employer attempting to steal a swig. Blaney’s girlfriend, barmaid, Babs (Anna Massey) encourages Richard to keep a stiff upper lip while searching for another job. Richard is next seen strolling through Covent Garden by friend, Bob Rusk (Barry Foster) – the actual serial killer. Rusk suggests Richard move on to greener pastures. But all Richard can think of is to revisit his past; estranged wife and employment counselor, Brenda (Barbara Leigh-Hunt). Shortly thereafter, Rusk also pays Brenda a call – one that ends with her becoming the next victim of the Necktie Killer. Implicated by the police in Brenda’s death, Richard takes up temporary residence with Babs, only to have Rusk murder her as well – thereby solidifying him as the only suspect in the eyes of the law. Richard is eventually incarcerated, though not before he has had the opportunity to figure things out for himself.

The killings in Frenzy are not only the most brutal for a Hitchcock film, they tend to take on a distinct note of pandering to the times. Hitchcock ups the ante he first established in Psycho by inserting gratuitous nudity into several key sequences – titillating his audience with the prospect of exploitative erotica turned upside down; lust, escalating into violent crime and sadistic death. A financial success, Frenzy introduced scores of younger film goers to Hitchcock at the movies, even though it had become quite apparent to his most ardent fans his best works were now sadly behind him. Hitchcock rounded out his movie career with Family Plot (1976); an abysmal tongue-in-cheek mystery with few chills and fewer reasons to be remembered. The story concerns a fake medium, Madam Blanche (Barbara Harris) and her taxi driver boyfriend George (Bruce Dern); con artists, who cleverly scam naïve rich people out of their life savings. At present, their sitting duck is Julia Rainbird (Cathleen Nesbit), a widow who is certain the ghost of her dead sister has come back to haunt her. George and Blanche accidentally cross paths with a pair of ruthless diamond smugglers, Arthur Adamson (William Devine) and his femme fatale girlfriend, Fran (Karen Black): the pair, behind a series of VIP kidnappings in the San Francisco Bay area. Based on Victor Canning’s novel, the plot as reconstituted in Ernest Lehman’s screenplay remains inconsequential, tired and meandering. In the original story – set in England - Blanche is a legitimate psychic whose clairvoyance is cause for much of the novel’s suspense. In transforming her into a clever opportunist who cannot even predict the contents of a ham sandwich, Lehman regrettably diffuses her importance in the film. As for the cast; everyone seems to be going through the motions – particularly Barbara Harris, who plays up the camp elements of the story as though the entire production were a sort of Freaky Friday Part Two instead of a Hitchcock thriller.

In point of fact, Hitchcock had long admired Harris as an actress. However, his ailing health may have contributed to his need to basically just get the job done. Viewed today, Family Plot is unworthy of Hitchcock’s name above the title; utterly bland, with Hitchcock’s usual strict adherence to script becoming so relaxed on the set he even allowed Harris to improvise the final scene. Having discovered the much sought after diamond hidden within the dangling crystals of a chandelier, Madame Blanche addresses the camera – and therefore the audience – with a sly wink. Hitchcock was also rather lax about re-shooting scenes with actor, Roy Thinnes, whom he fired after his first choice for the role of Arthur Adamson - William Devanes - suddenly became available. Although Hitchcock was forced to re-shoot close-ups and medium shots already made with Thinnes for continuity sake, the long shots of Arthur walking away from the camera are not Devanes, but Thinnes. Given it’s leaden script, overflowing with contrivances aplenty, and its ‘strictly by the numbers’ structure, with few twists or turns to ignite our interest, in hindsight one sincerely wonders why Hitchcock chose to shoot Family Plot at all.

Universal has re-bundled all of these films together in a re-visitation of their ‘Masterpiece Collection’ released from 2009. This time, the box is bulkier, if revealing no real treasures outside of its puffed-out swag and several episodes derived from Alfred Hitchcock Presents and The Alfred Hitchcock Hour (7 from the former, 3 from the latter) on standard DVD. This set is also being advertised to contain over 15 hours of bonus features. But guess what? They are the same bonus features already available on the Masterpiece Collection. So, can we all just agree that it was high time Universal came around to releasing a comprehensive box set of Hitchcock’s TV series – and – on Blu-ray?!? Also, before we continue, it should be noted that no improvements have been made to any of these 1080p transfers for this reissue. The flaws that afflicted the previous releases in the Masterpiece Collection endure herein. So, The House of Hitchcock is a shameless example of Uni’s backward thinking. The good news: most of the films in this set look fabulous. Psycho and North by Northwest were the beneficiaries of major restoration efforts and wonderful looking hi-def transfers. Saboteur and Shadow of a Doubt – the two B&W features in this set – were also given upgrades earlier, though not quite to the level of perfection one might have expected. The gray scale is subtly nuanced with solid contrast and a modicum of fine detail present that really make the images pop. Grain is naturally reproduced and age-related artifacts, while present, are greatly tempered.

Things become more problematic when we get into the color features. Rope looks very good with robust colors and crisp fine detail. The biggest overall improvement award goes to Rear Window and The Birds. Color fidelity has really taken a quantum leap forward. Flesh tones that looked pasty and (in Rear Window’s case) slightly jaundice, have a more natural pinkish tone and texture. I was particularly impressed by Rear Window. But The Birds, in hindsight, looks digitally scrubbed, its image softened with a general lack of crisp fine detail. I won’t poo-poo it any further. The Birds looks good - not great. It will surely not disappoint the average viewer. Vertigo’s color palette is fully saturated without the orange flesh tones that plagued its release on DVD. But I was not impressed to still see nicks, chips and scratches, particularly during the main titles. These could have easily been cleaned up. The rest of the movies herein represent some very uneven quality issues. Shockingly bad - The Man Who Knew Too Much, still suffering from an artificially sharpened image, but a thorough lack of color density and, in fact, consistency. This film looks nothing like it should and is in desperate need of a major restoration effort. For those who simply don’t know or don’t care about such things, The Man Who Knew Too Much will look adequate. But the rest of us are left to ponder what went wrong. The color on The Trouble with Harry is weaker than anticipated with flesh tones just a tad too orange for my tastes. Frenzy: the good news – titles have been corrected. The bad news?  A lot of DNR, veering dangerously into those waxen images with zero fine grain and a minute hint of edge enhancement to boot.

Topaz, Torn Curtain are adequately rendered, but unremarkable in virtually every way. On the one hand, there are no unwelcome surprises – no DNR, edge enhancement, color density issues, etc. - and that is good. But on the other, the images never seem to have that visual snap they should and look just a shay more refined than up-scaled DVD’s. Not loving Family Plot’s transfer either, with far too much pixelization throughout, and, sporting a very digitized look. Finally, there is Marnie – an exceptionally problematic transfer with curious video-based noise and distortion akin to watching a movie with 'snow' during the good ole analog days of broadcast television - NOT! Weird cross-hatch patterns and mosquito noise are everywhere. Truly, an awful effort that has yet to be properly addressed. The audio on all of the features except Psycho, North by Northwest and Vertigo is 2.0 mono and adequately reproduced. The aforementioned three titles all have been given 5.1 DTS stereo remixes. Intermittently, these can be quite stunning. As for the episodes from Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and, The Alfred Hitchcock Hour – B&W, competently rendered, with a modicum of age-related damage: better than average, though far from superb. As already stated, extras…well…Universal hasn’t given us anything that wasn’t already available – so, featurettes on the making of each movie, stills galleries and the occasional audio commentary track. The swag boils down to a booklet, some lobby cards and original poster art. Ho-hum!  Bottom line: I cannot, in all good conscience, recommend this set. Not for the price point and certainly not for its continued spotty quality. Note to Universal - good marketing does not trump a bad 1080p transfer. Never does. Never will. Bottom line: not recommended.

FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)

Overall 4

VIDEO/AUDIO

Saboteur 4

Shadow of a Doubt 4

Rope 3

Rear Window 4

The Trouble with Harry 3

The Man Who Knew Too Much 2

Vertigo 4

North by Northwest 5

Psycho 4.5

The Birds 3.5

Marnie 1

Torn Curtain 4

Topaz 4

Frenzy 3

Family Plot 2

EXTRAS

3