Hitchcock's Apocalyptic Poem

Rating: 10/10 (10 May 2004)

Ask different people what the best Alfred Hitchcock film is, and you will hear a variety of responses. Some will say Vertigo, some Rear Window, some Notorious, some Psycho, some North by Northwest.some may even go for his earlier works, like Shadow of a Doubt, The 39 Steps, or The Lady Vanishes.
One title you do not often hear is The Birds. Many regard it as an inferior film, because it does not have the character or plot complexities of any of the aforementioned films. There is a difference, however, between choosing a "best" film and a "favorite" one. It's easy to make a statement such as "Citizen Kane is a better movie than Gigli". As far as objective criteria go (if there really are such things in film), the disparity is obvious.
However, you cannot as easily make a statement like "Citizen Kane is a better movie than Casablanca". Where is the basis for calling one better than the other? In terms of character development, plot, theme, direction, and cinematography, both are superior films. Beyond that, there are too many intangibles and qualities left to subjective fancy. For that reason, it is much more sensible to say, "I enjoy Citizen Kane more than Casablanca", or vice versa.
By that token, I could easily argue that The Birds is inferior to many other Hitchcocks. However (and I'm sure this will outrage many Hitchcock cinéastes), no Hitchcock film I have seen thus far has entranced me and hit me at a gut level the way The Birds has.
Federico Fellini (who places The Birds among his top ten favorite films) dubbed it an "apocalyptic poem"; an appropriate phrase, because the film has an uncanny ability to ostracize the normal world to which we are accustomed and eerily suggest the world's end. As soon as we follow Tippi Hedren (as Melanie Daniels) into the confines of Bodega Bay, we pass through a membrane into an alternate reality. There is something removed and quiet about this seaside town...too quiet.
As with Psycho, Hitchcock was less concerned with complex character and plot, and much more interested in brutally invading the viewer's consciousness. And as with Psycho, he starts with a seemingly innocent premise, drops in subtle, disquieting shards of foreboding, and takes things in shocking new directions.
I still remember the chills that went up my spine when I first saw Melanie, early in the film, alone in her boat, quietly paddling through the bay. The air was still, the breeze gentle...but I couldn't help feeling that this was a tranquility that was not meant to last.
As suspense goes, this is Hitchcock in top form. He foreshadows in small bits that make tiny increments as the film progresses, and each increment gives an air of impending doom, but also cinematic beauty.
At one point in the film, when a front door is opened to reveal a dead bird on the front porch (the result of a kamikaze flight), there is certainly a sense of dread, but also of a perverse aesthetic. We know this is a moment planted for the purpose of scaring us (and preparing us for greater terror), and yet remarkably, even this knowledge is useless in detaching ourselves from the raw power of the image.
The storyline and acting quality of the two leads are mediocre, but deliberately so. Tippi Hedren, whose Melanie opens the film as a spoiled, upper-class brat (complete with a history of capricious sojourns in Europe), engages in a pathetically adolescent game of one-upmanship with Mitch Brenner (Rod Taylor), who begins by making a fool out of her in a bird shop. The so-called MacGuffin (a term coined by Hitchcock to describe a device for catalyzing plot advancement) is a cage of lovebirds, a seemingly innocent symbol at the center of Melanie's childish games, but one that will have surprising resonance by film's end.
The intonation of the dialogue between Melanie and Mitch is flat and dry, delivered with little dramatic impact, yet in its own quirky way, it is charming. It is interesting to ponder where this relationship will take us. Consider Jimmy Stewart's first encounter with Kim Novak in Vertigo, Janet Leigh and Anthony Perkins in Psycho, or Teresa Wright and Joseph Cotton in Shadow of a Doubt. When considering Hitchcock's repertoire, the initial tension between Melanie and Mitch suggests a relationship through which the story will weave its themes and plot twists.
Yet in true Hitchcock fashion, he is seducing us into following a certain path with the intention of yanking us in a completely different direction. Of course, this is partially due to the influence of Daphne Du Maurier's short story (of same title), but it is through Hitchcock's vision that events come to life in ways no written word could express.
The initial tension, the lovebirds, the flirty games are all tools used to the end of getting us (through Melanie) to Bodega Bay, where Mitch resides with his mother (Jessica Tandy) and child sister, Cathy (Veronica Cartwright, in one of her first film roles). Once there, we anticipate the expected plot advancement. Wait a minute...why is it so quiet? I haven't heard much dialogue. And where is the background score?
***Spoiler Point!! Do not read on if you haven't seen the film!!!!***
This is exactly where Hitchcock wants us to be. When we first see gulls appear (just a few, which are suddenly dropped into the frame), it feels unnatural, as if they are invading on the movie. And when a single gull swoops down and takes a chunk out of Melanie's head, it is like a sudden electric shock that tweaks us out of our comfortable premonitions.
From here on out, everyone is a victim of circumstance. The most important issue at hand is no longer the relationship between Melanie and Mitch, but the fight against a primal force of unimaginable horror.
While the two leading performances are not well-acted (again, deliberately so), the three most prominent supporting roles are intensely satisfying from a dramatic point of view.
Veronica Cartwright's initial acting presence seems forced, but one must keep in mind that Hitchcock is presenting her as a typical pre-teen. As such, the seemingly contrived nature of Cathy's initial dialogue deceives us. When Cartwright must transform Cathy into a girl suddenly in the midst of horrors that no child should have to witness, the result is frightening. Her terror and hysteria are completely convincing.
Jessica Tandy and Suzanne Pleshette (as Annie Hayworth, a former love interest of Mitch) add fascinating layers of depth to Bodega Bay and enhance the town's otherworldly ambience with details of their pasts. We initially attribute their struggles to Mitch, but as the film goes on, we see that the town itself has as much of a role as Mitch does.
I could talk about the cutting-edge special effects by which Hitchcock and his team created the illusion of several bird attacks (and the effects are indeed impressive), but I would be beating a dead horse, since this is the area of the film that draws repeated attention.
Instead, I'll refer to my favorite scene in the entire film, which ironically is one that does not feature a single bird. It is the diner scene in which all of the important characters gather in the midst of the frenzied bird attacks and attempt to deliberate as to what has happened and what action should be taken. This scene is remarkably trenchant and powerful in an almost allegorical fashion.
Among others, we have a blithering drunk who recites apocalyptic Biblical passages, an overly cerebral ornithologist who denies the attacks simply because they do not adhere to logic, an overprotective mother who demands silence because her children are getting scared (thus attempting to deny what is really happening and sheltering her feeble notion of a perfect world).
Later, after another attack transpires and denial is no longer an option, the mother panics and irrationally pins the blame Melanie, attacking her as a supernatural curse, a witch that has bedeviled the community. Melanie's immediate response constitutes one of my favorite moments in the film.
Meanwhile, the terror that this film so poetically elicits can be attributed to the ornithologist's claim; in fact, on more than one occasion, someone mentions that the attacks just don't make "logical sense". The birds attack without reason. We are not enemies, aggressors, or threats of any kind. It does not seem to matter. We just know that they are killers, and they apparently have their sights set on us, releasing their fury in a primal catharsis of Freudian proportions.
When logic can no longer explain surrounding phenomenon, what does one turn to for explanation? There is no single right answer, but you will find an almost clinical depiction of human attempts at a right answer in that diner scene.
As a result, there is again a perverse beauty to our voyeuristic views of human struggle against the end of the world, which the uncontrollable bird attacks so blatantly suggest. We see the superficialities of day-to-day existence broken down, and when the veneer disappears, we are witness to the most instinctive, genuine facets of human nature.