Groucho’s favorite part of the meal was a specialty of Chasen’s, banana shortcake. He would say he ate the dinner “to get to the shortcake.”
One night, as we finished our banana shortcakes, Groucho said he wished that he could have a second portion of the dessert. The captain heard him and rushed back with some. Groucho wouldn’t accept it, because even in his eighties, he had a great deal of discipline. He said if he had one slice, he could enjoy the memory without feeling guilty.
Summoning the captain, Groucho said, “When they get to dessert, send over a round of banana shortcakes to Mr. Hitchcock and his friends, and be sure to put it on my check and not on his. And see what the boys in the back room will have.”
We left and didn’t see what happened afterward.
At his home, months later, Hitchcock finished the banana shortcake story.
“Everyone at our table that night was on a diet except the Madame and Peck. The Madame doesn’t eat much when I’m on a diet, and I’m always on a diet. So Peck got all six of the shortcakes.”
Hitchcock indicated the green, grassy view from the window of his Bel Air home. “I own all of that,” he said in a mock serious tone.
The huge expanse of property was actually a golf course.
Hitchcock began our meeting by telling me, “To interview me, you would have to interview my films.”
“I already have,” I said, “and they told me many of their secrets—but not all.”
No visit to the Hitchcock home would have been complete without seeing the kitchen, the most important room in the house for Hitchcock and his wife. It had taken him many years to remake the kitchen and create the wine cellar, all exactly to their specifications.
He showed me the giant refrigerator, of which he was justifiably proud. As I looked in, he stood behind me and put his hand on my shoulder, as if to push me in.
“Just joking,” he said.
No matter. It was so full of food, there wouldn’t have been room for me.
“This food is our luxury,” he said. “We don’t have a swimming pool or a tennis court. We don’t live to impress anyone else.
“We fly in fish and meat weekly from England,” he said. “Dover sole, beef, and lamb.”
The lamb reminded him of one of his favorite stories, “Lamb to the Slaughter,” by Roald Dahl, done on Alfred Hitchcock Presents, an episode he directed in 1958.
“A woman, played by Barbara Bel Geddes,” he said, “learns from her unsympathetic husband of many years that he is leaving her. She kills him with a frozen leg of lamb, the most perfect murder weapon of my entire career. Then she cooks that leg of lamb while policemen are searching for the murder weapon, and she serves them the delicious leg of lamb. That’s one murder weapon they will never find. I call that my ‘ticking lamb’ story, which is a variation on my ‘ticking bomb’ theory.
“The idea is that you want to let the audience in on everything so they know that a ticking bomb is there while the characters don’t know it. That is the suspense, waiting for the bomb to explode, only they are waiting for the leg of lamb to be discovered as the murder weapon.”
He said that he never ate leg of lamb without thinking of that story.
“Are you able to distinguish between English Dover sole and French Dover sole?” he asked me.
I’d never given it any thought. I considered that the question might be what Hitchcock referred to as “a leg pull.”
I answered, “Only if I saw the fish’s passport.”
“I only eat Dover sole caught by a net, not by a hook,” he said. “Have you ever seen a fish with a hook in its mouth?” He squeezed his lips together and twisted his face like a fish with a hook in its mouth. I assumed he was referring to the pain inflicted on the fish, but I wondered, how did he know if the fish was really caught in a net?
Hitchcock was extremely proud of his wine cellar. He enjoyed the acquisition of great wine and brandy, some of it bought to drink, and some of it to have and hold with the instinct of the passionate collector.
He told me that he had “authentic Napoleonic brandy, bottles of wine from the nineteenth century, and dazzling vintages from the 1920s.”
“Do you drink these?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” he said, “I could never do that. Those bottles are really irreplaceable. The responsibility for drinking one is too great. It might be the last bottle in the world of its kind. Then, there is the possibility that the actual taste would not live up to the taste buds in my mind. And then, too, perhaps I don’t feel I deserve it.”
I was shown around the rest of the house, a lovely home, but considered modest by Bel Air standards. I recognized Liberty of London fabrics. “We don’t have to move to a bigger house,” Hitchcock said. “I do not enjoy the process of moving. I find it like enduring a sickness.
“It’s the work that’s important. I’ve made films people enjoyed, and I didn’t wish to prove myself with a bigger house. I like to use words such as cozy and snug when I describe my home.”
Hitchcock’s art collection was impressive, including paintings by artists who hung not only in the Hitchcock home, but also in the great museums of the world. His favorite artist was Klee, and Alma’s, Utrillo. His favorite sculptor was Rodin, and he was proud to own a work of his. Hitchcock’s own drawings bore a certain resemblance to those of Klee.
During his teens and early twenties, Hitchcock had eagerly visited art museums. At first he went to museums as an art school assignment, but very quickly these visits became one of his favorite pastimes on a Sunday or whenever he had a few hours free. “They also sent us to a railway terminal to sketch people, which I liked even better.”
Hitchcock said that if he had become an artist rather than having gone into films, he would have been an abstract painter only because he didn’t feel he would have been able to master the technique required by representational art. Ideally, he would have liked to have been a sculptor, like Rodin.
Being interested in dream and fantasy in art, he was fascinated by the idea of having Salvador Dali create a fantasy dream sequence in Spellbound. As it turned out, most of Dali’s work was not used in the film.
“Very early, I was immensely struck by the Symbolists. For a time, I had Symbolist dreams.”
Hitchcock said he felt privileged to be able to afford the work of Rouault, Dufy, Vlaminck, Rodin, Klee, de Chirico, and other famous twentieth-century artists, but he selected only pictures he enjoyed living with, the kind about which he could make up stories. “Klee could have made good storyboards, you know.
“Mrs. H. and I never acquired a painting unless it was liked by both of us.” For a time, they had a mystery drawing hanging on their wall. “It was much admired. There was no signature. It was the work of our daughter, Pat, when she was a child.”
As a young man standing in long queues to see a painting, he never dreamed that one day he would simply look up in his own home and enjoy a glance at a great painting. “They become a part of you.”
Along with the paintings, there were first editions by George Bernard Shaw and James Barrie, the complete works of William Shakespeare and of Somerset Maugham. He prized an edition of Juno and the Paycock, which had been given to him by Sean O’Casey when Hitchcock was making a film version of the play.
He showed me some dishes.
“Do you remember these?”
I did, because I also had admired the dishes at the Plaza Athénée hotel when we had dinner there.
“I asked at the hotel if I could buy some of the dishes from them,” Hitchcock continued. “I had in mind a demitasse or two. A few weeks after we returned home, several cartons arrived from Paris. They had sent a whole set, and no bill. They said it was their gift to us.”
When my taxi arrived, Hitchcock walked with me to the door, where the driver was waiting. Raising his voice so the driver could hear, Hitchcock said, “Don’t worry about the blood. I’ll wash off what’s left, and then I’ll get rid of the knife. Don’t worry about
the body. I’ll see that it’s discreetly disposed of. But do check your clothes for bloodstains. Blood spattered on the wall like catsup on a hamburger bun.”
The driver showed no concern. I wondered if he recognized Alfred Hitchcock.
When the taxi dropped me off, I gave the driver the fare and a tip. He returned the tip. I said, “That’s for you!” When there was no response, I realized that Hitchcock’s performance had been wasted. The driver wasn’t really English-speaking.
“EVERY DAY IS A GIFT, which is why we call it the present.”
Alfred Hitchcock said this to director King Vidor and me just before the March 7, 1979, American Film Institute gala honoring Hitchcock. We had stopped to speak with him as he waited to enter the Beverly Hilton ballroom for his tribute evening.
Vidor and I sat down next to Hitchcock, who apologized for not rising, because he couldn’t. “Please accept that I have risen in spirit,” he said.
“It’s your night, Hitch,” Vidor said. “You ought to be feeling great.”
“Knees. It’s all about knees. My knees aren’t what they used to be—even what they were yesterday.
“The problem is, I had to bring along a friend. Well, not exactly a friend, more of a constant companion. Arthur Ritis.”
Besides the pain, Hitchcock was apprehensive about his entrance, afraid his knees would fail him at the moment he had to walk through the audience to his table, that he would fall and be mortified. “Worse than dying,” he said. “Worse even than forgetting to button your fly. I shouldn’t have accepted. It’s like Jamaica Inn. Walking the plank, you know.”
“But if you felt this way, why did you accept?” Vidor asked.
“I didn’t feel like this on the day I accepted. I did it for Alma. I wanted her to see all of these people here because of our films. I wanted to go home with her afterwards and see the look in her eyes. That was what I most looked forward to. The best part of the evening will be when we are back at home together and all of this is behind us. We’ll sit and talk about it in the old way, sharing. Another memory for our old age.
“I want to tell everyone how important she has been, not only in my life, but to the Hitchcock films. They are hers, too. And I thought it might be the last time Alma and I could go together to an event like this, my last opportunity to pay public tribute to her.”
“You’re lucky to have had that kind of marriage,” Vidor said. “It didn’t work out that way for me.”
“I hope I won’t embarrass the Madame by not being able to stand up.”
“I wish they’d do it for me, an evening like this,” Vidor said, trying to cheer Hitchcock, and also telling the truth.
“I hope they do it for you while you’re still able to enjoy it.”
“They’d better hurry!” Vidor, though in better health, was even older than Hitchcock. “Well, at least you’ll get a good dinner.”
“I could never eat at a time like this, with everyone watching me. I had a ground steak earlier at home with Mrs. H.”
“It’s my favorite meal,” Vidor said. “Do you know where you can get the best hamburger in town?”
“My house,” Hitchcock answered.
“I’d like to invite you for lunch, Hitch, at my favorite restaurant, Hamburger Hamlet. And they have a good roll and French fries.”
“I’d like to invite you to my house for the greatest beef you ever tasted, but Alma hasn’t been well. When she feels better, we can go to Chasen’s. That’s our favorite restaurant.”
Alma was seated with Cary Grant at the honoree’s table as Hitchcock entered. Grant was there to assist Hitchcock, should it be necessary. Everyone in the ballroom rose except Alma, who was so small, she could scarcely be seen. Her hair and makeup artfully done, she had hoped to wear high heels, but needed the support of heavier shoes.
Weakened after a series of strokes, it was only with great force of will that she had succeeded in being there at all. Unlike her nervous husband, she had looked forward with enthusiasm to the evening. She watched intently as he entered and inched his way toward her through an audience that included some of the most famous and powerful names in Hollywood. It was as if she were taking every step with him, so great was her empathy.
John Houseman introduced Ingrid Bergman, who was the mistress of ceremonies for the evening. Speaking from the stage were Anthony Perkins, Janet Leigh, James Stewart, and François Truffaut, and from the audience, Teresa Wright, Pat Hitchcock O’Connell, Norman Lloyd, Sidney Bernstein, Victor Saville, Jane Wyman, Edith Head, Rod Taylor, Vera Miles, Ernest Lehman, Tippi Hedren, Sean Connery, Judith Anderson, and Cary Grant.
During the program, some of the tension Hitchcock had been feeling seemed to lift, and he and Alma appeared to enjoy the evening, especially as the end drew near. The strain of the intense scrutiny was nearly over.
Ingrid Bergman came onstage and spoke directly to Hitchcock. “Now, there’s just one little thing I’d like to add before we finish this evening. Do you remember that agonizing shot when you had built some kind of elevator? It was a basket or something with you and the cameraman, and you were shooting this vast party in Notorious, and you came zooming down with your elevator and your poor pull-focus man, all the way down, into my hand, where you saw the key in a close-up. So, that was from an extreme long shot to close-up, just the key that we saw. You know what? Cary stole that key after the scene, and then he kept it for about ten years. And one day, he put it in my hand, and he said, ‘I’ve kept this long enough. Now, it’s for you for good luck.’ I have kept it for twenty years, and in this very same hand, there is the key.
“It has given me a lot of good luck and quite a few good movies, too. And now, I’m going to give it to you with a prayer that it will open some very good doors for you, too. God bless you, dear Hitch. I’m coming to give you the key.”
Bergman left the stage and walked past the tables to where Hitchcock was seated. When she reached him, he rose, unassisted, though not without difficulty. He accepted the key, and they embraced tenderly in what was an emotional moment for both.
Ingrid Bergman was also ill, and there was only a little time remaining for them to be together.
After the show ended, I was standing near Ingrid Bergman and Cary Grant as they chatted. “Was that really the same key we used in the film?” I heard her ask him.
Grant smiled and shrugged.
HILTON GREEN, longtime professional associate of Hitchcock, was there with his wife. Although Green had worked on Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Psycho, and Marnie, his wife had never met the great director.
“I kept my family away,” Green told me. “I thought that was the right thing to do. But the AFI function was all over, and my wife said, ‘I want to meet him.’
“I said, ‘No, this is not the appropriate time.’ Mr. H. was at a table, ringside, down there with Mr. and Mrs. Wasserman, and Cary Grant, and Alma. They were all at the same table, and I said, ‘You’re not going down there with that group.’
“She said, ‘I’m going to go and meet him.’ I didn’t know what to do.
“I’ll never forget. Cary Grant was in the middle of telling a story. Hitchcock was seated and I walked up behind him, and all I did was put my hand on his shoulder. He turned and looked up, and he interrupted Cary Grant, and said, ‘Hilton.’
“I said, ‘I don’t want to interrupt,’ and he said, ‘Please, please.’ I said, ‘No, I just want you to meet my wife.’
“And he said, ‘The Madame is here? Ah! you’ve kept me away from her for so long!’ And he struggled to get up, with a great effort.
“I said, ‘Don’t get up, don’t get up.’
“He said, ‘Of course I’m going to get up.’ And he did. He turned and kissed my wife’s hand and said it was a wonderful pleasure to finally meet the Madame.”
THE LUNCH WITH KING VIDOR at Hamburger Hamlet never happened.
The AFI event was the last time I saw Alfred Hitchcock.
I.
The Early
Hitch
ALFRED HITCHCOCK turned a small boy’s fear into that incredible body of work,” Robert Boyle, colleague and friend of Alfred Hitchcock said.
That small boy, Alfred Joseph Hitchcock, was born at the very end of Queen Victoria’s reign, and he grew up during the Edwardian era. He would bring to the motion picture screen his own personal sensibilities and intelligence, shaped by a time we can only envision in faded photographs and flickering films.
The third and last child of William and Emma Jane Whelan Hitchcock, Alfred, was born on August 13, 1899, a Sunday, in Leytonstone, at the edge of London’s East End. Hitchcock told me that it was remembered in his family that the day was a Sunday, “because it was one of the only Sundays in my mother’s life that she missed church.” The family’s store is gone, but Hitchcock’s early life in Leytonstone is commemorated by a mosaic picture of him as a child and scenes from his films on the walls of the local tube station.
The Hitchcocks’ first son, William, had been born in 1892, three years after their marriage, and their daughter, Ellen Kathleen, called “Nellie,” in 1896. “I was told,” Hitchcock said, “that as a baby and small child I never cried. Even then, I didn’t engage in the negative waste of energy. I have always looked upon that kind of behavior in public as a loss of control, not to mention dignity.
“Since my brother and sister were so much older, they didn’t have much interest in me when I was growing up, so I had myself almost entirely to myself. I used my freedom to draw pictures and to watch life pass in front of my father’s store.”
Very early, young Alfred became fascinated by the traffic on the High Road, at that time, mainly horse-drawn vehicles. “There was quite a horsey smell, in fact, you might say an overwhelming stench. There was also a lot of noise from the horse’s hooves and carriage wheels. I think it was the beginning of my lifelong interest in travel.
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