It's Only a Movie

by Charlotte Chandler

  “As a boy, I knew I wanted to travel just as soon as I could. If you are lucky enough to travel when you’re young, everything you see becomes a part of you on which you can draw all through life.”

  Early in the twentieth century, the horse-drawn streetcars that passed through Leytonstone were replaced by new electric trams. “I remember their tracks and sparking trolley wire, before they put it underground, coming from somewhere and going to somewhere else, rapidly transporting people to places I could only imagine. And the street smelled better.

  “When I was no more than six years of age, perhaps younger, I did something that my father considered worthy of reprimand. I don’t recall the particular transgression, but at that tender age, it could hardly have been such a serious offense.

  “My father sent me to the local constabulary with a note. The police officer on duty read it and then led me down a long corridor to a jail cell where he locked me in for what seemed hours, which was probably five minutes. He said, ‘This is what we do to naughty boys.’

  “I have never forgotten those words. I have, ever since, gone to any length to avoid a repetition of that kind of experience, loss of control to authority. I have never enjoyed surprises, even good ones, because they make me feel out of control.

  “I can still hear the clanging of the cell door behind me.

  “I’ve always said I didn’t remember why I was punished, but I think it was because earlier that day, late in the afternoon, I’d followed the tram tracks. I hadn’t gone very far when it started to get dark, and I lost my way. Realizing I would be late for dinner, I hurried home. My father had been forced to wait for his dinner, although I certainly would have been happier for him to have gone ahead without me. In later years, I considered perhaps he was angry because he was worried about me.

  “Even before that, I was never a little boy who wanted to grow up and be a policeman. Indeed, policemen have always frightened me, the British bobby being the most frightening. That may come from my youthful trauma, or perhaps it’s simply because British policemen were the first I saw when I was young, and thus they seem more policemen than the rest. I think they seem more sinister because they are so polite, all those good manners!”

  The Hitchcocks were Catholics, a minority in Leytonstone, as in England. “Just being Catholic,” Hitchcock said, “meant you were eccentric.” The ceremony of the weekly Sunday mass impressed young Alfred, though in later life he described himself as “neglectfully religious.” His mother was of Irish descent. His father was descended from a long line of English Catholics.

  William Hitchcock was a wholesale and retail greengrocer and fruiterer who had a store in Leytonstone and who dealt with the market at Covent Garden. “When I was shooting exteriors for Frenzy in London,” Hitchcock said, “a very old man came up to me who told me he remembered my father when he bought and sold vegetables at Covent Garden.

  “Some of my happiest memories were on the rare occasions when my father took me with him to the countryside. He would buy a whole field of cabbages and that sort of thing.

  “My parents didn’t require me to work in the store, as my older brother and sister did. Perhaps I disappointed my father because I never showed any interest in his business and no inclination to follow him into it. I could not imagine how a wilted lettuce leaf could be of such concern to him.

  “Though my father made a comfortable living as a greengrocer, dealing in perishables contributed to a certain feeling of insecurity in our family. My father had a conservative nature, but his occupation put him in the position of being a speculator. In a way, it’s not so different from my own field. Though I am in no way a gambler by nature, the endeavor I have chosen as my life’s work has put me in a position not so different from that of my father—a speculator in perishables. But no one in our family ever went hungry. That’s the advantage of being the child of a vegetable and fruit dealer.

  “My mother was a homemaker, as they say. It was her full-time career, as was the accepted custom in those days. I don’t remember ever coming home and not finding her there.

  “Our house was always perfectly kept. Immaculate. I took it for granted. My mother was meticulous about our home and her person. She never left the house without presenting herself at her best, her posture, her demeanor, her dress, her shoes, perfectly polished, a well-kept handbag, inside as well as outside, and gloves whenever possible. I have always admired a lady who wears gloves.

  “Ingrid [Bergman] wore gloves, and I thought it very sexy, the way she took them off. I always thought it was more sexy if a woman revealed her secrets gradually, rather than indulging in overexposure.

  “My mother was well groomed and properly attired, even when she was cleaning our home. She would put on a big white apron that was spotless and had a starched ruffle, covering everything but her sleeves.

  “She was not a complainer. I never heard her complain. She was also not a gossip. I never heard her speak badly about anyone. Her concern was entirely for her family. She did not have women friends dropping over. At the time that did not seem unusual to me. I observed the same thing about my wife. They had full lives and did not need more.

  “My mother was a good cook. My father brought home the best greens and even some imported luxury fruit he might have spotted on his visit to the Covent Garden Market. Fresh milk was delivered to our house.

  “I liked to shop with my mother on the High Road and especially to visit the bakery where I was always given a free cookie or two. The bakery had the most wonderful aromas. Like perfume. Lemon Cake Number 5. Guerlain Ginger Biscuit.

  “My mother liked to cook, but she didn’t care about baking, so our kitchen did not have the same delightful scents as the High Road bakery. I was able to fully enjoy the experience because it was before I ever heard the word ‘diet.’ Plumpness in very small children was considered ‘cute’ and even a sign of good health. It reflected well on the parents and their prosperity, and showed they were taking good care of their child.

  “I remember my father going to work in a dark suit with a very white starched shirt and a dark tie. I never saw him when he wasn’t clean-shaven. It wasn’t for the cabbages. It was a matter of self-respect.

  “My parents loved the theater and took me with them, whenever my father could be free, and that very much influenced my life. I could feel how much they enjoyed it. I did, too, and I never forgot those green-lit villains in the melodramas, accompanied by sinister music. The heroine always had rosy-pink light to help her to be more beautiful and pure.”

  Very early, other children made fun of the way young Alfred looked, one of them telling him he was “funny-looking.” He went home and looked in the mirror. He turned to check his profile. His mother saw him doing it.

  “Do you think I look funny?” he asked her.

  “You’ll outgrow it,” she said. It wasn’t the answer he was hoping to hear. “I didn’t outgrow it,” Hitchcock said. “I just outgrew. No one wants to be fat. That’s a universal. With a small u.”

  His pudgy, overweight appearance, his lack of interest in the games the other children played, and little athletic ability, isolated him and led to his development of more solitary interior interests. As a boy, “I led an active inner life. The other boys judged everyone on their outer lives. I may not have been athletic, but I was well coordinated.” Hitchcock said that he rather came to enjoy not having to participate in games he considered a waste of time. In those first years, his mother was his best and only companion.

  “My mother was so consistently there for me, I took her presence for granted, which is a very good thing for a child. I felt I was her favorite.

  “I wasn’t a popular type, so I was forced to live in my imagination, and I believe that helped me to develop my creative resources. I don’t need much stimulation from the outside world.

  “There are internal people and external people. External people are more likely to spend or waste their creative resources. They are constantly faced wit
h temptations that did not come my way. It was an advantage that the homely, less popular child has. I was forced to develop my interior self, not be dependent on the others. Then my work brought me a kind of appreciation, even love, you might say, that I never expected. Perhaps that made it all sweeter, the cream on the bun.

  “My private person, the real me, is a very shy person, not at all the public impression,” he told me. “The man is not different from the boy. To understand me, you have to accept that I’m really, truly shy, you know, and I have been so all of my life. When you start out that way as a child, it’s rare that you lose it. I certainly didn’t. As a child, I found solace in my mother’s company, and in my own.”

  A childhood passion he could pursue alone was collecting anything to do with travel, especially tram and omnibus maps. “I kept my collections of maps, timetables, schedules, tickets, and transfers in an orderly, careful way. I liked to see each thing in its place and in perfect condition.”

  He imagined himself traveling every route, and then he set out to do just that. This interest was then extended to other cities. “I’d never been on the New York subway,” he said, “but the first time I visited New York, I felt I could have traveled anywhere in the city because I had memorized every line.”

  He collected maritime schedules. “The magical moment in any journey,” he told me, “is that first moment the ship or the train departs. It’s as if you’re already a thousand miles away from where you started. I never get the same feeling with air travel.”

  Hitchcock disliked the names Alfred and Joseph, and was soon known as “Hitch” to his classmates. Later in life, he was known to say to people he met, though not to women, “Call me Hitch, without a cock.”

  Hitchcock’s education in Catholic schools left a lasting impression on him, particularly the Jesuit school, St. Ignatius. “What did I learn in Jesuit school? A consciousness of good and evil, that both are always with me. They taught me control, organization, discipline, and that I did not like to get a tanning, which was something I didn’t need to go to school to learn.

  “The threat of corporal punishment was worse than the actual experience. I couldn’t escape the threat of it no matter how careful I was.”

  Hitchcock speculated that having this fear of punishment always hanging over him may have contributed to his “ticking bomb” theory of suspense in cinema, that it wasn’t the explosion, but the threat of the explosion that created the suspense. He also learned that a sense of the forbidden and of sin makes everything more fascinating.

  “My childhood was not an unhappy one, nor was it happy. At that time, I didn’t have a strongly defined sense of happiness. I was more aware of good and evil, of right and wrong.”

  Reading was one of Hitchcock’s favorite activities during his childhood, and books continued to influence him throughout his life. “I was much impressed by Edgar Allan Poe, G. K. Chesterton, and by the English ‘shockers,’ such as John Buchan. I became acquainted with Conan Doyle, Wilkie Collins, and Dickens when I was very young. My favorite Dickens was Great Expectations. In Collins’s and Dickens’s Victorian world, to murder someone was an unspeakable crime, an attitude which stayed with me. Even in murder mysteries, it is important not to waste human life. People cannot just be thrown away.

  “I learned from Poe that you could experience all of the emotions and physical sensations of being afraid without yourself being in any physical danger, though after reading him, I didn’t like to go immediately into the dark.

  “I don’t know if a night in my early childhood when I woke up alone in the blackness was the start of my childhood fear of the dark, or if I already had it.

  “I called out, but no one came. The entire house was dark and I couldn’t find my parents.

  “Then they returned. It seemed that on a warm summer evening, my parents had gone for a short walk. There was a maid somewhere about, but I didn’t know that. I suppose I was about four. My dislike of the dark has stayed with me. It represented the unknown, while my preference has always been for the familiar. One never knows what could be lurking in the darkness. One does not wish to know.”

  Not all of Hitchcock’s fears were physical. “One of my greatest fears has always been that of making a fool of myself in public. An embarrassing moment. I think of it as open-fly phobia. What I consider to be my greatest fear of all is—to know the future.”

  Joining with his three brothers, who were fishmongers, William Hitchcock was able to expand his business. The Hitchcocks were comfortable, but there was always lingering tension about money, about future security, which the young Hitchcock couldn’t understand. “Only later, I realized what great pressure there was on my father. He worked those very long hours and didn’t show the strain, until one day he died.”

  On December 14, 1914, William Hitchcock died of a heart attack at age fifty-two. “My father was always away,” Hitchcock said, “except for his Sunday morning attendance at church and our visits to the theater. It was only after he died that I realized he was never home, because he was out there working hard for us, his family.

  “My father never seemed carefree, except at the theater. I think he worried a lot. Selling produce that can spoil in a day must be nerve-wracking.”

  The death of his father forced Hitchcock to find a career. His older brother took over the family business, and Alfred was asked what he would like to be. “I said maybe I would like to be an engineer, so I was sent to a school of engineering and navigation. I took courses in mechanical drawing, electricity, and other aspects of engineering, and I gained a great deal of practical knowledge in the shop courses that helped me later in film work. It was quite a program they had. I could have become a blacksmith, but I think I made a better choice for myself. It was the draftsman training that eventually got me a job as an art director.

  “I’d always liked to draw, and I took evening art classes at the University of London. It was suggested that we students visit museums, and I found the museums wonderful.”

  Hitchcock went to work at the W. T. Henley Telegraph and Cable Company where he was at first employed in a clerical position. He got the job because he knew something about electricity, and also because during World War I, there was a labor shortage. He quickly tired of ohms and volts, and began visiting the advertising department where the supervisor let him do some layouts for ads. They liked what he did, so he began designing ads and brochures. He helped design Henley’s employee magazine, and even wrote for it.

  Hitchcock’s short story, “Gas,” appeared in the first issue of the Henley Social Club Magazine. Hitchcock described it as being “about an unfortunate young Englishwoman who goes to Paris and is kidnapped by a gang of cutthroats, robbed, and then tossed into the Seine. At the end of the story, we learn that she dreamed it all under anesthetic at the dentist’s office.”

  Hitchcock already had some idea of who he was, who he wanted to be, and how he wanted to live. While a few of his thriftier co-workers carried lunch pails or bagged lunches, most preferred a communal break at the local pub. Standing up while eating never appealed to Hitchcock, who selected a restaurant which not only served good food but, as he recalled, “had very clean fine linen napkins.” He had a lifelong appreciation of table linen, china, crystal, and silver. After lunch, he would smoke one cigar, the best he could afford, considering the straitened circumstances at home after his father’s death and the need for him to contribute part of his salary.

  He did not remember feeling lonely at that time, and he never minded eating alone. “Besides, I didn’t earn enough money to pay for two.”

  Hitchcock wanted to fit in with his co-workers while not really sharing their interests. “I had too much to do, my solitary pursuits, which were of much greater interest to me.”

  He chose to protect himself from rejection. “I have always been uncommonly unattractive. Worse yet, I have always known it. The feeling has been with me so long, I cannot imagine what it would be like not to feel that way.”r />
  Hitchcock was too young to fight in the Great War until it was nearly over, but as soon as he was eighteen, he immediately went to take his physical. He was rejected, which he said was a blow.

  “It shouldn’t have been such a shock. They didn’t say what was wrong with me, but I think they just didn’t like the way I looked. I’m an upside-down cake. I was very healthy, but I believe they thought I would have been a disgrace to the uniform.

  “They would have had to make my uniform to order because they didn’t have any that came in my shape. My legs are too small for my body. I suppose they thought I wouldn’t have been able to charge into battle, or even out of it.”

  He joined the volunteer corps of the Royal Engineers, which didn’t require a uniform, and which met to practice home defense.

  “I was deeply interested in movies from childhood, well before I became involved with them. Deeply interested. They were a passion of mine. I didn’t read fan magazines. Stars were of no interest to me. Later, I understood better why. I read the trade papers and technical journals.

  “I saw films that looked like someone had set up a camera in front of a stage, especially the British films. I’d be over the moon with the Frenchman Georges Méliès. I was thrilled by the movies of D. W. Griffith and the early French director Alice Guy.”

  In 1919, Hitchcock read in the trade papers about a Hollywood company—Famous Players-Lasky, which eventually became Paramount—setting up a branch in London at the Islington Studios. “It was important in my life,” Hitchcock said, “both as Famous Players-Lasky and later as Paramount.”

  He applied for a position at the studio with an elaborate portfolio he had put together while at Henley. “Someone I knew, knew someone who knew what their first film was going to be. Actually, at the time, the plan was only tentative, but fortunately, I didn’t have that excess of information to hinder me. It was an occasion where what I didn’t know was as important as what I did know. I rushed out and bought The Sorrows of Satan, a Victorian novel, and stayed up much of the night for several nights, not something I ever liked to do.