Good Eeeevening. Tonight’s story is a tantalizing tale of a man obsessed with making a film about a perverted serial killer. Don’t be alarmed, it all comes out right in the end. Of course, “right” is all a matter of opinion…
I love Alfred Hitchcock. His tv show Alfred Hitchcock Presents (probably in the 3rd or 4th round of re-runs by the time I got to ‘em) were a constant source of joy to my little eyes, as were the short story collections he edited. With titles like “Stories Not for the Nervous”, “12 Stories They Wouldn’t Let Me Do on TV” and “A Hangman’s Dozen”, is it any wonder I’m a horror junkie? To me he was the equivalent of The Cool Uncle, the member of the family that made you feel as if you were in fact bonded with somebody. Later on, when I was finally allowed to see Psycho, The Birds and Frenzy, I was already predisposed to love ‘em. And love ‘em I did. All this build-up is to give a bit of context; I was also predisposed to love Hitchcock, and love it I do. It’s a marvelous love letter to the master of the macabre that shows exactly how hard he worked at crafting the movies we now consider classics. Though I’m sure it won’t get any film historians seal of approval for accuracy, Hitchcock is accurate enough for fans like me who would rather see Hitch as a benevolent but off-kilter genre poppa-bear than see him as a twisted horror of a man like the one in HBO’s The Girl. (All apologies to Toby Jones and his remarkable portrayal.)
