Posts Tagged ‘Hitchcock’


September 13, 2012

Problem solved

The flawed and deeply unjust British legal system needs no introduction. Suffice to say that I am required by the courts to complete no fewer than 16 “gay dates” (or “gates” as I call them) with that goblin When Hearts Turn Blue, for fouling on his lawn and deflowering his formerly virginal Yorkshire terrier Margaret.

I need not explain to the moral and goodhearted readers of the Agoraphobic Reviewer the craven injustice in this ruling, from which the only crumb of comfort to be gleaned is that I shall be holding my “no win, no fee” solicitors to their worthless word.

A clause of Lord Justice Bumbody’s sentencing states that WHTB may call in these “gates” at a moment’s notice. Thus it came to pass that on Tuesday gone, he called me via his usual intermediary (his great aunt) summoning me to the St Shrubbery Moving Picture House and Hall of Ill-repute with the intention of watching the latest summer blockbuster, Vertigo.

I am blessed with the gift of excellent foresight (I once had the sense to grow limbs and a penis a mere eight months before I was called upon to be born) and – though I had not foreseen this particular call – within a flash it was clear that I would be requested to pen a review of the new flick for the AR. Thanks to this almost superhuman prescience  I was able to imagine the entire content of the film in as few as 7 seconds. It is this vision that I hereby lay before you, as told to WHTB’s great aunt, who thoughtfully transcribed it on her portable typewriter, seeing fit to remove the majority of the swears.

Vertigo is a very singular film about a very singular man. So singular, in fact, is he, that he is in want of a wife. A girlfriend we cannot say, for he seems to have one of those – and a fine one at that – though her role seems to be that of the compound noun in its purest sense, to whit a friend who is a girl. She may very well be his social worker or carer, it is hard to understand her clipped and clean American accent, so different is it from the theatrical Noo Yoik drawl and Vegas bawl that the Shakespearean greats of television have accustomed us to.

Vertigo is a misleading title, referring obliquely as it does to the principal character’s fear of the words “verb to go”. The fact that the aforementioned girlfriend has vertiginous pink passion blancmanges is purely a diverting coincidence – or perhaps one of the many tricks deployed by director Alfred Hitchcock to throw the viewer off the scent that the picture makes no sense.  Still, who cares when with a pair of baby’s dinners like that in supporting roles the film is a shoe-in for an award.

Having established that the name is inappropriate, it is worth noting that a more fitting title would be I Tried To Wash Your Hair a Little – A Rapey Tale.  The story follows the exploits of Rowdy Roddy Peeper James Stewart as he scurries about generally disregarding society’s norms. This too is all by-the-by since, as WHTB remarked mid-film, one is incapable of listening to Stewart act his acting without hearing him say “It’s in Bill’s house and Fred’s house”. This is of a course a reference to a line in Stewart’s most famous work, the blue movie Jimmy Stewie Puts His Penis In People’s Houses and the only other film WHTB has ever seen. Indeed he insisted we re-watch this movie the other night in place of Vertigo which, of course, I have still not seen but which I hereby give two vertiginous funbags.

Vertigo has already been reviewed on the Agoraphobic Reviewer by editor in chief, John Le Baptiste. But to distract you from this, here is trad-jazz classic Tubthumping (on the theme of vertigo), as performed by its original writer, to play us out…


The Birds

May 24, 2010

I used to think Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ was a romantic comedy about a group of female friends in the Sex and the City vein. I erred sirs, I erred real bad. I have subsequently discovered that it’s actually about a demented redneck who is obsessed with a puffin. Check this out:

That's a nice crow Hitch, but it ain't no puffin.

Hey buddies. Let me tell you about m’Puffin. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, no kidding. He’s got a proud feathered chest that swells out so sweet. People talk about Marilyn Monroe’s chest or Jordan’s chest, but they ain’t gots nothing next to m’Puffin. Sure, a Puffin’s chest ain’t everyone’s bag. But, I swears, it’s smooth and graceful and sleek, like a Ferrari’s hood. Sometimes, I looks up into the sky, where God the Cloud-Master lives. Then, all of a sudden, m’Puffin goes whizzing past and his shiny Puffin chest winks out benediction to all of the pathetic losers below, such as me, and I scream with happiness.

But, fuck, buddies, what about his beak! If God has a beak, I reckons it looks something like m’Puffin’s beak. You could imagine ‘Let there be light’ coming out of it, I’m telling you. You could imagine the Word coming out of it, get me? I once saw m’Puffin crack open ten snails with that beak, and those sorry snails screamed like Chinese peasants in the vice-like grip of an ancient dragon. KEEE-RRUNNNCCHH. That’s what it sounded like. You should have heard it. What a beak!

I used to be a real sap. I wore dungarees with the ass-pouch hanging down to my thighs and I had halitosis real bad. Everyone laughed at me and called me ‘Dogpants Brown’. My name’s not even Brown. It’s Winslow Porkwind. But still, they called me Dogpants Brown. I couldn’t even get my mother to spend time with me. ‘Dogpants’, she used to say, ‘I cannot believe such a deformed assemblage of broken atoms ever issued from my womb’, referring, of course, to me, her son. But then I gots myself a Puffin. Since then, everyone has given me respect.

Why, last week, three women gave me their phone numbers. ‘Call me’ they said ‘and let’s do lunch. But be sure to bring that Puffin’. I know they only want me for m’Puffin. But they ain’t getting their claws on him. I’m keeping m’Puffin all to myself. It’s jus’ me and my Puffin, buddies, jus’ me and m’lil’ ol’ Puffin.

If anyone tried to take m’Puffin from me I think I’d whack ’em with pa’s greasy skillet then drown ‘em in the creek in an ol’ swine sack. Yeah. That’s what I’d do. Drown ’em. Yeah.