Rear Window

After five months of reviewing films, it felt about time to venture into the world of Alfred Hitchcock. Upon watching Rear Window, the widespread influence this 1954 thriller has is plain to see. There is a whole lot to unpack here: sharp social commentary, simmering paranoia and a thrilling voyeuristic dynamic between the characters and audience that sets this unique thriller apart from the rest.

Rear Window is set almost entirely in the apartment of acclaimed photographer, Jeff, who is recovering from an accident at work. Cooped up all day, Jeff becomes obsessed with observing the comings and goings of his neighbours. Jeff's girlfriend, Lisa Fremont (Grace Kelly), is glamorous, intelligent, and completely in love with Jeff - the image of future marital bliss. However, her perfection unsettles Jeff, who seeks the grit and grime he photographs. Unable to travel, he now searches for that unpredictable darkness from the window of his living room.

The first thing to note is Rear Window's stunning visual design. From his apartment, Jeff overlooks a courtyard populated by a vivid collection of neighbours: from the comical couple who prefer to sleep on their balcony and hoist their miniature dog up in a basket, to a rowing couple and a funky artist, all will have a part to play in the film's social commentary. Jeff sits trapped in a wheelchair with his leg in a cumbersome cast as a heatwave sweeps over New York, perfectly setting the stage for a suffocating domestic thriller. The sun-bleached apartment block splays out a myriad of stories, each patworked window offering a colourful insight into the lives of it's inhabitants. As night descends, the hues of each vignette intensify and the dark underbelly of this small society is revealed. The charming pianist waves goodbye to his partying cohort of friends before he destroys his place in an alcohol-enduced fury. The life-affirming ballerina who frolicks about her apartment during the day hosts a clique of lustful men, juggling their attention in a flurry that feels more insidious than glamourous. Before the central plot is even introduced, Hitchcock is making a striking statement; this quaint block is a microcosm of American life, with all of its associative glory and darkness.

Jeff is tended to by nurse, Stella, played by the brilliant Thelma Ritter. Ritter is the standout performance in this film, balancing Stella's caring vigilance with a dark, wry humour that fits in perfectly with the film's two competing undertones. Stella, for all her charming comedic relief, offers some of the most astute and unique takes in the film. Gazing out upon the courtyard, she remarks upon the interconnectedness of such seemingly isolated lives, joking she predicted the stock market crash of 1929 because of a manufacture salesman's kidney failure. This comedic anecdote masks a profound truth: even the smallest action is capable of rippling outward into devastating consequences. This sentiment is crucial when Jeff spies a husband leaving his flat carrying a large suitcase.

As the film progresses, Jeff's obsessive voyeurism escalates. He begins to name his neighbours ('Miss Torso', 'Mr Salesman', 'Miss Lonely Heart'), stripping their initial anonymity and claiming narrative ownership over their lives. In one particularly moving snippet, 'Miss Lonely Heart' reenacts a romantic, candle-lit meal alone, dolling herself up and laughing at a non-existent partner's non-existent jokes. It is a depressing scene that implicates the audience as voyeurs too. Like Jeff, we become emotionally invested in the whims and private sufferings of strangers. Yet, when anyone glances over at his apartment, Jeff recoils in fear, frightened to relinquish the part of himself they display so readily.

As Jeff continues to spy on the suspicious Lars Thorwald's late night escapades, his concern piques when Thorwald's bedridden wife suddenly disappears. Convinced that he has murdered her, Jeff confesses to both Stella and Lisa. Stella is initially sceptical, but Lisa, desperate to prove herself as an adventurous counterpart to Jeff, embraces his theory enthusiastically. When the dozy couple's dog is found strangled after digging in Thorwald's flower bed, the group, convinced Mrs Thorwald is buried there, hatch a plan. Jeff calls Thorwald, distracting him as Rita and Lisa search the flower bed, but to no avail.

In a shocking turn, Lisa enters Thorwald's flat. Jeff (and the audience) can only watch in horror as Thorwald reenters the flat and catches Lisa in the act. The two disappear from sight, revealing not only a physical blindsport, but a conceptual one too: Jeff loses narrative control and is forced to confront the reality of his voyeurstic fantasies. The physical choreography of the sequence is nail-bitingly good, utilising the distance that once enthralled the voyeur and twisting it in order to create excruiating anxiety.

In a terrifying yet fateful moment, Thorwald finally notices Jeff. Jeff, left helplessly in his wheelchair can do nothing but listen as the heavy thuds of Thorwald's footsteps approach - it is pretty unbearable to watch. Thorwald enters Jeff's flat and attacks him, swinging Jeff out of his window as the courtyard looks on in horror. Police rush into the apartment and pull Thorwald away, but Jeff loses his grip and falls, breaking his other leg.

Considering the brilliant tension building of the first two acts of the film, the final sequence of Rear Window feels a little lacklustre (Jeff's comical fall from the window certainly didn't help). Thorwald's 'demise' felt rather underdeveloped and rushed; I would have loved some dramatic monologue to reveal more about the mysterious man we have been watching so intently. Considering Hitchcock's meticulous efforts to explore the intertwining worlds of the apartment block, Rear Window potentially missed a trick to bring them more fully into the final resolution. The real emotional pay-off came from one fleeting moment: in the chaos, 'Miss Lonely Heart's' suicide attempt is prevented, echoing Stella's earlier reflections on human connection. In the midst of Lisa and Jeff's despair, another life is unexpectedly saved.

The film's conclusion is fascinatingly understated. Thorwald's apartment is repainted, ready for another unsuspecting tenant to enter the fray. The quirky couple buy a new puppy in a regenerative act of optimism and the ballerina welcomes home her (much shorter, but far more beloved) boyfriend from the army. Jeff sleeps peacefully whilst Lisa pretends to enjoy reading 'Beyond the High Himalayas', before discarding it for a copy of Bazar. It is an ambiguous final image that is equal parts playful and cynical, the perfect summation of a film obsessed with image, performance and perception.

The courtyard ends as it began: alive and in constant motion. Whilst some stories begin anew, others seem destined for darker purposes. The ending of Jeff's narrative is not neatly wrapped up, rather it disappears quietly into the frenetic tapestry of stories at play, leaving us feeling a strange blend of hopefulness and cynicism.

6.8/10

Yours sincerely,

The Film Buff