Alfred Hitchcock (8 page)

Robert Sherwood was “fed up”; of that fact there was not the least doubt. Time hung heavily, for he had exhausted his source of amusement and had returned from whence he had started—the club. He did not know what to do next: everything seemed so monotonous. How he had looked forward to these few days’ rest! And now—well, there it was! He was fed right up!

While he was thus engaged in reviewing his present circumstances, in
strolled his pal, Jim. Now, Jim was married, so he was in a position to sympathise with him; although, mind you, Jim’s life contract had not been the ultramodern kind—where you repent and eventually divorce at leisure. It simply happened that Jim had struck lucky, and he was content.

“Hullo, Bob, old fruit!”

“Hullo, Jim!”

“You don’t look in the pink. Anything wrong?”

“Oh, I’m tired—and fed up!” And Bob unfolded his little drama.

“Why, I know the solution. What you want is a girl!”

“A girl?”

“Yes: a nice young lady—someone with whom you can share all your little joys and sorrows—and money!”

Bob shook his head. “No, that’s no good; I’m not built that way. Besides, I don’t know any girls.”

“Listen to me. All you have to do is to go to one of the suburbs—say, Fulham—and keep your eyes open around the smart houses. When you have struck your fancy, just go up and—oh, well, you know what to say! Simply pass the time of day, etc.”

Bob got up.

“I’ll think about it. Can’t do any harm, and in any case it’ll pass an hour.”

“Good man!” exclaimed Jim. “Let me know how you get on.”

It was pouring heavily, and, in consequence, Bob swore. If he had any special antipathy it surely was relations (all of the old and crusty sort) and duty visits. The latter was a demand of the present occasion, and he made haste to get the ordeal over. But the rain teemed down heavier, and, being without an umbrella, he slipped into a nearby doorway. Some minutes had passed without any abatement of the rain, when a cloaked figure made its way up the garden path towards the refugee.

“Oh!” exclaimed the newcomer, startled.

“Excuse me,” said Bob, “but I am sheltering from the rain. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she replied, inserting her key in the lock. “Oh, dear,” she cried, “I can’t get the key to turn.”

“May I try?” volunteered Robert. Receiving assent, he continued the good work, but was equally unsuccessful. “The only thing to do is to force the door,” he said.

“Oh, is there no other way?”

“I’m afraid that’s the only solution. I find that one of the wards of the key has been broken off. You must have dropped it.”

“I did—this afternoon, after I had closed the door. Well, as force is the only remedy, do you mind trying?”

A few heaves with his shoulder proved sufficient to send the door flying open.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “In return for your kindness may I ask you to come in and sit down until the rain ceases?”

Bob hesitated for a moment; then he remembered Jim’s advice, and assented, with thanks. Once inside, he lost no time in getting acquainted, and the end of thirty minutes saw the pair intensely interested in each other. Brainy man, Jim (thought Bob), to put me on a stunt like this. I shall never be able to thank him enough! He’ll be glad to hear of my progress.

At the end of an hour he was all but engaged. Then came the sound of footsteps up the path.

“My husband,” she gasped. “What shall I do? You must get out of the window—hide—or do something—quick!”

“Oh—hell!” groaned poor Romeo. “Here’s a go!” To her he said quickly: “Switch out the light, and I’ll slip out of the door when he enters!”

She sprang to the switch and the room was plunged into darkness.

But almost simultaneously her husband opened the door and turned on the light, finding Bob at his feet, ready to escape.

“Bob!”

“Jim!”

“You d—n fool!” he shouted. “I said Fulham—not Peckham!”

Here was Hitchcock’s first suspenseful “love triangle.” But it’s also a triumph of comedic inference: “he lost no time in getting acquainted, and the end of thirty minutes saw the pair intensely interested in each other”—from a director who often got away with sly sexual innuendo while distracted censors fretted over the footage of violence.

Several of Hitchcock’s
Telegraph
stories make obvious references to the world of theater. The extent to which the stage influenced his filmmaking has never been adequately assessed. Theatrical style and effects—bravura style and special effects—suffused his work.

Was Hitchcock involved with some sort of amateur theater group during this formative period? Henley’s arranged for employees to subscribe to West End plays. The company also established a drama club, just starting up in 1920, which met to mount shows at the Cripplegate Institute. Hitchcock never claimed any such involvement, but one has the sense, in these early writings, of someone watching people perform, while dreaming up alternative realities.

One might speculate that in “What’s Who?” his fifth bylined piece, Hitchcock was writing from his own vantage among just such a group. Published in December 1920, this story predicted one of the issues that troubled his own career: it poked fun at producers, who, to him and many other directors, could be a nuisance.

“Now,” said Jim, “the proposal I have to put forward is a novel one!”

We yawned.

Jim was the producer of our local amateur theatricals, you see, and beyond that description it is not in my power to make further comment. Jim is twice my size.

“In the next show each of you three,” he continued, “will impersonate each other!”

I gasped.

“Now you, Bill,” he said to me, “will be him”—pointing to Sid; “and Sid will be Tom, and Tom you. Then when—”

“Wait a minute,” interposed Tom, “let’s get this clear. Now I’m Sid—”

“No, you’re not, you’re me!”

“Well, who’s you?”

“You are,
you fool!
”

“You’re all getting into a muddle. Let me explain further,” said Jim.

“Doesn’t need any explanation,” I replied, “it’s all as clear as Tom—”

“What do you mean?” interrupted he. “If you’re going to get personal about it, I’ll chuck up being you before we start.”

“All right then, you be Sid, and I’ll be you.”

“But!” yelled Sid, “you said you were me!”

“Well, so I am.”

“You’re not, you’re him!”

“Look here,” broke in Tom, “let him be you, and you be me, and I’ll be him.”

“Shut up!” screamed Jim above the din. “Why don’t you all stick to my first arrangement?”

“All right, then,” commenced Tom, “I’ll be Sid.”

“No, you won’t. I’ll be Sid.”

“But just now you said you were me.”

“Shut up, he’s you.”

“Well, who’s me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why, Sid is, of course,” put in Jim. “Now let’s start.”

“When—”

“Wait,” said Tom, “I can’t be him; he’s bandy.”

“Who’s bandy?”

“You are, you fool!”

“I’ll punch your nose!”

“Don’t start scrap—”

“Well, he—”

“Look at what—”

“I’m not, you idiot—”

Jim fainted.

“Hitch” claimed two entries in the December 1920
Telegraph.
If the first seems a precursor to Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on First?” shtick, the second is every bit as frivolous, an amusing disquisition on “pea eating” that could have been dreamed up only by the son of a greengrocer. This story looks forward to the many scenes in Hitchcock films which are centered on sustenance and libation. Sometimes the scenes reveal crucial story information. Other times, as in “The History of Pea Eating,” they offer disarming comedy relief.

Modern science, with its far-reaching effects on the life of the community, has yet one more problem to solve to further the progress of the world—that of eating peas. Considerable speculation has been given to the methods employed in the early ages, and we read of the prehistoric man who simply buried his face in the plate of peas and performed practically an illusion by his act of demolishing the vegetables without the use of his hands.

One must admit, however, that this method may be described as crude, for one can hardly imagine the modern corpulent gentleman attempting the same feat, because of the danger of his excessive “adiposity” reaching the floor before his face reached the plate.

We are told that Sir Roger D’Arcy, in the early Middle Ages, found no great difficulty in the problem. All he did was to attach to the headpiece of his armor a double piece of elastic in the form of a catapult. He simply placed a pea between the piece of leather attached to the elastic and aimed towards his open mouth. But even this method brought inconvenience, for it was soon discovered that there were many gentlemen with a bad aim, and often a duel resulted from the fact that Sir Percy had badly stung the wife of Baron Edgar over the other side of the room. It is believed that an Act was instituted prohibiting the use of this method without a licence, and one had to pass a test to secure the necessary permission to adopt this very ingenious style of feeding.

These restrictions were responsible for the falling off in the popularity of peas, and after a time, they were practically non-existent as an edible vegetable. Many years later, however, their revival brought a great interest to the now famous pea-eating contests, the details of which reveal a further method of manipulation. It appears that each competitor was required to balance a certain number of peas along the edge of a sword, from which he was to swallow the peas without spilling any. Of course, in very exciting matches the contestants’ mouths and faces were often cut. It is believed that the performance
of sword swallowing was evolved from this feat, and that very large-mouthed people of today are direct descendants from the champions of that period.

As is well known, many estimable people still practise this method on a smaller scale.

Still further styles of deglutition were tried in late years, and the modern boy’s pea-shooter recalls the employment of pages to shoot the peas in My Lord’s mouth. Bad aim, of course, was reflected with dire results to the page.

We have yet to discover a really useful and satisfactory method of pea eating. A recent inventor evolved a process by which a pipe was placed in the mouth and the peas drawn up by pneumatic means. But in the trials the inventor unfortunately turned on the power in the reverse direction, with the result that the victim’s tongue is now much longer than hitherto.

Another person suggested that they might be electrically deposited, but the idea of the scheme was so shocking that it was not considered.

One of the most sensible ways which is at present in the experimental stages is receiving the attention of a well-known market gardener, who is endeavouring to grow square peas so as to eliminate the embarrassing habit which peas have of rolling off the cutlery. It is to be hoped that the experiment will prove successful.

In order to help on this very important scientific development, suggested methods from our readers will be welcomed, and forwarded to the proper authority. Please direct any suggestions to The Manager, THE HENLEY TELEGRAPH.

Gainfully employed, creatively engaged, the young advertising man practiced a new persona in public, taking long lunches at posh West End restaurants, adopting the uniform of businessmen and lawyers, slowly reading his
Times
, fingering his first cigars.

In 1920 he turned twenty-one, voting age, and the age when a young Englishman officially became an adult and was rewarded with “the key of the door.” The lunches grew longer. Hitchcock had been at Henley’s for six years now, and he was becoming bored, restless. His boss perceived that his young protégé was ill-suited for any longtime sinecure, in advertising or any other department.

Hitchcock “caused me much worry by his carefree lack of attention to the essential details of an Advertising Department’s organization,” remembered supervisor W. A. Moore. “Printing blocks would be sent off and no records kept. When they were again wanted, no one knew where they were. Records were a thing outside his understanding—matters too insignificant to bother about.”

Hitchcock shuffled his creative options at Henley’s the way he later shuffled alternative versions of film scenes to accommodate a lowering budget or threatening censors: “We could always get another block, or put
something else in if there was not time to get another,” Moore recalled as Hitchcock’s work philosophy. “I do not suppose ‘Hitch’ ever realized how much he worried me in that respect. He was always too lighthearted.”