REAR WINDOW (1954)

What goes on behind shuttered windows? The home is supposed to be a sacred space, closed off to the prying eyes of an inquisitive world. The private lives of ordinary people may harbour standard embarrassments or shocking secrets, but we all have a right for such details to remain private. But then, why is it we conceal? And why do we look? In Rear Window, Hitchcock’s definitive masterpiece, we are asked both questions.

Life over the last six weeks has been exceedingly dull for L.B Jeffries (James Stewart). A professional photographer, he’s recovering from a broken leg sustained during an ill-advised shoot at a racetrack; his penchant for dangerous, thrilling situations frequently lands him in trouble, it would seem. Convalescing in his flat, he combats boredom by staring out the window, spying on the many neighbours that dwell in his apartment complex.

When he’s not snooping, he discusses with nurse Stella (Thelma Ritter) his concerns about dating Lisa (Grace Kelly), who wants him to settle down, leaving behind his career as an adventurous photographer. Amidst turmoil in his own private life, he notices a strange occurrence in someone else’s: staring out the window one night, he witnesses his neighbour Lars Thorvald (Raymond Burr) making many trips out into rainy Manhattan streets. Then Jeff notices that Thorvald’s bedridden wife has mysteriously disappeared. He’s soon convinced something evil has occurred in Greenwich Village…

Rear Window is not only Hitchcock’s best film but one of the greatest movies of all time. It is a probing investigation into our curious psychologies, an allegory for the increasing presence of governmental surveillance, and a sharp condemnation of the distance and apathy that pervades modern cities. But what makes this film one of the best ever made is how Hitchcock conveys such themes: with mystery, suspense, and character development all being visually imparted, Rear Window is pure cinema.

Part of what makes this masterpiece such an incredible film is that it shrewdly comments on the process of “looking” itself. Rear Window is as much a mystery thriller as it is a film about filmmaking, how we look at them, and why. This is a theme that’s conveyed in subtle ways.

Jeff watches as newlyweds move into their new apartment, with the window framing their actions, much like a television screen. Before the couple become intimate, the husband closes the bedroom shutter: it is like the ending to a romance story, a film within a film. Jeff’s neighbourhood is his own cinema: “Show’s over for the night,” Lisa purrs, drawing the blinds.

Stories surround our protagonist. They draw him in. There may not be anything demented about his looking—but who are we to judge? We love to look. Another example of this “film within a film” theme can be found when Jeff agonises over Thorvald almost catching Lisa in the hallway. In the throes of suspense, he covers his eyes, looking away. Who, specifically, does it remind you of? That’s right—you, sitting there in your seat, so anxious you’re probably half-ready to jump out of it.

Jeff is us: the voyeur engages the same areas of the brain as the cineaste. As such, Rear Window is a comment on the viewing habits of the filmgoer: it astutely depicts the complications that arise from our voyeuristic natures, from our pathological desire to know and understand. Or, in other words: curiosity killed the cat. However, in this instance, curiosity causes us to witness a murder, which leads to a whole world of trouble.

Filmmakers have long known that we are morbidly curious animals. As David Fincher once said, in describing the success of the mystery series written by Stieg Larsson: “I think people are perverts. I’ve maintained that. That’s the foundation of my career.” How better to describe the human urge to comprehend, our fascination with the human capacity for evil, and the compulsive inclination to explore the dark side which supposedly we all possess? We’re drawn in by our need to understand.

But how moral is this inclination? As Lisa remarks at one point in the story: “I’m not much on rear window ethics.” However, she too is drawn into the mystery, her sense of curiosity getting the better of her. The thought that an unspeakable crime has transpired just next door brings her and Jeff together, allowing them to forget their relationship woes. Lisa becomes so eager to uncover a crime that she is crestfallen when told that Mrs Thorvald is alive and well: “You and me with long faces—plunged into despair—because we find out a man didn’t kill his wife. We’re two of the most frightful ghouls I’ve ever known.”

We are ashamed of our inquisitive selves. Maybe it’s because of the schadenfreude that so often characterises gossip. Or perhaps it’s because all curiosity is perverse, and all perversion curious. Jeff’s gaze may not be overtly prurient, but Stella frequently labels him a Peeping Tom for allowing his gaze to linger on Ms Torso’s (Georgine Darcy) window. He lambasts his friend Detective Doyle (Wendell Corey) for admiring the young dancer—“How’s your wife?”—as though he himself hasn’t taken a few generous glances in her direction. Jeff is suddenly faced with his own behaviour… and he’s mildly disgusted.

So then, what is the difference between a Peeping Tom and a casual observer? A difference in degree or a difference in kind? One would like to think it was the latter, but much like Fincher wryly commented, it is most likely only a matter of degree. Our voyeuristic nature is what brings us to the cinema in the first place: the obsession with spectacle, secrets, and lies. Ethical concerns are easily eschewed when we think there may be something interesting to uncover.

While the film explores our psychological propensity for nosiness, the story also acts as an allegory for the rise in surveillance during the Cold War era. Simply put, if people are naturally curious, why shouldn’t governments be? Stella is sternly critical of such an attitude to spying: “Intelligence. Nothing has caused the human race so much trouble as intelligence.”

However, even Stella becomes a victim of her curiosity. Wanting to spy on Ms Lonelyhearts (Judith Evelyn), Stella asks for the telephoto lens off of Jeff: “Mind if I use that portable keyhole?” The dialogue is illuminating: technology has amplified our ability to look inside people’s bedrooms, thus allowing our private lives to deteriorate steadily at a societal level. Ostensibly, this mass invasion of privacy is done to keep us safe, but as Abraham Lincoln warned: “Those who are ready to sacrifice freedom for security ultimately will lose both.”

Jeff becomes emblematic of Jeremy Bentham’s panopticon, capable of seeing all, while remaining invisible, cloaked in shadow. It’s unclear whether Hitchcock’s film intends to criticise or justify such surveillance practices, either personally or systematically. That Jeff’s curious spying leads to the capture of a criminal would appear to vindicate the practice. As the film’s tagline suggests: “It only takes one witness to spoil the perfect crime…”

However, even Jeff seems concerned by the moral implications of his behaviour: “Do you suppose it’s ethical to watch a man with binoculars, and a long-focus lens, until you can see the freckles on the back of his neck, and almost read his mail?” Supposedly, it depends on whether you’re a deontologist or a utilitarian, something that Jeff alludes to: “Do you suppose it’s ethical even if you prove he didn’t commit a crime?”   

Regardless of what moral philosophy you align with, Jeff’s hobby certainly doesn’t make him a great neighbour. Indeed, one of the film’s principal motifs is the paradoxical distance that forms within such confined living spaces. How could a man murder his wife and dispose of her body without anyone (or almost anyone) in his apartment complex noticing? Why did no one respond to the shrill cry in the middle of the night?

Perhaps because neighbours are no longer so neighbourly. At least, that’s what Hitchcock and writer John Michael Hayes appear to be arguing. The mid-century, Cold War gloom is so thick that the sun’s penetrating rays cannot even dispel the cloud of pessimism during a heatwave. It’s caused a degradation of social values and a deteriorating commitment to our fellow man.

When a woman’s dog is strangled to death, she laments: “You don’t know the meaning of the word neighbour!” As soon as the drama subsides, everyone returns indoors, content to carry on with their evening. No one offers a shoulder to cry on, nor a listening ear. We are all living close together, closer than ever in fact, and it seems to have resulted in us growing apart. This little stretch of Manhattan neighbourhood becomes a microcosm of global apathy.

This absurdity of urban living is eloquently portrayed in the screenplay: Hayes understands the world in which such a crime could take place. In the film’s description of Greenwich Village, Hayes wrote: “People born and bred to life within earshot and eye glance of a score of neighbours have learned to preserve their own private worlds by uniformly ignoring each other, except on direct invitation.”  

This is why the film’s opening shot becomes so important: window blinds open, revealing a private, hidden world, one emblematic of our psychologies—but who would look? We’re curious when the curtain is drawn, but apathetic as soon as it is removed.

Of course, all of these profound ideas and weighty themes would be nothing without the very alluring surface appeal of the film: it’s undoubtedly one of the greatest mystery thrillers ever made. The beginning of the mystery is about as absorbing as it gets: a short, sharp scream that erupts in the middle of the night. Lisa’s enraptured response becomes our own: “Let’s start from the beginning again, Jeff. Tell me everything you saw. And… what you think it all means…”

The mystery genre—but especially Rear Window—is predicated on our desire to know and understand. In this respect, no matter how much we are watching a murder unfold, Hitchcock’s film is just as much about our watching it: it is a movie about seeing, about our desire to pry when we know we shouldn’t, and our tendency to piece circumstantial information together to form a cohesive whole.

Part of the reason why we’re curious perverts (as Fincher so eloquently put it) is that we instinctively narrativise our existence: when we see one event, we naturally strive to place it into a chronology. As Stella warns, this can only lead to one thing: trouble. “You look out the window. You see things you shouldn’t.”

Though Jeff believes he has witnessed a murder, he could very well have concocted the whole conspiracy with what Doyle refers to as “backwards logic”. The fallible nature of human reasoning is most on display when we have gaps of information that we instinctively fill. Jeff believes the trunk contains something suspicious because Thorvald wrapped it up, never once considering the likelihood of the more reasonable conclusion: the lock on it was broken.

Besides the incredible mystery writing, the thriller aspect of this story is perhaps second to none—literally. If a masterclass was ever taught on how to create cinematic suspense, the lecturer would merely have to play this film. The tension crafted in Hitchcock’s masterpiece is so mind-numbingly intense that it always requires a Herculean effort to sit down and watch. Grace Kelly climbing onto the balcony in her designer high heels is nauseating, while Lars Thorvald’s walk down the corridor is excruciatingly tense.

If nothing else, Rear Window showcases how the ‘Master of Suspense’ conveyed tension visually. The hallway light going off. The door opening. A man looking down the barrel of a camera lens. It is one of the most cinematically tense films ever crafted. While Hitchcock would go on to create cinematic tension again in the likes of Psycho (1960) and The Birds (1963)—with Melanie (Tippi Hedren) ascending the staircase to an uncertain fate being a particular highlight of his career—he never quite topped this film.

Besides moulding tension visually, Hitchcock manages to reveal plenty about character, story, and plot without dialogue. From the outset of the mystery itself, Hitchcock visually imparts Jeff’s mounting suspicion in a sequence that is entirely devoid of conversation. It is all done with a bemused glance out the window and a concentrated look at his watch.

With this in mind, the formal attributes of this work are utterly incredible. The cinematography in this film is among some of the best you’ll ever see, with cinematographer Robert Burks expertly designing intricate tracking shots that capture Jeff’s world. Through a combination of intimate close-ups and sweeping long shots, the neighbourhood comes to life, characterised by constant movement as residents bustle about their daily lives. Burks’ work makes us feel as though we’re right at home in Greenwich Village with Jeff.

This is also partly due to the shrewd decision never to have a shot come from outside Jeff’s apartment—we’re almost entirely afforded his perspective for the film’s duration. This necessitated certain scenes to be cut, including a superfluous sequence that occurs at Jeff’s office when his editor is given news of the assignment in Indochina. Hitchcock wisely decided to shorten this sequence into a quick phone call.

What few people talk about in Rear Window is the realistic portrait of life. Perhaps we don’t all discover our neighbours are murderous psychopaths, but there is a rather poignant depiction of troubled relationships in the film, one that the ‘Master of Suspense’ hides within a taut, riveting mystery. It’s precisely because of the uncommon dedication to character and theme that elevates Rear Window above any standard thriller.

This thematic concern is first introduced as Jeff bemoans the fact his relationship with Lisa simply won’t work. As Stella informs him: “When I married Miles, we were both a couple of maladjusted misfits. We are still maladjusted misfits, and we have loved every minute of it.” While our thrilling plot revolves around a murder, the heartfelt story is concerned with Jeff’s character development—will he settle down or spurn Lisa entirely?

The dichotomy of his choice is also presented to us in visual form: become the domesticated husband on his left, who is now little more than a housecat forever at his wife’s beck and call, or wind up like Ms Lonelyhearts, a desolate, barren existence. He is forewarned about the latter, with his editor telling him: “It’s about time you got married before you turn into a lonesome and bitter old man.”

Though most would consider him insane for not wanting to marry Grace Kelly, his concern is justified: their lifestyles starkly deviate. While they love each other, they want different things. Drama is not exaggerated, instead letting these moments feel human in their profoundly complicated simplicity. That Hitchcock manages to convey meaningful character development in a busy plot, where our protagonist literally never moves from his chair, is a testament to the auteur’s greatness.

Once again, it is only in a few visual clues that we come to know what Jeff’s decision will inevitably be, and it comes at a decisive moment: when Lisa rushes into the apartment, flushed and exhilarated after “sampling danger and escaping unharmed”. As soon as he witnesses Lisa’s adventurous spirit, Hitchcock conveys in a brief, yet revealing shot that Jeff is hopelessly in love. No matter how he tries to deny it, and for all of his pessimistic ruminating, it’s plain on his face.

From a purely narrative perspective, Rear Window is utterly without flaws. But besides all of these attributes, Hitchcock’s film is magically cinematic. Grace Kelly’s shadow appearing on James Stewart’s face is one of the best character introductions in all of film. It simultaneously imparts the majestic beauty she possesses, while symbolically suggesting the threat Jeff believes she presents to his way of life.

There is also the red glow of a cigar being smoked in a pitch-black room: the presence of evil that lurks in the shadows. The red flashes of Thorvald’s dazed vision are spectacularly cinematic, while also predicting Burks’ work on Marnie (1964) 10 years later. Additionally, the image of James Stewart clutching a pair of binoculars, with a perturbed expression etched on his face, is iconic.

Hayes’ script is also incredible, perhaps becoming the best of Hitchcock’s career, though it’s difficult ever to pick just one. Lifeboat (1944) has a screenplay that balances humour and morbid themes equally well, while Dial M for Murder (1954) has an uncommonly riveting script. But Rear Window adroitly stabilises the morbid curiosity with playfulness, elevating the story immeasurably. “What could he sell at three in the morning…?” “Flashlights.” Hayes never forgets to include spine-chilling lines, however: “It’s the kind of look a man gives when he’s afraid someone might be watching him…”

Hayes’ decision to place the narrative in the middle of a heatwave was also a stroke of genius. Not only does it mean our characters’ decision to leave their windows open makes sense—a prerequisite if the story was to work at all—but the sweltering heat creates an additional layer of tension. Much like in 12 Angry Men (1957), there’s a palpable atmosphere created; conflict seems amplified when it’s starkly apparent that our protagonists are physically uncomfortable.

Rear Window also has a claim to possessing the most perfect ending shot in all of cinema. As evil has been vanquished, and wrongs righted, our provincial universe is shown to have returned to serenity. Archetypal subplots are all satisfied almost without words; stories reach dramatic conclusions through the power of images alone.

Loneliness and struggle, grief and perseverance, tragedy and sorrow—all of them are shown to be overcome by love. Meeting a kindred spirit, one whose presence in the world means more than you could ever convey. Having your beloved return home to you after spending months juggling wolves. And learning to care again after a heartbreaking loss.

And our principal love story is shown to have a happy ending too, even if nothing dramatic happens. As Lisa takes a break from reading a photography journal, and opening her latest edition of BAZAAR, we’re given an inkling that their relationship will work itself out. Life, it would seem, tends to go on.

USA | 1954 | 111 MINUTES | 1.37:1 (ORIGINAL) • 1.66:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Alfred Hitchcock.
writer: John Michael Hayes (based on ‘It Had to Be Murder’ by Cornell Woolrich).
starring: James Stewart, Grace Kelly, Wendell Corey, Thelma Ritter, Raymond Burr, Judith Evelyn, Ross Bagdasarian, Georgine Darcy, Sara Berner, Frank Cady, Jesslyn Fax, Rand Harper, Havis Davenport & Irene Winston.