Copyright Film Society of Lincoln Center Jul/Aug 1999| [Headnote] |
| The History of Pea Eating and Other Divertissements |
BETWEEN 1914 AND 1921 - that is, between the end of his early education at St. Ignatius College and his first job on a motion picture production - Alfred Hitchcock worked for a company called Henley's, in London. These are shadow years, little documented, little understood. Research for a new biography of the film director indicates that this was a busy, productive period, during which time the budding Hitchcock first flowered.
Every step Hitchcock took after leaving St. Ignatius College hinted at uncommon ambition. Everything he did opened the door wider to the beckoning world.
He was only 15 when, beginning with the fall term of 1914, he enrolled in an evening course of study offered by the London County Council School of Engineering and Navigation on High Street in Poplar. The courses offered by the new junior institute emphasized marine and mechanical engineering. Hitchcock attended lectures and workshops in physics and chemistry, and was taught lathework, woodworking, soldering, wiring. Students sketched instruments and tools, calculated nautical and electrical measurements. They were expected to learn the principles of magnetism, Ohm's law, logarithms, vector diagrams, the laws of force and motion.
At this institute Hitchcock began the thorough technical training that would prove the solid foundation of his career. He must have been thinking ahead, because only two months later, in November 1914, he applied for an entry position and was hired by W.T. Henley's Telegraph Works, a reputable company whose offices were located in an office block on Blomfield Street on the east side of London, near a stop on the Central Line from Leytonstone. His job, paying fifteen shillings weekly, would be to calculate sizes and voltages of cables.
Founded by electroplating pioneer William Thomas Henley in 1837, Henley's was an early manufacturer of electrical apparatus and insulated conductors, and had grown into a leader in the field of telegraph and electrical cables. The company was particularly known for its sub-marine achievements, which included the manufacturing of both shore ends of the Atlantic Cable and the laying of a Persian Gulf Cable. At one point, Sir Henry M. Stanley (the explorer who found Dr. Livingstone in Africa) served on the board of directors. Henley's had shifted its emphasis from telegraph cables to cables for light and power, and to production of all types of electrical distribution equipment for a global market. Hitchcock started out in the SalesIM Section, where he would spend three years honing his draftsmanship and mechanical know-how - as well as the practice of patient and rigorous planning on paper that would become a professional hallmark.
Henley's was a huge operation with several hundred employees at the Blomfield Street office alone. Not only did Hitchcock's responsibilities augment his growing technical expertise. but the company was- like a film studio - a small world unto itself. There was a crowded social calendar. with companysponsored recreational and sporting events. club occasions, weekend river trips, picnic parties. and other outings. Hitchcock liked to say he was a shy, solitalw young man, but there he is in company snapshots. grinning among friends at social occasions. He also liked to say he was a fat young man, but his weight fluctuated quite a bit: in some photographs he looks sleek and almost dashing. He was well-known and popular at Henley's; thern. for the first time, he adopted the persona of "Hitch." as he liked to say wickedly, "without the cock."
England had been plunged into war, entering hostilities in the summer of 1914. even before Hitchcock had started (classes at the School of Engineering and Navigation. Judging from photographs, it probably wasn't weight that excused him from eventual military service, with a C3 classification, but another medical condition - that and the death of his father from chronic emphysema and kidney disease, shortly after Hitchcock was hired at Henleys. Yet, as he was to do later in the context of another war, Hitchcock proved himself patriotic by signing up for a volunteer regiment of the Royal Engineers. With an acquaintance from Henley's he augmented a corps of men receiving theoretical training in the evening while engaging in weekend drills and exercises. His war experience would be limited to marching around Hyde Park in puttees.
That, and one time, he remembered, coming home to his mother's amidst the shrill blare of sirens warning of a Zeppelin raid. "The whole house was in an uproar," Hitchcock recalled in one interview, "but there was my poor Elsa Maxwell-plump little mother struggling to get into her bloomers, always putting both her legs through the same opening, and saying her prayers, while outside the window shrapnel was bursting around a searchlit Zeppelin - extraordinary image!"
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Although he stayed attentive to his mother and his sister, often attending stage plays and seeing movies with Nellie, by the time he was 18 he had moved out of the Leytonstone house and into a London flat owned by one of his uncles. He knew in his heart that he couldn't face a technical engineering future, and so enrolled in art and painting courses at Goldsmiths' College, a well-known and forward-looking branch of London University. These included one famous class presided over by E.J. Sullivan, a mesmerizing lecturer and illustrator, renowned for the detail and craftsmanship of his line drawings in newspapers, magazines, and books.
By the time World War I ended Hitchcock had been mired in the SalesIM Section of Henley's for three years. Although he performed his duties well, he had developed as "somewhat of a square peg in a round hole," according to W.A. Moore, head of the company's advertising department. "I was kind of lazy," Hitchcock admitted to Peter Bogdanovich forty years later, "so I'd pile them [requests for estimates] up on my desk and they'd go up to a big stack. And I used to say, `Well, I've got to get down to this,' and then I polished them off like anything - and used to get praised for the prodigious amount of work I'd done on that particular day. This lasted until the complaints began to come in about the delay in answering. That's the way I still feel about working. Certain writers want to work every hour of the day - they're very facile. I'm not that way. I want to say, `Let's lay off for several hours - let's play."'
WA. Moore befriended the young employee and listened to his pleas to be transferred. "Routine clerical work was never his great feature." Moore realized. "Art and strong imaginative work - creative work - were interwoven with his nature."
In late 1917 or early 1918, in accordance with his wishes, Hitchcock was sent over to the advertising department. His new position would be to devise, lay out, and paste up brochures for Henley's products and design internal publications.
The work was not always exciting, but there was some opportunity for flair. "One example of his inventiveness in this direction," wrote his authorized biographer, John Russell Taylor, "was a brochure for a certain kind of lead-covered electric wire designed specially for use in churches and other historic buildings where it would be virtually invisible against old stonework. The brochure was upright, coffin-shaped, and Hitchcock designed it so that at the bottom of the cover was a drawing of an altar frontal, with two big brass candlesticks on top of it, and then above, at the top of the page, the words `Church Lighting' in heavy Gothic type. No mention of electricity, and of course no indication of wiring, since the whole point of the selling line was the discreetness...."
In the advertising department Hitchcock found himself surrounded for the first time by other artists and writers with higher ambitions. No accident it was that within a year of his transfer the company had launched a periodical featuring - along with company news and gossip - cartoons, short fiction, poetry, travel pieces, and essays. The Henley Telegraph, which sold for sixpence, would be hailed by The Organizer, a London business organ, as one of "the best written, best edited and best produced" of the house magazines.
Not only was the new advertising man one of the magazine's founders, but Hitchcock also served as Business Manager, "very much to the despair of the Chief Accountant," according to W.A. Moore. Additionally, Hitchcock was the Telegraph's chief contributor. His very first published work appeared in the premiere issue, Vol. 1, No. 1, June 1919:
GAS
She had never been in this part of Paris before, only reading of it in the novels of Duvain; or seeing it at the Grand Guignol. So this was the Montmartre? That horror where danger lurked under cover of night, where innocent souls perished without warning.-- where doom confronted the unwary-- where the Apache revelled.
She moved cautiously in the shadow of the high wall, looking furtively backward for the hidden menace that might be dogging her steps. Suddenly she darted into an alley way, little heeding where it led--groping her way on in the inky blackness, the one thought of eluding the pursuit firmly fixed in her mind--on she went--Oh! when would it end?--
Then a doorway from which a light streamed lent itself to her vision--In here--anywhere, she thought.
The door stood at the head of a flight of stairs--stairs that creaked with age, as she endeavoured to creep down--then she heard the sound of drunken laughter and shuddered--surely this was--No, not that! Anything but that! She reached the foot of the stairs and saw an evil smelling wine bar, with wrecks of what were once men and women indulging in a drunken orgy-- then they saw her, a vision of affrighted purity. Half a dozen men rushed towards her amid the encouraging shouts of the rest. She was seized. She screamed with terror--better had she been caught by her pursuer, was her one fleeting thought, as they dragged her roughly across the room. The fiends lost no time in settling her fate. They would share her belongings--and she--
Why! Was not this the heart of Montmartre?, She should go--the rats should feast. Then they bound her and carried her down the dark passage. Up a flight of stairs to the riverside. The water rats should feast, they said. And then-- then, swinging her bound body two [sic] and fro, dropped her with a splash into the dark, swirling waters. Down, she went, down, down; conseious only of a choking sensation this was death.
--then--
`Its out Madam,' said the dentist. `Half a crown please.
THE GRAND GUIGNOL mood and the pure" woman in peril mark the piece as hailing distinctly from "Hitch," his byline for thaAd most of his other Henley Telegraph contributions. Indeed, the image of a woman screaming in terror - straight from "Gas" - would open The Lodger. Hitchcock's 1927 film, his first great triumph with audiences.
Biographer Donald Spoto found the story a sophomoric Poe imitation, plainly evidencing "the images of sadism" (i.e. "the woman plunged into water") that were integral to Spoto's "dark" portrait of Hitchcock. As he did more than once analyzing Hitchcock's work, Spoto missed the manifest sense of humor and the important fact that the sadism was undercut by its surprise-twist ending. The woman is opening her mouth for a dentist! The first of Hitchcock's signature endings, "Gas" was more maliciously comic than sadistic, for it turns out the woman is not in any real danger but is having an hallucination from an anesthetic. Even the anesthetic has comic implications; for it must have been nitrous oxide or "laughing gas," then the standard for dental work, which was known to induce hilarity and hallucinations.
While "Gas" alone might suggest "the images of sadism," the variety of pieces Hitchcock penned for The Henley Telegraph - unearthed during research for my biography of Hitchcock - indicates a more complex and faceted personality. There were at least six additional contributions. Hitchcock wrote for every issue of the Telegraph while at Henley's.
His piece for the second issue of September 1919 was especially cinematic:
THE WOMAN'S PART
`Curse you!--Winnie, you devil-- I'll------- Bah!' He shook her off, roughly, and she fell, a crumpled heap at his feet. Roy Fleming saw it all. --Saw his own wife thus treated by a man who was little more than a fiend. --His wife, who, scarcely an hour ago had kissed him, as she lingered caressingly over the dainty cradle cot, where the centre of their universe lay sleeping. Scarcely an hour ago--and now he saw her, the prostrate object of another man's scorn; the discarded plaything of a villain's brutish passion.
She rose to her knees, and stretched her delicate white arms in passionate appeal toward the man who had spurned her.
`Arnold, don't you understand? You never really cared for her. It was a moment's fancy--a madness, and will pass away. It is I you love. Think of those days in Paris. Do you remember when we went away together, Arnold, you and I, and forget everything: How we went down the river, drifting with the stream as it wound its way like a coil of silver across the peaceful pasture lands. Oh, the scent of the hay and lilac blossoms that morning! The songs of the birds, the joy of watching the swallows sweeping across the river before us--Arnold, you have not forgotten? It was the first day you kissed me. --Hidden in that sheltered sweetness where only the rippling sunbeams moved upon the myrtle-tinted stream--Arnold, you have not forgotten!'
The man crossed the room, and leaned upon a table, not far from where she crouched, gazing down at her with a look from which she shrank away.
`No,' he said bitterly, 'I have never forgotten!'
Still kneeling, she moved nearer, and laid a trembling hand on his knee:-- `Arnold, don't you understand? I must leave England at once. I must go into hiding somewhere--anywhere--a long way from here. I killed her, Arnold, for your sake. I killed her because she had taken you from me. They will call it murder. But if only you will come with me, I do not care. In a new country we will begin all over again--together, you and I.'
Roy Fleming saw and heard it all. This abandoned murderess was the woman who had sworn to love and honour him until death should part them. So this was--yes, and more than that. But Roy made no movement.
Was he adamant? Had the horror of the scene stunned him?
Or was it just that he realised his own impotence?
The man she called Arnold raised her suddenly, and drew her to him in a passionate embrace.
`There is something in your eyes,' he said fiercely, `that would scare off most men. It's there now, and it's one of the things that make me want you. You are right, Winnie. I am ready. We will go to Ostend by the early morning boat, and seek a hiding place from there.'
She nestled close to him, and their lips met in a long, sobbing kiss.
And still Roy Fleming gave no sign-- raised no hand to defend his wife's honour--uttered no word of denunciation-- sought no vengeance against the man who had stolen her affections. Was it that he did not care? No--not that, only-- don't you realise? He was in the second row of the stalls!
THIS ONE WAS signed "Hitch & Co.." indicating the existence of closet collaborators. A little puzzling at first, the story begins to make sense if it is understood as the point of view of a husband, whose wife is an actress, watching her on stage in a play. The "stalls" were the cheap seats in a theater, downstairs, as against "the circle," upstairs, which used to be more expensive; so-called, because they used not to be seats at all, but enclosed areas - stalls like those where horses are kept. The husband is taking "the woman's part," thinking about his wife, as he watches her emote. Remembering her at home before the performance, gazing down at their child; but also seeing her on stage as a murderess and adulteress, finding himself captivated with his emotions divided.
This may not be maturely written, but it is quite a sophisticated concept, a frame-within-a-frame. It can be seen to relate to characters in future films like Murder, Stage Fright, or the second The Man Who Knew Too Much, where the director plays around with truth and lies in stories about an actress. And it prefigures The 39 Steps and Sabotage, even, where illusions on stage disguise another reality. In general it would prove true in Hitchcock's films that people are different from what they seem.
The third stor, from the February 1920 issue, was more of an elaborate joke:
SORDID
`It is not for sale, Sir.'
Through a friend I had heard of a Japanese dealer in Chelsea, who had a remarkable collection of English and Japanese antiques, and, being a keen collector, I had made my way to his shop to look over his curious stock.
The sword, a fine heavy specimen, with a chased blade and elaborate handle, was not very ancient, perhaps about twenty years old--but it had attracted me.
'I will give you a good price.'
'I am sorry, but I do not wish to sell.'
There must have been something unusual about it, and so I became more fascinated and determined to obtain the sword. After much expostulating and protesting, he agreed to sell on the promise that I would purchase other things in the near future.
`There is some history connected with this, is there not?' I asked.
`Yes, there is, and if you have time I will tell it to you.'
At the time of the Russo-Japanese War, Kiosuma, his son, was an ambitious lieutenant in the Imperial Japanese Army. It chanced that once Kiosuma was charged with the despatch of documents to a destination back in Japan which took him near his home. On the journey he failed to notice that he was being followed by two men--Russian Agents.
His home was about an hour's journey short of his ultimate destination so he decided he would call there first.
As he alighted from the train, a feeling of delight enveloped him when he thought of the surprise that he would give his parents. He made his way up the hill of the little village beyond which his parents lived, his path lying through a wood. He quickened his step with the excitement of anticipation, until--almost within sight of his house--he heard a step behind him. Turning he saw an arm raised, then came oblivion--
It was night when he regained consciousness, and as he struggled to his feet he endeavoured to collect his dazed thoughts.
Then he remembered--the papers!
What should he do? With the papers gone--!
He staggered towards his house, the lights of which were discernible through the trees, and were [sic] met by his father.
'O son, from whence came thou?'
Kiosuma proceeded to explain with difficulty.
The brow of his father darkened, his eyes narrowed, and his face grew to that of a mask.
`Oh, unworthy one! Thou hast betrayed the trust of the great Nippon. Where now is thy honour?'
`But my father, they have not the code!'
`Thou dare to excuse thyself! Take the sword--thou knowest the only course.'
Slowly, but fearlessly, Kiosuma proceed [sic] to his room. He laid a white sheet on the floor, and placed a candle at each corner, then having robed himself in a white kimona, he knelt down and cast his eyes upwards.
He raised the sword, with the point to his heart and--
I took the sword home and in the firelight continued to examine my purchase while I pondered over the strange tale of the afternoon.
I noticed that the handle was a little loose; perhaps it unscrewed. I tried it with success, and detached the blade.
Lowering it to the firelight I studied the unpolished surface and read--
Made in Germany, 1914!
THIS COMPOSITION MIGHT be subtitled (to borrow a Hitchcock maxim) "It's only a story...." The unexpected twists of certain Hitchcock stories could be shocking, but also funny. Sometimes, with Psycho the blackest example, they were intended to mingle and leaven each other. Of the seven stories Hitchcock wrote for The Henley Telegraph, five ha such turnaround endings; only two lacked any comedy. His sense of humor suffused the company publication, which was generously sprinkled with Hitchcock's beloved puns. They were used as filler and captions and titles. (The title of "Sordid" was one of these plays on words, namely: "Sworded.")
Hitchcock was already known at Henley's as a "natural humorist and clown," in the words of WA. Moore. "He had sparkling wit," remembered Moore, "but it was not only the things he said but the spontaneous and unexpected things he did which gave us aching sides and streaming eyes. On every outing to which he went he bubbled over with joyous fooling and sent us home stiff with laughter."
Not only did Hitchcock help run the inhouse magazine, but, as improbable as it seems, he also organized Henley's football club and ran events for several seasons at a suspected financial loss to himself, owing to his already-known hated of bookkeeping. "He never did value money and would always rather pay out of his own pocket than be worried with the keeping of records," recollected Moore.
Although he professed never to have had a date as a young man, and there is little reason to doubt him on that score, nonetheless at company occasions Hitchcock mixed freely with female employees. This included many events at the Cripplegate Institute on nearby Golden Lane, a small hall that sponsored lectures, entertainments, and classes. Henley's and Cripplegate organized cooperative social ventures. To the unlikely image of Alfred Hitchcock as a football club booster can be added Hitchcock the perfectly capable dancer; for, among other activities at Cripplegate, he took lessons in waltz and ballroom dancing.
These lessons were given by a man named William Graydon, whose acquaintance with Hitchcock had a profound effect on the future director. At one time the Graydons had lived in close proximity to the Hitchcock family in Leystonstone, and the Graydons and the Hitchcocks, both Catholic, may have known each other from before Cripplegate. Graydon was the father of Edith Thompson, who at times. along with her younger sister Avis, helped out with the dance instruction. Theatrically inclined, Edith also appeared in amateur productions in London, which, given his interest in theater, it might be speculated that Hitchcock attended. Certainly Hitchcock did know Edith, although he rarely admitted knowing her; he spoke primarily of the father.
It so happens that, in 1923, Edith Thompson was hanged at the same time as her lover, after being found guilty of complicity in the murder of her husband. The lover did the actual killing, but it was alleged that Thompson had set up the crime. The controversial trial and execution made the case one of London's most notorious, dominating headlines for months. Surely it affected Hitchcock to know this young woman whom many believed falsely tried and put to death; surely it influenced his view of crime and punishment, helped shape film stories in which women, if often murdered, were never murderesses.
Such was his sensitivity to the Edith Thompson case that sixty years after Henley's Hitchcock read John Russell Taylor's draft of his authorized biography and asked for only two specific, minor deletions. One was Taylor's mention of the Graydon connection. Hitchcock said that his sister was still friendly with Avis, Edith Thompson's sister, then living quietly in Gants Hill; Hitchcock himself exchanged cards and letters with Avis; occasionally he saw Edith Thompson's sister, when visiting England. He explained that the dark past never came up between them, and it was part of their bond that Hitchcock pretended not to remember. He didn't want the book to embarrass Avis.
In September 1920 there was another edition of The Henley Telegraph, featuring one of Hitchcock's more elaborate short stories -rather risque, considering the venue.
AND THER WAS NO RAINBOW
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 ultra-modern kind-- where you repent and eventuall 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 on, 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!'
SEVERAL OF THE "Hitch" stories had theatrical references. The extent to which the stage influenced his filmmaking has never been adequately assessed. Was he involved with some sort of amateur theater at this time of his life? Henley's booked employees on excursions to plays; the company also had a drama group, just starting up, that met to plan their own productions at the Cripplegate Institute. Hitchcock never claimed any such involvement, but one has the sense, in these early writings, of someone watching people emote on a stage while dreaming up alternative realities.
In "What's Who?", his fifth piece for the Telegraph, one might speculate that he is writing from his own experience in just such a group. In this offering, published in December 1920, Hitchcock anticipated certain problems of his directing career, poking fun at producers, who, not only in his case but for directors in general, were essential but sometimes a nuisance.
WHAT'S WHO?
`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" ACTUALLY HAD two entries in the December 1920 issue. If the first was a "Who's on First?" routine anticipating the famous shtick of Abbott and Costello's, the second was even more frivolous, a humorous disquisition on "pea eating" that only could have been dreamed up by the son of a greengrocer. However, this story prefigures the many scenes in Hitchcock films centered around food and drink. Sometimes these scenes revealed important story information; others times, as with "The History of Pea Eating," they were merely disarming comic interludes.
THE HISTORY OF PEA EATING
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 armour 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 license, 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 practice 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.
IN 1920, HITCHCOCK turned 21, a benchmark age. He had been at Henley's for six years. He was growing restless. His supervisor well understood that Hitchcock was ill-suited for any longtime sinecure, either in advertising or any other department. "He caused me much worry by his carefree lack of attention to the essential details of an Advertising Department's organization," remembered W.A. Moore years later. "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.... I do not suppose 'Hitch' ever realized how much he worried me in that respect. He was always too lighthearted...."
Moore saw that Hitchcock was growing obsessed with motion pictures, a field that might combine his salesmanship, his gift for gab and story-spinning, his taste for suspense mingled with comedy, his knack for the telling image. Hitchcock read the two film trade publications. the Kinematograph Weekly and Bioscope, regularly. In his spare time he prowled around the many production studios in central London and the suburbs and hovered on the edges of sets, watching the filming.
Perhaps the 21-year-old Hitchcock had already caught sight of the woman he would pursue and one day marry. Perhaps a glimpse of Alma Reville on a film set reinforced his determination to leave Henley's. He wouldn't have said anything, not to her or anyone. Years later Alma would tell a journalist that her husband hadn't said anything to her for several years after first registering her existence. "Since it is unthinkable for a British male to admit that a woman has a job more important than his," Alma explained, "Hitch had waited to speak to me until he had a higher position."
His final short piece in The Henley Telegraph, published in March of 1921, is Hitchcock's oddest, most mysterious contribution, although some of the detail is quite exact. He's specific about Bank, for instance, an underground station on the Thames Embankment, close to the busy street that runs along the river - the sort of place where a policeman stopping traffic for a girl would be exceptional. And the play he refers to is almost certainly Hobson's Choice, first performed in 1915, the story of an illiterate bootmaker who's taken up by the oldmaid daughter of his boss and turned into a sort of Yorkshire tycoon. The daughter teaches him to read by copying out texts on a slate. David Lean filmed the play in 1954.
But who is the woman in Hitchcock's little story? There is no clue. Yet "Fedora" can only be read as a platonic ode to a particular woman he had happened to glimpse.
FEDORA
A play of a year or two back provided a situation of a little man seeking the goal of worldly greatness. In order that we should return home with a feeling of satisfaction, the author allowed the hero to attain his object, but not without the usual obstacles experienced by all great men. His earliest efforts included self-education. and I can clearly remember his model line for an exercise in handwriting. It was, `Great things grow from small. I believe this obvious aphorism was the pivot of the whole plot, and also of all our plots. Because every person has a plot (I don't mean allotment) and every plot is the same.
I don't know if you have ever seen a puny young nannygoat alone in a field in a rainstorm. If so, you have seen Fedora. Fedora is the heroine of this disquisition. She is small, simple, unassuming, and noiseless, yet she commands profound attention on all sides. People stop to observe her, and I believe it to be on record that one of the policemen on point duty at the Bank has held up the traffic-- all for Fedora. You suggest she is beautiful--no, not definitely--I say not definitely, because I hold out hopes. Her appearance:--`Starting with the top,' as the guide book says, there is an abundance of dark brown hair, under which peeps out a tiny perky face consisting of two greeny brown eyes, an aquiline nose (usual in these cases), and a faded, rosebud lipped mouth. Her figure is small, possessing some of that buoyance of youth when walking with the aid of a pair,. of unassuming legs or, shall I say, to away from the suggestion of artificiality, inconspicuously regular.
`Great woman labour leader hits out ...' Can that be? I had hoped for better, but no worse. Perhaps an actress? I can see a storm of emotion exploding in the face of a helpless, juvenile lead ... the fury of a woman scorned. Then the vociferous applause from all, except her victim. What will be his feeling? Perhaps he will be overcome by her dazzling personality. Dare he ask her to be his ... wait, if our Fedora is to marry, surely she shall be a real wife, a worthy figure of womanly charm and grace--this, of course, depends upon the realisation of my hopes. Let me suggest the wife of the Mayor. Shall I put it, as it were, the power behind the chair.
`My dear George the tram service lately has been disgusting, you must see that ...'
`Yes, my dear, I will mention ...' At functions she will be the recipient of bouquets from the daughter of the local contractor.
Sometimes, I imagine, she will write brilliant novels, profound essays and learned works. But it is all mere conjecture on my part. Whatever may be ... but I am no prophet, neither is she. Time will tell.
SHORTLY BEFORE THIS was published, Hitchcock read in the trade papers that an American film studio, Famous Players Lasky, had announced plans to launch a branch studio in London. The American company had promised there would be jobs for English applicants, including openings for "captioneers" the persons who designed and wrote the explanatory intertitles between scenes in silent pictures.
The motion picture industry trade papers announced that the first property to be wholly produced in England would be The Sorrows of Satan, based on the book by popular novelist Maria Corelli. Hitchcock promptly read it. RW.A. Moore helped him prepare a portfolio of his work, including samples of his layouts, sketchwork from his art classes, and a full continuity of title cards. Moore also turned a blind eye to the other people in the department who helped out with design, lettering, and illustrations.'
When Hitchcock presented himself and his portfolio, however, he learned one of the realities of the business: the first announced project had been dropped. Yet his samples and continuity cards were received enthusiastically, and he was encouraged to stay in touch. When another project based on the play The Great Day was announced, Hitchcock went back to the drawing boards and prepared another series of title cards. He impressed the Famous Players Lasky executives with his persistence as much as his talent.
For a brief time thereafter Hitchcock continued to work at Henley's while being excused on certain days to moonlight as a titlist, kicking back a portion of the proceeds to his cooperative boss, WA. Moore. Until the day came when he was offered a permanent position with the motion picture company and then he resigned.
That was on April 27, 1921. The first issue of the Telegraph published without the benefit of his involvement contained an announcement of Hitchcock's departure, slightly exaggerating the status of his new position at British Famous Players Lasky, while allowing that the friends he had made over seven years would miss him.
"He has gone into the film business, not as a film actor, as you might easily suppose," the regretful statement, probably written by W.A. Moore, read, but "to take charge of the Art Title Department" of "one of the biggest Anglo-American Producing Companies. We shall miss him in many ways, but we wish him all success.",
(c) 1999 by Patrick Mc Gilligan. Excerpted with permission from Darkness and Light: A Biography of Alfred Hitchcock by Patrick McGilligan, forthcoming in the year 2000.