Suspicion (1941)

Subpar Alfred Hitchock still outpaces 90 percent of anything made in Hollywood 70 years ago or now. But romance-thriller “Suspicion” is a stiff. I swear Hitchcock was bored making it, because I was bored watching it, and that’s a tall order since “Suspicion” stars Cary Grant and Joan Fontaine. Apologies to the master and stars. History says morality-cop conservative censors –- Hays Code –- killed this tale before film was set to camera. I believe it. Plot: Wealthy gal Fontaine falls in love with wealthy party boy lothario (Grant) who turns out not to be rich, but a gambling, lying, thieving heel who gets away with such deeds because he’s Cary fuckin’ Grant. When hubby’s best pal –- who is wealthy -- eventually (a long eventually) turns up dead, wifey fears for her own life. Cue scariest glass of milk ever. Cue ... nothing happens. Look, some scenes rock -- that glowing milk, the play of shadows as a bird cage -- but this is a slog, and a sexist drudge as it plasters a heroine who must learn to keep her trap shut and not doubt her crap-o hubs. Because he’s Cary Grant. B-

Stoker (2013)

Director Park Chan-wook (2003’s “Oldboy”) makes his American debut with “Stoker,” a gorgeous, nasty domestic drama turned serial killer thriller that takes Hitchock’s “Shadow of a Doubt” and cranks up the violence and perversion to skin-crawling affect. As with the 1943 classic tale, a girl (Mia Wasikowska) suspects her romantic/handsome/suave Uncle Charlie (Matthew Goode) of murderous deeds after her father mysteriously dies and the uncle -– father’s brother -– moves into to help comfort the mother (Nicole Kidman). The line “We don’t have to be friends, we’re family,” sums up the story: There is no love here. This familial lot is as creepy and somber as the house they reside in. That is a double edged sword. Park and writer (and openly gay actor) Wentmorth Miller start in crazy town and stay, banging you in the head with a frying pan from frame one. Hitchcock served a fine dinner first, then took to swinging. Such is life. Hitchcock would dig the dark path of our central heroine. Wasikowska (“Alice in Wonderland”) owns the film, against the cool Goode and Kidman, who cooks up an acting storm from a role blankly stamped “frigid.” Watch it twice. Squirm. B+

Notorious (1946)

His dames typically died harsh, and he had crazy Mommy Issues. But Alfred Hitchcock’s run of films is unchallenged. Dig “Notorious.” Made just after WWII and before the arrival of Better Dead Than Red! American patriotism crushed free thought, this plays damn smart if you look between the Hayes’ Code lines. Here, a CIA agent (Cary Grant) forces the American daughter (Ingrid Bergman) of a Nazi spy to romance another SS Bootlicker (Claude Rains) to get any secrets he has cooking. And that he does: Atomic bomb deeds. Straight plot. Melodrama. Suspense. The title is a twisted joke: Grant’s bosses sit and damn Bergman as unwomanly and quite expendable whether she gets the goods or not, for she likes sex and liquor, her notoriety. Never mind these men, Grant included, enjoy skirts and booze. (Look for the lady at the party who knows Grant.) Hitchcock lays American hypocrisy flat with a stealth punch. How can we look these men in the eye? On Grant, we cannot. He is consistently shown from behind, his face a mystery for long stretches until he finally sees the damage his spy gaming has wrought. The final scene is ambiguous and pure Hitchcock genius. A

Vertigo (1958)

In 2012 Sight & Sound magazine named Alfred Hitchcock’s “Vertigo” as the greatest film ever made. I though, no, “Strangers on a Train” is better, even just for Hitchcock. Then I re-watched this detective tale again and just got fully sucked in. I was hit with instant amnesia as I watched Saint Jimmy Stewart as cop John “Scottie” Ferguson near fall to his death catching a suspect, quit the force in fear, and then fall, romantically so, for the likely mentally unstable and suicidal wife (Kim Novak) of a college pal (Tom Helmore). The case has Scottie following the woman through San Francisco out to an ancient forest and then a monastery. It ends badly. One hour to go. It’s gorgeously shot and paced, and carried by hits of failed rom-com for Scotttie, sexual tension, and the absolute best film score ever made, courtesy Bernard Herrmann. But what struck me this viewing: Watch the film, pause in awe, and then re-play it your mind from the viewpoint of Novak’s eyes, and witness every damn single scene explode in a new, thrilling light that swoons and slashes. This indeed is Hitchcock’s greatest film, the mind fuck supreme. Fall for it again. A+

North by Northwest (1959)

I forgot just how funny Alfred Hitchcock’s early, genius spy-flick thriller “North by Northwest” is, until a recent watch on cable. Coolest Man Ever Cary Grant plays NYC ad guy Roger Thornhill, who gets stuck in a giddily preposterous mistaken identity chase across the U.S. of A with silent killers, the CIA, a dame, and Mount Rushmore all to follow. Early in, Grant as Thornhill is seized by two goons who try to kill him via a bottle of bourbon and a fake DUI car crash. Comedy gold hits: Smashed-ass Grant drives his way to jail, where his first and only call is to his mother. Literally, his mommy. Roger’s indignant. The cop near busts a tooth smirking. Hitchcock and writer Ernest Lehman (“Sweet Smell of Success”) turn 500 screws, add in murder, a mystery woman (Eva Marie Saint) with stranger/train sex on her inscrutable mind, and James Mason as a smooth villain with his own slippery identity. Oh, and that crop duster. So cool, Bond soon ripped it off. Hitchcock is having a cackling ball, yanking his camera to dizzy high spots, and letting Mason “punch” the screen. Knock out. Hitchcock kills it. A+

Rebecca (1940)

Alfred Hitchcock’s American debut “Rebecca” – based on a bestseller – defines what old timers (and us TCM fanatics) mean with “They don’t make them like they used to.” Four years older than my father, this gorgeously shot black-and-white thriller sucks you in to its tale of romance as a woman (Joan Fontaine) falls for a widower (Laurence Oliver). The man is, of course, crazy wealthy, owning a castle named Manderley, and crazy, haunted by wife No. 1. In what I gather is a sick-twist Hitchcock joke, an old bird (Florence Bates) tells our heroine that Manderley will eat her alive. She’s right. Our nameless heroine is smothered by the stone walls and wealth, the “ghost” of Rebecca, the wife who drowned mysteriously and questionably, and the black-oil stare of the watchful housekeeper (Judith Anderson), who defines wicked. Secrets boil over as our heroine sinks into a mess, her ramrod morality straining against fates I still awe at, second watching. This is exceptional filmmaking, smooth, and with as much dark humor as betrayals, our director taking us innocents for a ride. The cast is flawless, the film endlessly re-watchable. A+

Hitchcock (2012)

I adore and fear Hitchcock. The filmmaker. “Hitchcock,” the new movie about the filmmaker? Not one bit. See, this is pitched as a behind-the-scenes tale of the making of the classic “Psycho.” You know, the mother of all slasher films. And, yes, we do get some of the writing, casting talks, Scarlett Johansson as Janet Leigh stuck in a shower with ol’ Hitch with a knife scaring the piss out of her. Those are snippets of the story. Moments. And Anthony Hopkins excels in them as Hitchcock, covered in fat makeup to play the big guy. When he “conducts” an audience reaction to the shower scene, outside a screening room, I was in movie heaven. But most of the film focuses on Hitchcock’s marriage, with his wife (Helen Mirren) nagging his ass 24/7 about avoiding snacks. God help me, it was like visiting my parents. More so, the missus launches a flirtatious affair with a Hollywood screenwriter (Danny Houston) and Hitchcock frets and fumes, and talks to the ghost of Ed Gein, the killer who inspired Norman Bates, and I wanted to slash apart this soap opera that muddies a mad genius/artist as a poor old befuddled geezer. C+

Dead Again (1991)

“Dead Again” is a pounding homage to Hollywood whodunits of the 1940s/50s, topped with a sly self-aware icing. The film bounces between post-World War II and present day Los Angeles as it follows a gumshoe detective (Kenneth Branagh), a damsel in distress (Emma Thompson), a frantic European composer (Branagh again) and his new wife (Thompson, naturally).

The plot’s 37 dozen cliff-hanger shockers and the scissors-as-weapons obsession get sillier and sillier as “Dead Again” (come on, even the title’s a laugh riot) races and leaps toward a climax that is both wonderfully over the top and a nod to early Hitchcock. No matter. Director-star Branagh stages shocker scenes with perfection – they leave your jaw hanging even as you (most of the time) laugh out loud. Patrick Doyle’s score practically knocks the characters off screen, happily so.

There are nitpicks: Two characters age 50 years, yet appear more covered in moldy cream cheese than elderly. And even by “spoof” standards, Branagh’s American accent is scissors-in-the-eyeball painful. No matter: This is back when Branagh and Thompson were the It Couple of Hollywood, and I dare anyone not to go around barking, “Dese are fer you!” for days on end. A classic thriller, I watched this constantly on VHS while a high schooler. A

Fargo (1996)

The Coen Brothers, whom I eternally adore, should have won an armful of Oscars for “Fargo,” a most excellent and most bleak comedy/thriller that doubles as a morality play so good, you could play it in church. If your place of worship allowed the screening of films were men are fed to a wood chipper. (Hey, it’s not like “Exodus” is squeaky clean, people. Roll with me.)

Set in northern Midwest, “Fargo” follows a loser car salesman named Jerry Lundegaard (William H. Macy) who hires two criminals (Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare) to kidnap his wife in order to get a ransom from his rich father-in-law. Even Buscemi’s dim bulb doesn’t get that device, asking: “Why not just borrow the money?” As Mutt and Jeff later flee with the kidnapped wife, they kill three people on an icy length of North Dakota highway. Thus enters whip-smart local Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand, who napped an Oscar) as a hugely pregnant police officer investigating the deaths.

The Coen Brothers clearly have their tongues firmly planted in cheek for most of this “true story” that plays like a grisly ode to Hitchcock’s best, and a satire of greed and stupidity. But damn if they don’t play the neatest card trick by having Marge and her painter husband (John Carroll Lynch of “Zodiac”) be the pinnacle of a moral, loving middle-aged couple. And then Marge gets to deliver a lecture on the senseless violence and greed that makes up much of the 90 minutes of plot. This kind of film can’t be duplicated. And many have tried. It was my favorite film of 1996.

The whole cast is top notch, but it’s Macy who stands out in a role that should have won him an Oscar. His Jerry is a clueless weasel who’s drowned even before he jumps into the swimming pool. And, yet, Macy makes it impossible to hate the man. His frantic emergency call to the old man is hilarious. A

The Lodger (1926/27)

I love silent films from the 20s because they are foundation on which every film made since has worked on and copied. That, and the are visual works of art -- every shot composed and flowing without almost any fault. "The Lodger: A Story of the London Fog" is from 1926/27 and is directed by Alfred Hitchcock, and it's a strikingly beautiful suspense film ... with a sappy ending that doesn't fit. (I'm glad to read on the Web that the Hitch wanted a downbeat ending but the studio refused. Oh, well, he tried.)

Here, a serial killer known as The Avenger is murdering blond women in London. Cut to our heroine Daisy (listed as just "June" in every credit I can find, a bit sexist, hey?) whose boarding house parents have just offered a room to let to the man of the title, Jonathan Drew (Ivor Novello). The lodger is mysterious, downright creepy at times, but also romantic and quite willing to pursue Daisy, much to the anger and dismay of Daisy's boyfriend/police detective (Malcolm Keen).

This has gorgeous cinematography, keen editing and pinpoint (written on card titles) dialogue. It's also a dead-on criticism of panic journalism, public hysteria, inept government and the poverty found even in the greatest of cities. This film would be a perfect 10 if not for its last-minute reversal to a false upbeat melodrama. Novello is mesmerizing, and his biography at Wikipedia more so. A