Vertigo

Harrowing in how much I see of myself in Scottie, the protagonist of Vertigo. When it comes to a film the caliber of this, people often create such elaborate visions in their mind—when I thought of Vertigo before viewing it, I saw a haunting portrait full of violence and murder. However, it proved to be haunting in the subtler way, the kind that creeps under my skin, and spellbinds me much in the way Scottie was with Madeleine. Technically, the film is flawless in its presentation; all of its backgrounds, especially outdoors, are like oil paintings, drenched in a dreamlike haze that mystified me. James Stewart proves to be one of my favorite leading men, with a performance only matched by Kim Novak, who is electrifying throughout. Sitting here in the aftershock, I feel as though I hallucinated the entire experience, save for the stark image of a man at the top of the bell-tower, looking down at the woman who died twice before his eyes. There is a fascinating mirror at play, from the first two acts to the third, where it all inverts upon itself, until it becomes a circle containing both its past and present. I was so shocked by the ending that I had to watch it twice before I realized the genius in its sudden exit, leaving Scottie alone with the weight of his actions and obsessions without a second to breathe, the film condemning him infinitely to staring down an endless height of death. I can see why people don’t understand, see the surface-value of a man like Scottie and say “this film is just men battering women until they die! How shameful!” without recognizing that is the entire purpose of it. It is shameful, and a part of me is ruined to say it, but understandable given the filmic language. Perfect.