Film

Hollywood was still on the horizon, as were Notorious, Rear Window, Vertigo and all the rest—products of the happiest alignment of artist and studio ever arranged. But Alfred Hitchcock’s British period showed a dynamo coming to furious spin.

At 35, with more than a dozen features already under his belt, the director triumphed with this dazzling mixture of spycraft, banter, expository nonsense and manic chases along the Scottish Highlands. The formula would be further refined by studio money, topflight talent and Mount Rushmore—with Cary Grant an undeniable improvement over trench-coated Robert Donat. But here is North by Northwest’s blueprint, almost as satisfying, in its own freewheeling way, for being first.

As ever, pay all attention to the man behind the curtain; plot will getcha nowhere. (Donat’s the “wrong man,” handcuffed to the often unhelpful Madeleine Carroll, with pursuing thugs and a mentalist, Mr. Memory, in odd alliance. Happy?) Hitchcock is the real star here, already floating his camera with perfect timing above a catcalling audience, or replacing a maid’s shriek with a train’s wail. The technical craft ranges from the obvious—drowsy woman slumps forward to reveal…a knife in her back!—to the supremely sly, as when a skeptical milkman has to be persuaded to help Donat escape from an apartment building. We see the two heavies through the glass, pacing, and Hitchcock knows exactly how to frame them like jealous boyfriends. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” says the milkman, smiling conspiratorially. You’ll be smiling too.