Making Hitchcockian Portraits

There are several key devices that a film must employ in order for it to be considered ‘Hitchcockian’ – so-called due for displaying influences from the style of filmmaking pioneered by British director Alfred Hitchcock, who would be 120 today. These techniques include: creating a sense of doom through dark, moody weather; tension building toward to a threatening crescendo; mystery; and often a cool platinum-blonde character.

Magnum photographer Philippe Halsman had a knack for collaborating with artists to create work that both showcased and riffed on their own creative practices – see his work with Andy Warhol, Salvador Dali, Jean Cocteau or Vladimir Nabokov, for example.

You can explore a collection of posters, contact sheets and fine prints by Halsman — including his photographs from the production of Hitchcock’s films — on the Magnum Shop here.

Halsman met with and photographed Hitchcock over several years, at his home and on set, creating portraits that tapped into his macabre vision, all with a typical halsman twist of fun. Hitchcock’s wife Alma opens her the fridge door to find a model of her husband’s head amongst her leftovers (1974), and actress Tippi Hedren gets a light for her cigarette from an obliging raven.

The latter was taken on the set of “The Birds” (1963), widely considered to be a classic of cinema that witnesses violent and random. Below, Halsman’s text recounts his experiences working on the set and revisiting the director at home years later.

Hitchcock’s publicity agent had commissioned me to come to Hollywood for ten days to photograph everything that I deemed to be of interest in the making of the movie The Birds. Subsequently, I was to try to have my pictures published by the major magazines.

I soon found myself at Universal Studios, in the middle of an enormous sound stage filled with ravens and sea gulls. I saw Hitchcock turn to the camera and say, “I think we have enough of these flight takes already. What we need now is a take of sea gull, flying away from the camera, then turning around and flying back to attack again.”

“This is impossible, Mr. Hitchcock,” answered the cameraman. “You know that one cannot train these damned sea gulls.”

“This take is very important,” Hitchcock answered. “I don’t care how you do it, but I must have it.”

Then he turned to me: “A bird that suddenly attacks a person is not frightening per se. It can be a single incident or just a crazy bird. But when the bird, after attacking a person, flies away and then turns around to attack again – that is frightening. It is no longer an incident, but a kind of a declaration of war. For the first time the spectators will feel a cold shiver running down their spines.”

Hitchcock left the bird gallery and started walking toward his office. I followed him. “You see, Philippe,” he continued, “the public believes that it is the actors who create suspense and emotions in a movie. The public does not realize that in selecting the sequence of images, I play on the nerves of the audience like a musician playing the organ. Do you remember Psycho? I never showed the actual murder. I showed only details, like the blood that trickles, the hand that suddenly gets limp, and so forth. For forty-five seconds of film footage I showed a sequence of seventy different camera takes. I took seven days to film the forty-five seconds. But it was much stronger than if I had shown the actual murder. The art of movie directing is the art of manipulating the emotions of an audience.” He bid me goodbye and entered his office.

Two weeks later my pictures appeared. Life published a cover and two inside pages; Look, a cover and five inside pages.