Hitchcock Blonde Was the Color of Her Hair

“I’d like to know more about his relationships with women. No, on second thought, I wouldn’t.”

-Ingrid Bergman

 

You never forget your first Hitchcock.

Mine was Rear Window (1953), and to this day, nothing pulls at my heartstrings like a late night TCM showing of this damn near perfect film. My Hitchcock love was definitely latent, taking its sweet time to solidify—it was only after three showings of Vertigo (1958) that I really started to understand what all the hot fuss was about.

But anyway. Grace Kelly in Rear Window was everything I thought a woman should be. In fact, most of Hitchcock’s leading ladies fell into this category. Cool, collected and impeccably groomed and outfitted—oh dear me, those outfits! To me, the idea of punctuating peril with the perfect ensemble would more or less come to guide my daily wardrobe choices. I loved these women; I wanted to be just like them.

For anyone keeping score, that should pretty much sum up the flavor of my childhood: while the other little girls wanted to be princesses and rock stars, I wanted to be a Hitchcock Blonde.

In time, I came to understand that what these mythical creatures really represented was much darker than just a pretty face with a great tailor. Hitch, God bless him, was working out some serious issues onscreen. I had no idea about the danger the Hitchcock Blonde is pushed through as a matter of course. Not only the literal danger, though there’s plenty of that—hanging off Mount Rushmore, getting killed by faithless husbands, and spying on Nazis while battling a bad case of dipsomania. No, the Hitchcock Blonde is probably in just as much danger of being killed as she is of being turned into a living, breathing fetish.

There’s the mythic poise, the goddess nature, the frosted demeanor—everything about these women is manufactured perfection. Even their costumes reflect the binding, restrictive nature of being a Hitchcock Blonde, mixing fetish with fashion—I’ve never seen one of them in anything less than 3-inch heels and a 25 inch waist. The attractiveness of the blonde is a disturbing force with Hitchcock; more often than not, at worst it’s a destructive presence (seen in Vertigo, Marnie, Psycho), at best a disruptive one (Rear Window, The Birds, Dial M for Murder). It wasn’t just for show, all these trappings: these cool, proper women were turned into passionate, sensual creatures only by peril.

But observe the timbre of their blondness: from the warm golden locks of Grace Kelly to the unnaturally white chignon worn by Kim Novak, each shade telegraphs a whole mess about each Blonde.

Some escaped unscathed—Grace Kelly and Kim Novak managed to survive the moniker with steady, if interrupted careers. Eva Marie Saint—easily my least favorite Blonde—and Tippi Hendren never quite recovered. And some were never recognized as one—Madeliene Carroll (too obscure), Doris Day (too wholesome),  and Julie Andrews (too Julie Andrews), for starters. No matter the Blonde, though, they each brought their own flavor to the title. Novak had the ruthless and lazy sensuality of a cat playing with its catch, Saint had all the surface glamour but none of the fire, and Hendren had the petulant vulnerability of a former beauty queen with no one even trying to take her crown anymore.

But the one that outshine them all will most likely always be Grace Kelly—the one thing Hitchcock and I seem to agree on. She had it all—the cool glamour, the cheeky wit and the passion bubbling just underneath the surface. Hitchcock said to Francois Truffaut that the secret appeal of prim-looking English girls was while they would politely invite you into a cab, she'd easily brazenly unbutton your fly the second you settled in. He realized this duality in Grace Kelly. She was the one actress he worked with that could really portray that chimera of refined ardor (despite being born and bred in Pennsylvania).

Yes, one look at the canonical Blondes makes it clear there are lots of ingredients to the Hitchcock Blonde that can’t be avoided—poise, grace and an underlying current of repressed sensuality among them—but really, it all comes down to… 

 

The Hair

As much as the name suggests, tracking the behavior of a Hitchcock Blonde’s hair can tell a great deal about the blonde herself. It can be innocuous, like as with Grace Kelly in Rear Window: to paraphrase Hitchcock himself, Lisa Fremont had a ‘don’t muss my hair’ quality—it’s part of her considerable charm. She spends the first portion of the film with her perfectly coiffed blonde hair in various, fabulous arrangements—always down and framing her face with strategic elegance. It’s part of the reason that Jeff (Jimmy Stewart) thinks that their long-term plans can’t go far past next week—he’s an adventure photographer temporarily sidelined by a broken leg, she’s a socialite/model hybrid whose idea of working hard involves a long lunch at 21. The man has a point.

But as she begins to increasingly side with Jeff’s crazy obsession with the action across the courtyard, she enters the scene with her hair tied back in a severe, but not unflattering, updo. Jeff, who begins the movie barely noticing when she’s there, speaks up:

JEFF

What happened to your hair?

LISA

Oh, I just pinned it—

She doesn’t get to finish, but Jeff’s comment seems like a crystal clear signal that when her blondeness is contained—in this case, by pinning her lovely locks away from her face—she can get down to the business of becoming a serious candidate for Jeff’s affections. From there, he starts to see the fire in her belly, as she gets more and more impetuous and eager to insert herself into danger. It’s kind of the opposite of letting her hair down; to fit into Jeff’s idea of his perfect woman, she has to loosen up by taking her hair—and thusly, her vanity—out of the equation. Awesome.

Then there’s Vertigo, or, to call it by its working title, Glaring Showcase of Alfie’s Considerable Lady Issues. Kim Novak’s poor Judy can pluck her eyebrows, don the grey suit and dye her hair white mouse blond—but it’s not enough until her hair is pinned back in the exact manner that Madeline wore it. Only then does Scottie (Jimmy Stewart) run to her side. It’s not enough to almost be the quasi-dead, ghost-like Madeline; Scottie is fixated on attaining an exact double of that which, it turns out, never exists in the first place. Oh, that sounds familiar: oh yeah! Just like Alfred Hitchcock and his quest for the perfect heroine! Right. That whole thing. But that doesn’t really matter, because this piecing apart the Blonde is all part of a ritual; it’s an ingredient in the fetish. As if you can figure out a woman by taking her apart. Ooh, Hitch, you sly dog. Issues aplenty, m’dear, ISSUES APLENTY.

Real life crazy stalking issues aside, there’s no better example of the communicative nature of the Hitchcock Blonde’s hair than in The Birds. Tippi Hendren (whose creepy dynamic with Hitchcock has become the stuff of Hollywood legend) begins the film with her chignon twisted into annoying perfection. She’s so chic, this Melanie Daniels, almost painfully so; when she glides into town with that stupid birdcage in tow, you don’t spend much time wondering why the locals gape after her like she’s the last unicorn. 

Melanie is a terrific showcase of the contradictory sensualities of these Blondes, because while they appear perfect ladies, there’s something raw and aggressive about their pursuit of (or submission to) the men in their plotlines. Of course, Melanie is immediately regarded as a threat by nearly every other woman in the film--including her would-be beau's mother (Jessica Tandy) and never-quite girlfriend (Suzanne Pleshette). 

Over the course of the film, as the birds/Hitchcock take out their revenge, Melanie is pieced apart, verbally and physically. She's pecked, heckled and chased until the final attack by the birds that leaves her a bloody mess. Of course, her ‘do is left in tangled ribbons and literally has to be held together by a bandage—not unlike Tippi herself. The perfect blonde is pieced apart. Not accidently, Tandy's mother character warms considerably to Melanie after this, even cradling the traumatized girl as they drive to safety. The dangerous, sensual Blonde that waltzed into town has been subdued, hopefully learning her lesson. Oh, but the trick is figuring out what the hell the lesson was supposed to be. 

I seriously can't even touch Marnie (1964). That shit is whack. 

Why are these Blondes punished in film after film, frame after frame? Well...that's probably another essay. Ooh, one that sounds fun to write. To be honest, I’ve read plenty of theories about how the Hitchcock Blonde is an inversion of the blonde/virgin archetype, and must therefore be punished not for what she gives away (le sex) but what she withholds (le trust). But frankly, I think Hitchcock’s punishment of his Blondes is summed up quite nicely by the man himself:

 “Blondes make the best victims. They’re like virgin snow that shows up bloody footprints.”

 Well. Jesus. Tell us how you really feel, Alfred. 

Note: All pictures courtesy 1000 Frames of Hitchcock. This project will distract you for hours. Every Hitchcock film in 1000 images: not one more, not one less.