The Film Before the Film: Title Sequences For the Win

It was 1955. Otto Preminger was releasing a controversial new movie--The Man With the Golden Arm--about a heroin-addicted Frank Sinatra, a virtual taboo. But that may not have been the film's only contribution to film history. There was also the movie reels that arrived at theatres across the country, with a note attached: "Projectionists- pull curtain before credits."

It had been industry practice to leave the curtains closed--these sequences had long been considered a dull litany of cast and credits that projectionists waited until they had ended to reveal the screen. But Preminger considered this title sequence to be an integral part of the film, and he thought so for one reason: Saul Bass.

He's now the go-to name to study when it comes to title sequence, which in his 40 year career he elevated to an art form. Bass' work would come to revolutionize the way audiences and movie-makers alike . But back then, he was just a poster designer.

When I sat down to start writing this post about title sequences, his work is the first and last that came to mind. Without his conceptual credits for movies like North by Northwest, Psycho or Anatomy of a Murder, we probably wouldn't have most of the titles on this list.

Bass created a new rule: that a good title sequence should not only reflect the movie that was to follow, but enhance it. He believed a good title sequence could do a lot of the film's work for it, acting like a first scene of sorts to set the mood. Bass' infamous titles for The Man With the Golden Arm was created to enhance the story, not merely preface it. He was a huge supporter of kinetic typography (a pet fascination of mine) and became known for his stark, ultra-hip imagery (it's no mistake that at least two entries on this list practically directly reference him in their conception).

Given that Saul Bass was a pioneer in title sequences (some of which are better than the movie that follows) it seems very fitting to start with his resume. So first up is the one that started it all: The Man With the Golden Arm. He chose to match the film's theme thematically, making the arm the central image of the screen.

Unfortunately, my absolute favourite Bass sequence isn't available anywhere--1962's Walk on the Wild Side, starring Laurence Harvey, Jane Fonda and Barbara Stanwyck. If you ever get a chance, tune it--then tune out, because the film that follows isn't what I'd call stellar.

So instead I chose Vertigo, one of the more brilliant sequences I think Bass created. The focus on the woman's parts, instead of her whole face, heartbreakingly reflects what's coming: a man driven by a specialized obsession to superficially re-create the woman he lost. Plus--that music!! So morbidly romantic. Bass would work with lots of directors (such as Preminger, Kubrick and Scorcese) but perhaps no alliance was as famous as his one with Alfred Hitchcock (see also: North by Northwest and Psycho). What do you learn by watching these credits? That there's some creepy-ass stuff on the horizon, and you should already feel like the voyeur Hitchcock thinks you are.

Se7en (1995)

At the other end of the title sequence spectrum, there's David Fincher's Se7en, the story of the investigation of an unusual string of murders in a dirty, decrepit city. It tells us much of what the film's main characters (Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman) will spend the plot line investigating, giving us an insight into John Doe that we didn't ask for and were too unprepared to absorb. But it puts in the film's mood and unnerves us, presenting a scene of decay, overexposure and The fact that it's perfectly set to an uncredited version of Nine Inch Nails' Closer in no way hurts its case. Many imitations would follow (see any horror film made in the 2000s) but none would come close.

Designer: Kyle Cooper.

Catch Me If You Can (2002)

Perhaps a controversial opinion, but damned if I don't think of this as one of Spielberg's most successful films. It isn't his most important, or his most personal. But it's probably his most entertaining, and a film, I can watch over and over. In Catch Me If You Can, I feel like he achieved a certain peace: he manages to marry the light incredulity of its protagonist's cons with the underbelly of a genuinely tragic portrayal of an American nuclear family in ruins, and make clear without ever being obvious what drives the film-long game of cat (Tom Hanks) and mouse (Leonardo DiCaprio). And it starts off right: these breezy, genuinely cool title sequence create their own mythology, while borrowing heavily from the Bass empire of cut-out images against starkly colored backgrounds.

Lolita (1962)

Only Kubrick, that magnificent bastard, could take something as harmless as a pedicure and make our minds go to the darkest places. But then again, he's also helped by the fact that we, as spectators, make it suggestive; I'd bet that most people who sit down to watch Lolita has a good guess of what's coming. That's probably something that Kubrick, in his infinite wisdom, banked on; as much as he seems to ignore the audience, he was always a director that was particularly attuned to the reaction his choices would evoke.

But even in this seemingly docile scene, there are strains of the themes to come: just as the camera seems to have a strange fixation on this action, you can't help but think of Humbert Humbert, the film's closest candidate for 'protagonist,' and his obsession with his Lo. It makes you uncomfortable for no justifiable reason, which is the least he could do considering how watered down the plot line that follows.

Bullitt (1968)

What does the title sequence of Bullitt promise you? That it's going to be awesome, it's going to be cool, and it's going to be Steve McQueen being awesome and cool. And that, my friends, is the very definition of all you need to know. I particularly the push-through typography, the absence of traditional studio emblems, and that hot jazz sound.

(Skip through to the :52 to avoid the poster's preamble--this was the only one I could find).

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005)

Another huge debt to Saul Bass, though this ends up looking like a Bass title sequence that was run through a city drainpipe and stepped on by countless pedestrians. However, when I saw these credits for the first time? I actually got excited. What can I say? I lost it at the movies.*

*Not that it. Perverts.

The Fall (2008)

If you consider the rest of this entry the main course, then this is the dessert. I love everything about this 2 and a half minutes, and watch it often: it's inexplicable yet makes perfect sense; it's confusing but also reaffirming. The story this sequence tells has the air of a living Dorthea Lange photo, with the aching procession of images hauling us into that final frame, when we appear to get an answer to all this action--but do we really at all?

The arrangement of the images--cold, colorless, frenetic, without a clear time or place--with the typography--clean, stark and modern--evokes a setting that seems old-fashioned but somehow completely relevant. Does the story continue on beyond this? Well, yes, but you almost don't need it. A beautiful and worthy prelude to an unusually lovely film.

I haven't said anything of note about the film itself, but that speaks of the power of these minutes. It's its own film, one that is richly informed by seeing the feature that follows, but isn't necessary. Its layers are built from within.

EDITOR'S NOTE: I also desparately wanted to include the title sequence for The Royal Tenenbaums, given that the first three seconds immediately takes me back to my girlhood, when I first learned that admitting you're strange is a time-saver. So I found it, and now I'm outsourcing you.

For further reading:

The Art of the Title Sequence

Forget the Film; Watch the Titles

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.