TERRY TEACHOUT
Queen Victoria was still on the throne when Sir Alfred Hitchcock was born in London a hundred years ago this month. A massively fat man of relentlessly old-fashioned demeanor, schooled by Jesuits and formal to the point of paralysis, he spent his entire adult life working in a medium that barely existed in 1899, but has since come to be regarded as the very essence of modernity. From 1939 until his death in 1980, he lived in Hollywood, a city that inverts every value of the lost world into which he was born. He made movies about secret agents and serial killers, and peopled them with debonair gentlemen who slept with cool blondes, thereby amusing millions of unsuspecting filmgoers with his own hopeless fantasies; he longed to be the witty, unflappable Cary Grant of North by Northwest, but knew he was really the Jimmy Stewart of Vertigo, haunted and desperate.
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