Monday, February 10, 2014

Why Alfred Hitchcock Is The Master Of Suspense


    Every morning I wake up, fully expecting Alfred Hitchcock to be lying there right beside me.

    But he never is.

    When I cross, half asleep, to the bathroom, the master of chilling suspense and mildly amusing cameo never waits behind the shower curtain, nor sits cross-legged, like some celluloid-crazy Buddha, on the loo.

    If the phone rings, or alerts spawn on my tab, not a single message is from Hitchcock.  And later, as I put pan to poultry in a frenzy of egg scrambling bravado, I hear no footfall of slippers on lino, no mutterings of murder, rope or architecturally challenged motels of slaughter.

    Every cupboard door conceals him not.

    Every tree, every plant in my garden, blooms by virtue of having sucked from the sod not a single atom of his cunningly interred corpse.

    And this constant, unfulfilled threat is scaring the bejesus to the very fringe of my soul — and yet, disturbingly, never quite the heck outta me.

    Truth is, Alfred Hitchcock is the master of suspense.  Where other film directors bore you with the gore, Hitchcock knows that when it comes to fear, less is definitely more.

    He’s here now, he’s around somewhere — and yet I never see him.

    He could spring out at any moment — and yet he never does.
   










    Hrrrrr.



4 comments:

fairyhedgehog said...

Aaargh! But there he is! What a shock to the system!

And yet you're right. The suspense is the truly awful bit.

Whirlochre said...

Would have responded to your comment earlier — but I've been hiding.

fairyhedgehog said...

Hiding or stalking? The suspense is awful.

Whirlochre said...

Supermarket valentine roses stalk, cowardly Whirls hide.