The Alfred Hitchcock Hour - The Skinny

I have always been a big fan of Alfred Hitchcock. When I was young, "Psycho" scared the crap out of me and to this day, I sometimes see a shadow moving through the light in my periphery on the other side of the shower curtain and my muscles tense, waiting for a hand to draw the curtain back and stab me to death as I scream. Thanks, Alfred Hitchcock - didn't know that I'd have that particular paranoia to carry around for forty years (and counting)...

"The Alfred Hitchcock Hour" was an anthology television series in the mid-sixties, like "The Twilight Zone" and "The Outer Limits". Unlike those shows, however, "Hitchcock" didn't dwell on alien invaders, monsters and mysterious time-warps or magical alternative dimensions. The "Hitchock" episodes were dedicated to more human melodrama - greed, jealousy, paranoia and murder were the film de-jour and Hitchcock served them up with a delicious side of irony and justice.

There were generally two types of "Alfred Hitchcock Presents" episodes: The Rural Tale and The Urban Tale. Both were rife with backstabbing villainary and dastardly misdeeds. A typical Urban Tale was set either in a luxury high-rise apartment like the one from "Family Affair" that only the affluent like Uncle Bill could afford, or a mansion with chandelier, elegant staircase and the inevitable library, where one poured Scotch from a decanter and pulled cigarettes from a silver case on the sideboard.

What I have learned about the rich from "The Alfred Hitchock Hour":

-The rich wear ascots, chain-smoke (sometimes from a fancy cigarette holder)and drink all the time - even at their huge offices, which are so opulent, they sometimes have floor-to-ceiling wall-safes, just like the bank.
-The rich are ruthless and will have extra-marital affairs and plot to destroy their husbands, wives, friends and lovers for financial gain.
-The rich, though good with money, are generally poor planners when it comes to murder and even worse judges of character.

The Rural Tales were more often than not set in a shabby cabin of sorts, or a home that looked like it was lifted directly from Tom Joad's dustbowl Oklahoma. Sparsely furnished, sometimes with running water, sometimes not, the protagonists of these stories seemed much more doomed and isolated from the outset than those of the Urban tales. They drove beat-up jalopies from the 1920's and lived lives of eternal struggle, just trying to make ends meet.

Things I learned about the rural poor from "The Alfred Hitchcock Hour":

-The rural poor have no ascots - they are called scarves and are used to keep the cold wind from blowing down your overalls, they don't smoke as much and when they do they usually roll their own, or stuff it in a corncob pipe. If they drink, it's from a jug.
-The rural are ruthless and will have extra-marital affairs and plot to destroy their husbands, wives, friends and lovers for financial gain. The upside to the rural poor, is that they will also kill over magic amulets or the love of an inbred cousin. I suppose the rich would, too, now that I think about it - just not as readily.
-The rural poor, though stout of heart, are generally weak of mind and easily corruptible, especially when it comes to murder. Also poor judges of character.

The list of stars that I have seen pass through the black and white gates of the Hitchcock hour is stunning and the now-legendary cast of character actors and supporting characters is a veritable who's-who for much of the 60'ws, 70's and 80's film and television. There is also the stars and character actors from the 30's and 40's who have stepped on the inevitable downhill slope. It makes me giddy. There is a visceral thrill to spotting Leif Erickson, Walter Matthau, John Cassavetes, Jack Cassidy, Lillian Gish, Ray Milland, Jayne Mansfield,Angie Dickenson, Bette Davis and my all-time favorite character actor/creepy-villain of all-time, Bruce Dern weaving in and out of the episodes like shiny gray threads in a delightful kinescopic tapestry.

Bruce Dern - he lived to shoot John Wayne in the back in "The Cowboys", the rotten son of a bitch...

Hitchcock himself didn't direct these episodes much, if at all, but lent his name and was on-hand to film the introductions, halftime intermissions and outros for each show, much of the time during which he spent knocking his sponsors and the need for commercial breaks. Brilliant. The outro usually came with an update that the villain of the piece, who might have appeared to get away with whatever dastardly crime he or she had committed, had indeed been caught and was now facing justice. Or living with Jesus.

If you have a chance, settle in for an hour of 1960's fashion, automobiles, backlots and smoking. Lots of smoking. In hospitals, even. It'll warm your heart.

Checkmate

Another early story, written for a creative writing class. I was rather proud of writing about a couple of eccentric upper-class folk, the likes of whom I would never meet and had only ever seen in movies from the 1930s and 40s in the person of James Mason or Ray Milland. In fact, those two guys could play the characters in a film version of this tale.

Ah, where are the Ray Millands and James Masons of today?

Checkmate

Condensation from the melting ice formed and rolled down the side of the short rocks glass. The cocktail napkin shriveled as it absorbed the moisture from Nash’s whiskey and soda. Nash stared at the half-empty glass and observed that the effectiveness of the napkin was rapidly dwindling and it was only a matter of time before the moisture left a damaging ring on Jonathan’s expensive oak table, a prized antique that Jonathan often bragged had been spirited out of Atlanta during Sherman’s march to the sea. Nash watched another drip slide down the glass and smiled to himself, inwardly pleased.

“It appears, my friend, that you are in serious trouble.” Jonathan said, shattering Nash’s pleasant reverie. He had taken Nash’s rook with the black knight, leaving the white king exposed and vulnerable. Nash picked up his whiskey soda and scrutinized the board. It was true that his left flank was naked, but he was by no means in serious trouble.

“I think not, Jonathan,” Nash said, waving the drink at his companion. His right side, he knew in fact, was still quite strong and mobile. His queen, gnawing at the bit, was anxious to venture forth and inflict some damage of her own on the cocky, unsuspecting black soldiery. “In your overzealous pursuit of a high body count, my dear friend, you have been careless in your surveillance of my Lovely Lady.” Nash toyed with the white queen, his fingers tracing along her sleek, smooth curves. Jonathan’s eyes darted down to the potentially lethal piece.

“You don’t frighten me with your bluster, Nash,” he said, his mouth betraying a slight twitch. Jonathan evaluated the situation at hand and waved a bejeweled finger at the polished marble board, which had been imported at an exorbitant price from the Peruvian black market. “There is no way that my bishop warrants putting your queen in such danger.”

Nash inhaled slowly, feeling a certain comfort in the rich, familiar smells of Jonathan’s den with its first-edition, leather-bound volumes lining the walls, the massive Prussian roll-top desk, the thick, dark rugs woven centuries past in the ancient orient. The two men had been meeting in this room for nearly forty years, matching wits, circling and parrying mentally, attempting to gain any slight advantage over the opponent, using whatever means necessary. “One of your biggest problems is your short-sightedness, Jonathan. Of course I could take your bishop, standing exposed as he is in the middle of the board like some sacrificial lamb.”

Nash watched with amusement as the beads of sweat began to form on Jonathan’s forehead. He felt the power of the white queen as he lifted the heavy piece from the board and swung her back and forth in a gentle arc, pondering his next move. “But there are much greater rewards than those that lie so openly exposed on the surface, aren’t there, Jonathan?”

“Your brash threats and innuendo won’t change my strategies, Nash. Talk is cheap, as they say…”

It was 1975, here in this elegantly appointed den, amongst the dusty volumes of Shakespeare, Poe and Hemingway, that the men had taken their matches to a new level of competition. It happened that Nash was particularly fond of a certain BMW that he had been driving to the games. That night, so long ago, Nash had left the car parked in front of Jonathan’s home in the big, circular driveway. As Nash walked into the house, he admired the car, freshly washed and waxed as it shone in the glow of the full moon. The room was silent during the game; both men having sustained taxing losses on the board and neither speaking, so absorbed were they in the subtle rhythms and nuances of the match. Suddenly, outside the window of the den, a blinding flash of light and a deafening explosion erupted and a mushroom cloud rose from the spot where the BMW had stood.

Nash ran to the window and screamed for nearly a minute, his face pressed against the glass, tears running down his face. “My car…My car…” He mumbled, deep in shock at the sight of the burned-out hull that remained in the circular drive.

“Cheer up, Old Man, pull yourself together,” Jonathan said, clapping Nash on the shoulder on his way to pour himself another Chianti. “That wasn’t your car—it was an old wreck I had purchased from a junkyard. Nice effect, though, eh? Very powerful…” Nash eventually calmed down enough to sit down and resume the game, but Jonathan had gained an upper hand mentally. Nash couldn’t concentrate; his hands shook uncontrollably and he couldn’t stop sweating. Jonathan won the match.

Nash now sipped his cocktail and with a quick, decisive motion moved his queen across the board, striking not the bishop, but an unsuspecting pawn, erasing it from the game. Nash heard Jonathan gasp audibly, hitching air into his lungs. Nash was now in striking distance of Jonathan’s own queen, who lingered back with no defense, her forces scattered about the board in a fruitless, aggressive campaign.

After Jonathan’s staging of the BMW explosion, the competition had grown more intense, the level of exchange ruthless. Once, deep in the midst of a particularly trying match, Nash innocuously set fire to some drapery, causing Jonathan to spill a drink on himself and to singe his carefully-cultivated beard in his panicked attempt to smother the flames. Nash won the game. Another time, Jonathan accidentally dropped a heavy cannonball from the battle of Waterloo onto Nash’s foot, shattering his arch and leaving Nash with a permanent limp. Jonathan apologized, paid the hospital bills and most importantly, won the match.

Over the ensuing decades, the men ruined furniture, automobiles, clothing and irreplaceable family heirlooms. Jonathan bedded Nash’s wife and Nash seduced Jonathan’s twenty year-old daughter. Together they had incurred over $100,000.00 in hospital expenses and had endured numerous physical violations. They were now in so deep that neither could stop. The game was the thing — victory the ultimate goal. Their activities along the way were simply distractions, clever ruses to gain an upper-hand and keep the enemy off-balance. All was fair in love and war and this was war at its most bloodthirsty. No quarter would be granted, nor would it be expected.

Jonathan loosened his tie and wiped his palms on his trousers, standing to look at the board from various angles and vantages. Nash wondered if Jonathan would continue his reckless assault against the white forces. There was, of course, an advantage to such style of play. One could thoroughly deplete an opponent’s ranks by the time the backpedaling enemy could gather a solid defense. Nash figured, however, that Jonathan was too smart, too seasoned to attempt such a daredevil maneuver. They had been playing far too many years for Nash to panic under the threat of a kamikaze attack. Jonathan sat down and fondled his black queen.

Ridiculous, Nash thought. The only move that could be made with that piece was the taking of the white queen, leaving Jonathan’s own queen victim to the white bishop. Surely Jonathan wouldn’t send his most powerful weapon to such an early death. Jonathan moved the piece slowly, savoring the action as he swept Nash’s queen from the board.

“You bastard,” Nash hissed as he felt his face flush. “How could you do that to your own queen?”

“Nash, Nash,” Jonathan said as Nash’s hand moved to his bishop, the weapon with which he would silence the presumptuous attack of the foolhardy bitch. “I haven’t done anything to my queen — I haven’t endangered her in the least.”

Jonathan touched Nash’s hand gently as it gripped the white bishop. “Please look carefully before you move your bishop.”

Nash looked down, his eyes scanning the board. Then he saw it: His king! His stupid, weak, defenseless king was being protected by the bishop! This meant that the bishop could not be moved, lest the king be in check. Nash felt a fool for not spotting the predicament. He had thrown his queen to the lions, wasted her life on a meaningless pawn and played into Jonathan’s manipulative hand. The time was now to make the boldest move yet; a move that would swing the momentum back his way—a move that would win the match outright. Nash looked squarely at his opponent and played his ace in the hole.

“Jonathan,” Nash said, gliding a harmless knight into an unoccupied area of the board — one that could possibly pay dividends within a half-dozen moves. “I want you to know that I have planted a timer-activated explosive device on the premises and that you have less than an hour to find it before this whole place comes down in a violent shower of flames and rubble.” Nash felt a giddy rush of delight swell up inside him, threatening to burst forth in an insane giggle. He took a deep breath and waited for Jonathan’s reaction of terrified panic.

Jonathan’s eyes didn’t waver from the board. He looked at his watch, then again stroked his queen. He was totally nonplussed. Nash felt the wave of euphoria drain from his body, leaving him empty and numb. “No need to worry, Nash,” Jonathan said, as he moved the queen to take the bishop protecting Nash’s feeble king. “It’s almost a blessing, really…” He continued, a pleasant smile dancing on his lips. “If the estate should happen to be engulfed in a violent rain of rubble and flame, the authorities would have a devil of a time even identifying your charred corpse, let alone detecting the poison that you’ve been drinking in your whiskey all evening…”

Nash swallowed hard, feeling nauseous as he looked down at the drink that was leaving a ruinous ring on Jonathan’s oak table. Jonathan laughed heartily as he placed his queen on the smooth, black Peruvian square from which Nash’s bishop had just been evicted. Her imposing figure shadowed the helpless, unprotected king.

“That would be checkmate.”

Albertsville (From "The Inevitable Downhill Slope", by Jerry Ford and Jim Bigler)

Edward Albert sat in the darkened den, the glow from the television set the only light in the room. He sloshed a bit of iced Scotch onto his shirtfront as he mouthed the lines with the movie that played on the screen. Wiping absently at his shirt, he watched Anthony Quinn scrunch his face in agony. “Nico!” Quinn screamed. “Niiiiiiico!!!” Edward had played Quinn’s son, Nico, in The Greek Tycoon, in 1978, a pathetic effort whose only saving grace was the fact that Jaqueline Bisset didn’t wear a brassiere throughout most of the movie. Nico had just crashed his airplane into a mountain, giving Quinn the opportunity to gnaw on the scenery for a few minutes. His character now dead, Edward Albert lost interest in the movie.

“Fucking Anthony Quinn,” Albert muttered. “Goddamned Greek Tycoon—ruined my fucking career…” He rose unsteadily and staggered to the window. He tugged at the heavy drapes and sunlight streamed into the richly paneled room, still furnished as it was when he bought it, at firesale price, from Ray Milland’s widow in 1989. Albert had settled into a morose funk soon after moving into the house and despite his best intentions, had been unable to shake the gloom since.

Albert had made grand plans for the house, intending to renovate the electrical, which in some rooms still had light switches that had ceased to work around 1957. Albert had visions of elegant gardens and installing ponds and topiary that would help him maintain his serenity. Instead, he had fallen under the spell of the demon rum, often languishing for months without venturing into the open air. The big, drafty house still held the pungent odor of a half-century’s worth of Milland’s chain-smoking and many of the elegant imported rugs bore burns from the cigarettes and stains from countless spilt drinks and corkscrew mishaps. Still, Albert refused to open the windows, somehow finding comfort in the closeness of the air.

He had stopped taking visitors, even his father, who had attempted until his dying day to draw Edward from his self-imposed exile. “Get the hell out of here!” Edward would shout from an upstairs window, often accompanying the warning with the toss of his chamberpot, which was usually filled with one sort of late-night deposit or another. “Go back to Zsa-Zsa!” Edward would laugh, knowing how much it irked his father when he referred to his “Green Acres” co-star Eva Gabor by her sister’s name. Ever since he had walked in on his father frolicking with the Hungarian tramp in a coat closet, she had been somewhat of a sore spot between the two.

Albert took a moment to gaze out of the window at the shoddy grounds with the overgrown weeds and dying shade trees and thought about his long-abandoned plans for the place, the thoughts stirring his mind, if not his mood. He walked away from the window and refilled his Scotch, then walked over to the 16mm film projector that sat in the center of the room. Also a left-over from Mrs. Milland, Albert dusted the projector weekly and paid careful attention to keep the wheels and sprockets in good working order. He would hate to see a valuable relic such as this rust away from mishandling.

Albert spooled up a film and lowered the ancient movie screen with the electric switch on the wall by the wet bar. He looked at his watch. Almost noon, he thought. Edward smiled. It was almost time to watch The Thing With Two Heads.

Millandsville (From "The Inevitable Downhill Slope" by Jerry Ford and Jim Bigler)

Milland, Ray (1905-1986)
(Reginald Truscott-Jones)

Welsh-born light leading man of ready smile and equitable disposition; carved a pleasant niche for himself in Hollywood in the thirties, and later surprised many by becoming an actor and director of some repute before stepping on the inevitable downhill slope…

Harmond Neville was pissed. The director of “The Thing With Two Heads” had a budget to meet and a schedule to keep, and Ray Milland was nowhere to be found. “Goddamn it,” he fumed to his effeminate assistant, who was sucking juice from a plastic lemon. “Where is Milland?”

“Well, Harmond,” the assistant stammered, chewing on a piece of plastic stem. “He’s in his trailer, watching a copy of ‘Dial M for Murder’…And I think he’s been drinking…”

“What the hell…” Neville found himself storming off to the trailer that was serving as the Ray Milland dressing room, followed by his callow assistant. Inside the darkened dressing room, Ray Milland was slumped in a lethargic limbo, sipping gin from a silver monogrammed flask and moving his lips to the dialogue on the screen. Only the opening of the door and intrusion of the midday sun drew his attention from the bluewhite picture that flickered on a bare wall of the trailer. Irritated, Neville slapped at the light switch and Milland ducked his head as if under attack and blinked his bleary eyes. “Jesus Chrisht,” the slurred, yet familiar British accent demanded. “What in the hell are you doing?”

“Um, Mister Milland?” Neville’s assistant attempted to calm the actor—he knew they could be touchy.

“Shut up and get the hell out of here!” Milland yelled, gesturing at the image on the wall. “Can’t you see who I used to be?”

Neville exploded. “Nonsense! This is a bunch of bullshit! Ray Milland or no Ray Milland, I’m going to finish this picture on time and under budget!”

“Is that a threat?” asked Milland. “Must I remind you who I was? Ray Milland…” He raised his flask to the image on the wall as the director fought for his attention.

“I don’t care if you used to be Don Ameche—I’ve got half a thing with two heads out there who is about to die of heat asphyxiation!”

“Welsh-born light leading man,” Milland mumbled to his flask. “Of ready smile and equitable disposition…” He once again toasted the black and white image flickering on the wall as the director stormed out of the room, cursing under his breath. His assistant followed quietly, closing the door gently. He paused to take a last look at the figure slumped drunkenly in the chair. After all, he thought, what’s a little delay and a thing with two heads when you’re dealing with someone who used to be Ray Milland…