THERE IS ALMOST NO UNCONTESTED fact concerning the Jack the Ripper murders that, by way of Marie Belloc Lowndes’s play and novel on the subject, provide a distant source for Alfred Hitchcock’s third film. The number of victims, the identity of the killer, the authenticity of the two letters and a postcard that were sent to the police and signed by the name that subsequently became notorious, or the reason why the murders stopped abruptly after the last in the series—all are still matters of dispute. Most writers on the subject agree on five (or possibly six) killings that can be attributed to the same source, taking place between August 31 and November 9, 1888, though Philip Sugden, for one, extends the number to nine, beginning before August 31 and ending in February 1891. It is generally agreed that all the victims were prostitutes, living, working, and dying in a relatively small area of the then sordid and poverty-stricken East End of London, particularly in Whitechapel. All had their throats cut, and several were severely mutilated after death, with their internal or sexual organs removed and left lying close to their bodies. The letters and postcard claiming responsibility for the killings, sent halfway through the series, are assumed by many to be authentic and by others to be a hoax (they seem, incidentally, to have inspired the 1960s and ’70s serial killer known as Zodiac, in California, who similarly sent letters to newspapers and the police challenging them to identify him). The list of suspects is endless and still violently debated, ranging from Polish Jews and various other foreigners, Masons, American visitors, butchers, slaughterhouse workers, insane medical students and equally insane doctors, “mad Russians,” homicidal lunatics, and murderous misogynists to society figures such as the painter Walter Sickert and Queen Victoria’s grandson and potential heir to the throne. And though most writers agree on one single murderer, others vote for two or even three acting in concord. The murders stopped either because the killer went totally mad and was incarcerated without anyone knowing his true identity, or he went insane and committed suicide, or he just disappeared. In short, no one knows anything for certain about Jack the Ripper.
The continuing fascination with what, in today’s context, seems a relatively small number of killings, stems partly from the fact that they represented an unusual phenomenon at the period and thus created huge public interest and were extensively reported, creating in turn large-scale panic in society at large; and partly from the unspeakably sadistic and cruel treatment of the bodies and the mutilation of both external and internal organs—the face and body of Mary Kelly, generally thought to be the final victim, were so disfigured as to be almost unrecognizable. Perhaps the earliest full-length fictional treatment of the subject is Marie Belloc Lowndes’s 1913 novel, The Lodger, which was turned into a successful stage play in 1915 called Who Is He?, written by H.A. Vachell and “very freely adapted” from the novel (Barr 218). Particularly the ending of the play (which was never published) differs considerably from the novel and is closer in many respects to the script that Hitchcock, along with Eliot Stannard, his regular collaborator at this period, created for the film. Two of Hitchcock’s two main biographers, Donald Spoto and John Russell Taylor, agree that he saw the play, probably in its original (and only) West End run, and Hitchcock confirms this in his book-length interview with François Truffaut (30).
Belloc Lowndes’s novel (developed from a short story the previous year) picks up some of the widespread speculations at the time of the murders—that the killer must be a lodger in one of the many boarding houses in the area, which would account for his ability to operate virtually unseen and then disappear, and that some of the suspects described by witnesses carried a black bag, presumably containing the knives and other tools with which the victims were dismembered.
But, apart from these details, and the fact that the eight victims mentioned in the book are all women, the novel departs quite radically from the known facts. Though the victims are not specifically identified as prostitutes, they are often described as “drunken” or “drink sodden,” and their deaths appear to be random rather than part of a calculated campaign. The “Avenger,” as he calls himself on notes attached to the bodies of each victim, is described at one point as “moving west towards King’s Cross and the Edgware Road” (the area in which the main characters, the Buntings, live) rather than confining himself to a limited area of the East End. Though the murders are referred to as horrific, the details are hinted at rather than fully described. The events of the book are seen largely through the eyes of the landlady, Ellen Bunting, and to some extent her husband, a once prosperous middle-class couple down on their luck and in need of whatever remuneration they can get for letting out some rooms in their house. Mr Bunting is an avid reader of crime reports in the newspaper and is friendly with a young detective, Joe Chandler, with whom he exchanges theories about the Avenger’s activities.
When they decide to advertise for a lodger to alleviate their financial plight, they are almost immediately contacted by “the long, lanky figure of a man, clad in an Inverness cape and old-fashioned top hat.” Ellen instantly categorizes him as “a gentleman” and finds him somewhat “dreamy,” quiet and polite, and is happy to accommodate him, despite some rather strange requests and his delight at finding a huge gas stove in his room. He carries a mysterious black bag (which soon disappears from public view), calls himself by the rather unusual name of Sleuth (a word that came into English via America in 1876), and announces that he doesn’t eat “flesh meat.” As he begins to settle in, he asks to borrow a Bible Concordance and starts to quote ferociously misogynistic extracts from it to a somewhat puzzled Ellen and turns her prized framed engravings of “early Victorian beauties” to face the wall. He purchases what seems to be an unnecessary amount of second-hand clothes and has the “funny habit … of going out for a walk after midnight in weather so cold and foggy that all other folk were glad to be at home, snug in bed” (45).
As these “funny habits” begin to coincide with nights on which the Avenger’s killings take place, it soon becomes obvious, both to Ellen and the reader, that she is harboring a murderous religious fanatic and woman-hater in her home—yet she does nothing to denounce him, a fact that then becomes the central puzzle of the book. She systematically ignores the obvious clues to his identity that begin to pile up, displaying relief when descriptions of the Avenger by witnesses differ from his own appearance, and rebukes her stepdaughter, Daisy, who arrives to stay with them, for being interested in the reward now offered for his arrest: “ ‘Well, it is a horrible idea!’ [Ellen] said sullenly. ‘To go and sell a fellow-being for five hundred pounds’ ” (61). [In another deviation from original facts, and despite much urging from the press, no reward was ever offered for information leading to the arrest of the historical Ripper.]
Despite finding her lodger “gentle” and “grateful,” Ellen feels an urge to satisfy her curiosity about him and searches his room while he is out one day, discovering that his bag is locked inside a cupboard, out of which “some dark-coloured liquid was oozing” (73). Refusing to acknowledge, even to herself, that this liquid is blood, she decides it is red ink and apologizes to him for accidentally spilling his bottle of ink, giving him an opportunity to remove the evidence. She also finds that he is using the gas stove to burn something that smells like wool, but refuses to admit to herself that this might be to remove bloodstained evidence of his crimes.
How does the author account for this odd behavior? One reason seems to be financial: even if he is a mass murderer, the lodger pays his rent on time and has relieved her and her husband from a dire financial crisis. She also has a weird fascination of her own with murder, for which she reproaches herself at one point: “It was dreadful that she, of all women, should have longed to hear that another murder had been committed last night!” (91). At the same time, she excuses her silence by reassuring herself that there must be a limit to his lust for vengeance and that it must be satiated soon, after which he would return to being “what he evidently had been—that is, a blameless, quiet gentleman” (99). The main reason, however, seems to be a strangely protective pity that she feels for him. She constantly thinks of him as “gentle … lonely, very, very lonely and forlorn … polite and … misunderstood,” yet is tormented by the secret knowledge that she is concealing. Though Belloc Lowndes tried to generalize her behavior at one point by claiming that “[i]n the long history of crime it has very, very seldom happened that a woman has betrayed one who has taken refuge with her” (92), it is more convincingly explained through Ellen’s personal psychology: “… in a sort of way, Mrs. Bunting had become attached to Mr. Sleuth. A wan smile would sometimes light up his sad face when he saw her come in with one of his meals, and when this happened Mrs. Bunting felt pleased—pleased and vaguely touched. In between those—those dreadful events outside, which filled her with such suspicion, such anguish and such suspense, she never felt any fear, only pity, for Mr. Sleuth” (98).
But it finally becomes impossible for her to ignore any longer what she knows full well to be the truth. First of all, while out for a walk quite late one night, Mr. Bunting encounters his lodger and accompanies him back home; as they enter the house, Bunting’s hand brushes accidentally against his companion’s Inverness cape and encounters something “wet and gluey,” which Mr. Sleuth unconvincingly claims is animal blood. His suspicions aroused by this and by the news of yet another murder accompanied by the clue of a footprint left by a rubber boot of the kind that the lodger wears, and that he now replaces with a new and different pair, Bunting and his wife start to have fears for Daisy’s safety (in the book, the killer’s victims are not exclusively prostitutes) and are finally forced by this to articulate their fears openly: “… as they stared at each other in exasperated silence, each now knew that the other knew” (189).
Yet, when the lodger invites all three members of the family to accompany him on a visit to Madame Tussaud’s, Bunting experiences a spasm of relief: “Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle, mild-mannered gentleman could be the monster of cruelty and cunning that Bunting had now for the terrible space of four days believed him to be” (191), though his wife is now very uneasy in Mr. Sleuth’s company. While waiting to enter the Chamber of Horrors, they overhear a conversation among a group accompanying the new Commissioner of Police and an important police official from Paris as they discuss the murders and attribute them to a criminal lunatic “suffering from an acute form of religious mania” who had recently escaped from an asylum and had stolen a large amount of money in gold as he left. Remembering that the lodger always paid his rent from a large pile of gold sovereigns, Mrs. Bunting, irrationally perhaps, wants to warn the lodger of his danger, but he forestalls her by turning on her and accusing her of “hideous treachery” and betraying him. “But I am protected by a higher power, for I still have much to do,” he hisses at her. “Your end will be bitter as wormwood and sharp as a two-edged sword. Your feet shall go down to death, and your steps take hold on hell” (196). He then makes his escape from the building, and we are given a final glimpse into his mind as he contemplates Ellen’s “treachery” and her cooperation with the French official “who had entered into a conspiracy years ago to have him confined—him, an absolutely sane man with a great avenging work to do in the world—in a lunatic asylum” (197). He then disappears from the story—nothing further is heard of him, and there are no more Avenger murders.
The identification with the Ripper murders is thus made clearly enough, though the focus of the story is obviously on Ellen’s ambivalent and vacillating responses to her suspicions. Whether these are always presented convincingly enough is probably a matter for debate, but the book is still of interest in focusing not on “who done it?” or even “why did he do it?” but on the reactions of a woman suspecting the truth but unable to make herself take the actions that she knows she should take to identify a dangerous criminal and put an end to a continuing series of murders.
The Lodger is usually characterized as the first “true” Hitchcock film, not least by the director himself (Truffaut 30), but, as Charles Barr somewhat indignantly points out, Hitchcock throughout his career consistently denied or ignored any substantial creative input from his scriptwriters, a proceeding that has been slavishly followed by auteurist-inclined critics who attribute everything in his films to his own initiative (“Hitchcock decided this, Hitchcock changed that,” etc.). Eliot Stannard, however, scripted or co-scripted eight of Hitchcock’s nine silent films, including The Lodger, and must surely have been trusted by the director and had more than a minimal influence on the results. Whoever made the creative decisions, the film is an amalgam of some of the known Ripper facts, Belloc Lowndes’s novel, and Vachell’s play, but altering or adding to each of them in almost unrecognizable ways. There is a mysterious serial killer, whose seventh victim is reported as the film begins, who identifies himself as “the Avenger,” but, though his victims are all women, they are far from being unglamorous and unattractive prostitutes, as in reality, but “golden girls’ from the worlds of fashion and show business. The murders are set not in the sordid and rundown East End, but in the very center of London, and the locations move steadily along the Embankment. And, in contrast to the book, the action is focused on Daisy (here the couple’s daughter rather than Bunting’s daughter by his first wife), who is herself a fashion model and is present and central throughout, rather than being peripheral to the main action. A major change is that Ellen, far from being sympathetic and protective toward the lodger, despite being convinced that he is a killer, is a relatively minor character who is hostile to him almost from the start, but for reasons other than suspecting that he might be a killer.
What results, then, is less complex psychologically than the book and closer to what was to become the regular Hitchcock formula of suspense, misdirection, and—in this case at least—an unambiguous conclusion. The film places a great deal of emphasis on public and media reactions to the murders—as was the case with the original Ripper killings and in Belloc Lowndes’s novel. It opens with a closeup of a screaming woman, followed by what becomes a recurrent visual motif of a flashing neon sign, “Golden Curls,” shots of obviously terrified women, and then a policeman and a crowd examining a body with the Avenger’s trademark signature on it. (This is how the restored British Film Institute print begins; Lindsay Anderson, Higham, and Rohmer and Chabrol all describe it differently; see Barr 19–20 and 219.) In a pub, a witness (and there were many witnesses—almost all unreliable—in the Ripper case) describes a tall man with his face wrapped up, and we then see a montage of newspaper presses and headlines and delivery boys shouting the news of the latest murder. A group of show business “golden girls” discuss the case apprehensively, and then the blonde fashion model Daisy makes her way home past another newsboy to where her father is intently studying the latest newspaper report of the murders and discussing them with Daisy’s boyfriend, Joe, who, in the film, is a complacently incompetent lover and detective, perhaps reflecting not so much Hitchcock’s well-known fear of the police as his contempt for their abilities. It is only after all these indications of budding media frenzy that the lodger is introduced, in a scene dominated by shadows and intermittently flaring gaslight, wearing a top hat with the lower half of his face muffled by a scarf and carrying a bag, thus corresponding closely to the earlier description of the killer. (Though he is never named in the film, some critics call him Jonathan Drew, following the title of the American release, The Strange Case of Jonathan Drew.)
Figure 1.1. Flashing sign, The Lodger.
As in the book, he expresses distaste for the pictures of women decorating his wall and turns them to face it, pays his rent in advance, and puts his bag away in a cupboard. His misogyny and religious fanaticism, however, are reduced to a few fairly innocuous comments such as that the pictures “get on my nerves” and “Providence is concerned with sterner things [than money].” Some ambiguous scenes involving Daisy follow: he stares at her with unusual intensity whenever she appears, fingers a knife and pushes it playfully toward her when she serves him breakfast, and later plays chess with her, commenting at one point, “Be careful, I’ll get you yet.” In this scene he also picks up a poker, as she searches for some chessmen that have fallen on the floor, but, when Joe enters, he uses the poker only to stir up the fire. He also comments approvingly on Daisy’s “beautiful golden hair.” Joe, who has now been assigned to the “Avenger” case, starts to express jealousy at their growing friendship, asks her father if the lodger might mean harm to her, and is openly hostile when he hears her screaming, rushes upstairs, and finds her in the lodger’s arms, claiming she was frightened by a mouse and is being comforted.
Meanwhile we see the lodger leaving the house at night, muffled up, and an increasingly suspicious Mrs. Bunting reporting this to her husband and expressing fears for Daisy’s safety, while he brushes her concerns aside and remains immersed in newspaper reports of the steady stream of murders. When the lodger buys Daisy a dress, her indignant parents insist on her returning it, and Joe’s jealousy intensifies, especially when he finds the couple outside at night; Joe tries to drag her away with him, but she tells him she is sick and tired of his behavior. Nevertheless, the lodger’s actions are ambiguous and, in a subsequent embrace, he puts his hands around her neck as if about to strangle her, before kissing her.
The police investigation into the killings continues, tracing the Avenger’s activities as he moves along the Embankment and trying to anticipate his next move. Joe’s jealousy now takes the form of trying to cast suspicion on the lodger; he organizes a police search of his room, finds his concealed bag, and inside this discovers a revolver and a map of the area that corresponds to the one the police have drawn up to follow the Avenger’s movements. Despite his protests of innocence, the lodger is arrested and handcuffed, but manages to escape, with Daisy’s help, before being pursued and cornered by an enraged lynch mob—in another incident reminiscent of the original Ripper case, where there were several occasions of mob violence and pursuit of suspects. A repentant Joe, however, having belatedly discovered the lodger’s innocence, manages to rescue him just in time. The lodger is then revealed to be an upper-class figure who has been tracking down the Avenger, who had murdered his sister, possibly intending to kill him in revenge. A happy ending sees him welcoming Daisy and her family to his home.
Much of the critical commentary on the film’s visual style focuses on its Germanic and, in some cases, Soviet influences, both valid enough, considering that Hitchcock had spent some years working in Berlin and Munich and had witnessed first-hand F.W. Murnau filming The Last Laugh, and had shown interest in the work of Eisenstein and Pudovkin. The heavy use of shadows and unusual lighting effects, and high-angle shots down a staircase, though common enough in the director’s later films, can be initially attributed to German influences, and the editing effects that led the audience to misread the lodger’s intentions toward Daisy could be considered Soviet. Most critics single out the use of a glass ceiling to “show” what the characters “hear” as the lodger paces up and down in his bedroom upstairs as a particularly effective device.
There is less uniform agreement, however, considering the film’s themes and characterization, though the “wrong man” theme and the implication of the audience in criminal or dubious activities that they would otherwise condemn, are often commented on, together with the “ambiguity of appearances” that leads the audience to misunderstand or misinterpret the motives and actions of the characters. Though the lodger is indeed “the wrong man” and is almost lynched by an angry mob, he is not entirely innocent and seems to be planning not simply to confront but to kill the man who murdered his sister, and is diverted from this aim just in time. Moreover, though we are not invited to condemn him for this, Hitchcock is on record as saying that he originally wanted his role as the Avenger to be more ambiguous and for him simply to disappear into the shadows at the end of the film—but that neither the producers nor the audience would accept the idea of matinée idol Ivor Novello as a killer (Barr 34; Spoto 1992, 9; Truffaut 30). If this is truly the case, the idea of the “wrong man” being initially central to the structure of the film is put into question, though it might have developed as the script and filming proceeded.
Lindsay Anderson has written, with respect to Hitchcock’s work up to the late 1940s, that he “has never been a ‘serious’ director. His films are interesting neither for their ideas nor for their characters,” but that this is irrelevant in films “where incident and narrative are what matters” (58). John Russell Taylor puts it rather differently in suggesting that The Lodger, like most of Hitchcock’s work, “takes a very dark view of human nature and traps us into accepting it by subtly but consistently distorting our moral perspectives” (76). Charles Barr argues that “It doesn’t ultimately matter that much whether the lodger himself turns out to be innocent or guilty. No-one’s motives are entirely pure, among participants and observers alike. … We all have violent and vengeful potential in us” (41), and that “We are drawn to The Lodger for the same kinds of reason that the public depicted in it are drawn to the stage show, and to the press and radio accounts of the horrific murders: the attraction of sex and violence, and of provocative female beauty” (40).
If this is so, where does it leave Hitchcock as moralist? Is it simply a question of the director allowing us to indulge our own worst impulses and then showing us how wrong we are in doing so? Charles Higham, in one of the most hostile articles ever written on Hitchcock’s work, sees him as “a practical joker, a cunning and sophisticated cynic … contemptuous of the audience which he treats as the collective victim of a Pavlovian experiment. … The mechanics of creating terror and amusement in an audience are all Hitchcock properly understands” (3–4). Though Higham concedes that The Lodger “remains the best of Hitchcock’s silent films” (the others being a pretty bad bunch, apparently), this is so not for any positive views of human nature but because in a film like this, “dominated by morbidity, physical disgust, and terror his gifts have usually been in striking display. … Whatever one might think of their internal rottenness and viciousness, their deliberate pandering to mob lust, they [a select list of some half dozen films, including this one] brilliantly succeed as cinema, and are conceived, executed and embellished by a dazzlingly clever mind” (5).
Is there nothing more positive, then, in Hitchcock’s moral stance than an attempt to torment and disorient his audience? It could be argued against these charges that the changes made by Hitchcock and Stannard to the original novel raise rather more positive and complex issues than this. In the novel, Mrs. Bunting displays a mistaken, and almost perverse, loyalty to someone she knows full well is a serial killer, making herself complicit in any future crimes he may commit by refusing to make her suspicions known. Her loyalty is rewarded only by accusations of betrayal and threats of future vengeance. Mr. Bunting, a subordinate figure in the book, finally comes to share her suspicions, but is equally reluctant to act on them, though he does not sympathize with the lodger in the way that his wife does. Daisy, who enters the book at a fairly late stage, has no particular interest either way in the lodger, but is attracted to the idea of a reward for the capture of the Avenger. She has a suitor, a detective named Joe Chandler, who is part of the team searching for the Avenger, but who never suspects the lodger or sees him as a rival for Daisy’s affections.
All four characters and their relationships change quite drastically in the film. Mrs. Bunting in particular is far less prominent and only quite late in the film voices a tentative suspicion that her lodger might be a murderer and that Daisy might be in danger as the Avenger’s activities move closer and closer to their own area. Her husband, who is so wrapped up with reading about the murders in the newspaper that he is unwilling to pay much attention to what is happening in his immediate vicinity, brushes her concerns aside, but agrees that their daughter should not be left alone with the lodger. Yet both parents are more upset about the lodger’s growing friendship with Daisy, which they see as creating a breach between her and Joe, who they consider her accepted suitor, than with worrying about his true identity, and they are quick to take offense at any unwelcome advances that he makes toward her, such as buying her a new dress.
Joe, the least attractive character of the four, is much less competent as a detective than his counterpart in the novel, and shows irrational hostility and jealousy toward the lodger from their very first meeting: “Does the lodger mean any harm to Daisy?” he asks Mrs. Bunting fairly early on. Yet he is smugly confident of his own control over Daisy, physically indicated by his attempts to handcuff her (a motif that occurs in other Hitchcock films and which takes on a different resonance as the lodger, handcuffed by Joe, and attempting to escape, is trapped by having them caught on a iron railing and dangles helplessly there at the mercy of a furious and misguided mob). Puzzled by Daisy’s increasing coolness toward him as she warms toward the lodger, and finding them together in what he considers compromising situations, Joe’s jealousy takes the form of trying to get rid of his rival by assembling (or concocting) evidence against him, obtaining a warrant to search his room, and refusing to accept the lodger’s attempted explanation of the evidence he finds there. His misguided obsession (though the audience is encouraged to share it by his finding a revolver in the lodger’s possession) almost brings about the other man’s death—he is saved at the last minute from being virtually a murderer himself.
Figure 1.2. The Lodger—Joe’s (Malcolm Keen) jealousy.
Daisy, though tolerating rather than welcoming Joe’s overconfident attentions at the start of the film, gradually develops an attraction to the lodger, which leads to an increasingly closer physical contact and a rejection of Joe (“I’m sick and tired of you”) when he discovers them embracing out of doors at night and tries to pull Daisy away. It is after this scene that Joe arranges the search of the lodger’s room, on no greater basis than a desire to somehow discredit him. Daisy’s affections, and loyalty, now switch firmly to the lodger, who she never suspects or believes to be a murderer and, once her trust in him is confirmed by his telling her of his sister’s murder and his attempts to identify and trap the Avenger, she protects and assists him from then on. Of the three family members, she is the one most disposed to believe in the lodger’s innate decency and to resist submitting to unconfirmed suspicions about him.
The lodger himself, though the subject of misguided distrust (from the other characters) and deliberate misdirection of the audience’s sympathies by the director, does not emerge morally unscathed. Though his behavior in the household is quiet and well-mannered and shorn of the misogynistic rantings of his counterpart in the book (he turns the pictures of young women in his room to face the wall because—as we assume later—they remind him of his murdered sister), yet he obviously has the urge for violence in his search to inflict personal justice on the Avenger—becoming, perhaps, a potential avenger himself.
Though the film’s plot is based on what were to become familiar Hitchcock ingredients—suspicion, fear, jealousy, and ambiguity, along with a recurrent interest in sexual fetishism, as the killer appears to concentrate exclusively on young blondes with golden hair, rather than the often middle-aged and worn-out prostitutes of reality, or the women who arouse the lodger’s warped religious hatred in the novel—it would be excessive to see the film as an overall condemnation of human nature and a denial of basic human kindness, as Higham and Taylor tend to do. Hitchcock, in Taylor’s words, “is inclined to believe that people’s instincts of decency and kindliness may be natural but do not often survive a severe test. The Lodger is just such a test, and no one comes through it with flying colours” (77). Though this may be true of Joe and of the mob, who relish every detail of the Avenger’s activities and then attempt to beat an innocent man to death, it is only partly true of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting, who are weak and misguided rather than vicious, and not true at all of Daisy, who is in effect the moral center of the film and whose loyalty to the lodger is not mistaken or prompted by deliberate self-deception, as is the case with Ellen in the book.
It is well known that the initial cut of the film was considered “unreleaseable” by its producers and the film was almost shelved, until Michael Balcon came up with the idea of asking Ivor Montagu, a leading figure in the prestigious Film Society, and someone very knowledgeable about contemporary international film developments, to attempt to salvage it. Montagu, who genuinely admired the film as it stood, persuaded a sceptical Hitchcock to reshoot several scenes, severely reduce the number of title cards—from over three hundred to about eighty—and permit a redesign of some of the cards. The result was a critical triumph, with the film proclaimed “[possibly] the finest British production ever made” (Spoto 1983, 89). As became typical for him, Hitchcock, as with his refusal to acknowledge substantial input from his scriptwriters, later attempted to downplay Montagu’s contribution, telling Truffaut only, and without even mentioning Montagu, that he [Hitchcock] “agreed to make about two” changes (35).
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