The incomparable Jimmy Stewart, and the heart-stinging beauty known as Grace Kelly. They are both too good looking to simply act as supplemental audience members for too long in Rear Window.
Christian Metz, in his article "The Imaginary Signifier," belittles actors as nothing more than a prop, something that simply stands as part of the imaginary world in which the audience is engrossed. He explains that what is true of an actor, "is just as true as an object, a prop, a chair for example"(821). As depressing as that may sound (after all, you don't see a Best Supporting Armoire award at the Oscars, or at least that I know of), perhaps it holds some truth. In fact, perhaps it is a compliment to the actors, and not vice versa. After all, a chair does a hell of a job acting as a chair. I'd like to see Daniel Day Lewis play a better chair than the La-Z-Boy sitting in my apartment, and I got that heap of crap off of Craigslist for $60.
Thus, we see that actors are nothing more than chairs. And if that be the case, then Alfred Hitchcock, as usual, went out and fetched himself a couple lockhead lounges to lead the way for his masterpiece Rear Window (1954).
Editor's Note: For those of you not as cued into the world of luxurious lounging as the author of this blog entry - "Tommy" - you can read more about the "Lockhead Lounge" at http://www.geekologie.com/2007/09/worlds_most_expensive_chair_is.php
James Stewart takes the stage as L.B. Jeffries, the all-seeing, wheelchair-confined photographer recovering from a broken leg in his Greenwich Village apartment. Unable to perform his usual day-to-day duties of exotic adventures in voyeurism through the lens of his camera, Jeffries turns his trusted camera, along with a set of binoculars, into a screen through which he can watch the secret lives of his neighbors. Following in the action are his girlfriend
Lisa Fremont, played by the diamond-crusted throne of actresses, Grace Kelly, and his nurse Thelma, played by the old rocking chair Thelma Ritter.
Each day, Stewart regales the two with tales of a dancer exercising in underwear, a pianist, a salesman (Raymond Burr) and his bedridden wife, and others. The fun seems innocent at first, but with each passing day, Jeffries's suspicion of the acts of his neighbors grows deeper and deeper. The audience too is led to believe that something odd is afoot. Hitchcock, being the master of perspective, utilizes the apartment's rear window as a forum to place Jeffr
ies in the shoes of the audience. The window, in essence, represents his screen. The action unfolding in front of him might as well be a fictional show performed for his entertainment to fulfill his voyeuristic needs and pass the time as he heels.
In this sense, what we as an audience are watching is almost a movie within a movie. With the added commentary of Jeffries explaining the actions and his conclusions to his visitors, we as an audience are essentially receiving an ongoing critique of the film within the film, and thus are manipulated by the perceptions and perspective of our simultaneous critic and viewer. This allows Hitchcock to dictate the audience's emotions, as they will essentially replicate those of Jeffries and his two dates to the movies.
However, as time passes in the actual movie, the characters get overly enveloped in the plot. After viewing this show for days on end and wrapping his life within its plot, Jeffries feels as if he is a part of the lives of his own characters. When evidence begins to mount that the salesman has perhaps killed his wife, Jeffries and Lisa become so engrossed in the story that they inevitably join it. They need to find out the truth. Interestingly enough, they do not seem driven as much by the thought of bringing the man to justice as they do by the thirst for validating their own suspicions, and perhaps adding depth to the plot of the theater that has enraptured their lives.
It is at this point that their theater ceases to act as a show to the audience, and the main characters actually take part in the action. As Metz explains, "what is characteristic of the cinema is not the imaginary that it may happen to represent, but the imaginary that it is from the start"(821). Up until now, the Rear Window Theater has been nothing more than imaginary. For all he knows, Jeffries could be completely wrong about his interpretations of his neighbors lives. However, by overly engrossing himself, his thirst grows so strong that he dares to risk the loss of the imaginary world he has created for himself. He lures the salesman out of his apartment in order to give Lisa a chance to snoop around and try to dig up some dirt. As soon as Lisa enters that apartment, the imaginary element of the show begins to vanish. However, we still watch the action through the eyes of Jeffries. Thus, the story has not yet fully transitioned to a full-fledged reality, just a show with an elevated sense of anxiety. This anxiety begins to build momentum like a tumbling snow ball when we see the salesman appear in the screen of the binoculars. Jeffries can see the plot unfolding, even though his new main characters (the salesman and his love) are clueless as to the coming action.
Jeffries is stuck. His real world has meshed with his imaginary world, yet he remains confined to his chair in the theater (or his wheelchair). He is helpless to do much of anything besides watch. Metz compares the cinema to a mirror, except with one exception: "there is one thing and one thing only that is never reflected in it: the spectator's own body"(822). Yet, in this film, Hitchcock has managed to replicate the body of the spectator, albeit with a different face (and boy does that Jimmy Stewart have a good looking face - see top image). He even comes complete with his own seat, as would the typical viewer.
Thus, as we the audience have essentially occupied his body and mind for the entire course of the movie, our hearts begin to race along with his as we watch the salesman get closer and closer to discovering Lisa, just as helpless to the action as Jeffries.
At this moment, Jeffries finally breaks the mold and changes the course of the action. He calls the police. In this sense, he remains a spectator, but also becomes a pseudo assistant director at the same time, as he merely has the potential to influence the outcome but must remain a viewer without certain knowledge of what is to transpire. Thus, both he and the audience remain highly engaged in the story, on the tips of their toes.
In the end, his influence pays off, as both he and the audience are deeply relieved to watch as the police break up a potential disaster. However, as the police subdue the situation, the salesman notices Lisa showing the wedding ring she has discovered (which lends credence to their theory that the salesman has in fact killed his wife) to a viewer outside the apartment. The salesman instantly recognizes that he is being watched by an unknown viewer, and becomes cognizant of his roll as an actor in the Rear Window Theater. He then discovers his audience, as his eyes make contact with the camera lens portrayed by the binoculars (which themselves are in reality portrayed by a real camera lens. Boy is this complicated). As the police leave with Lisa, the salesman takes action and comes for Jeffries. We hear the door slam shut to the apartment building and the slow creeping of footsteps on the stairs. The audience remains inextricably linked to Jeffries, as once again our pulse races with anticipation along with his.
Finally, the door bursts open, as the confused salesman incredulously asks, "Who are you? What do you want from me?" Unfortunately still bound to his seat, as he is a member of the audience after all, Jeffries helplessly sets off his camera flash temporarily blinding the man. However, as soon as the salesman entered the apartment, the theater wholly ceased to be imaginary. Like a bad horror movie, it is as if the monster somehow walked out of the screen and into the movie theater, leaving the panicking audience to instantly regret their decision not to just stay home and read a book that night. Jeffries is thrown out of the window by the salesman, as if to symbolize his own departure from the role of audience member to star of the action. He now joins the rest of the cast for the first time on the screen viewed through the rear window. Only Hitchcock could wait until the end of the movie to actually include the main character into the action.
Of course, all ends well, as his fall is broken by the police who rush to his rescue when he is seen dangling from the ledge. The salesman confesses to the murder, essentially validating the Rear Window Theater that had occupied so much of Jeffries's attention. He is left simply with two broken legs now, giving him another opportunity to watch the theater that so enraptured his life: the Rear Window Theater.
Hopefully this time he will keep his role as audience member separate from his life. As Heath told us in "Questions of Cinema," the camera acts as the eyes of the audience, framing a singular perception of the events occurring. It was only when Jeffries added more than just his eyes to the equation that his role as audience member dissolved into the trap of his own perspective.
The lesson, as always: Keep your personal life separate from your work life, and vice versa. You can only catch so many breaks.
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