Surprises are often what makes a story compelling. The various twists and reveals throughout the course of two-hour tale are what make movie-watching an unpredictable experience. If everything were explained in the first ten minutes of a film, there’d be no reason to continue watching. Things must be hidden for the viewer to discover with the protagonist. This isn’t to say everything must be in the dark, as when the truth is revealed without any forewarning, it feels unearned. Partial obscurity is one of the key rules of design. To use a crude example from neuroscientist V.S Ramachandran, a woman who is only partially clothed is more appealing to voyeurs rather than a wholly naked woman. The promise that there is something more yet just out of reach is what makes the former image more engaging.
Alfred Hitchcock utilizes this artistic principle quite handily in Rear Window (1954) by strictly limiting himself to one strict perspective. Jeff is stuck in his apartment with a broken leg, viewing the events of the neighborhood around him from a fixed position. Not only is this convenient for budget reasons (the set is just a single sound-stage), but it also disarms the protagonist in what he can see, and in effect disarming the viewer. Thrills and suspense ensue from this limited perspective, as only so much information can be revealed from this point of view.
This restriction also feeds into Jeff’s conflict. A photographer who’s used to getting the perfect shot and doing anything he can to achieve it, he finds himself unable to do what he loves. This perfect shot is one that tells an entire story from just looking at it, i.e a racing accident or two men standing outside a plane. Jeff no longer has a perfect shot put in front of him, an issue that transcends to the level of busting a murderer. This struggle for a beneficial perspective is the source of the film’s excitement.
It’s an excitement Jeff lacks in his relationship with Lisa at the start of the film. A socialite who is living the easy life, she appears to be rather bland. This is implicitly communicated when she turns on all the lamps in Jeff’s apartment, revealing everything in sight. Contrast this to when Lisa is recovering Mrs. Thorwald’s wedding ring, a scene where Jeff is concerned for her safety as she appears in and out of sight behind various walls and in different windows. Lisa shows her true development in an exciting heroine when she hides the wedding ring from Mr. Thorwald on her own hand. She’s learned the appeal of subversive obscurity.
This partial obscurity is also showcased by Jeff’s neighbors. The dancer Miss Torso is often showed partially clothed, appearing as a direct analogue to Ramachandran’s example. The sculptor Miss Hearing Aid crafts a statue called Hunger, which has a gaping hole in its stomach. The songwriter and Miss Lonelyhearts lack a significant other, the former coming from a bad marriage according to Jeff’s suspicions and the latter convinced she’ll forever be alone, so much so she almost kills herself via overdose. This example in particular is a compelling B-plot, as the two end up completing each other when the songwriter’s music saves Miss Lonelyhearts. The resolution via completion is much more rewarding when the lack or obscurity is made prominent throughout the story.
What at first to appears to be a weakness is actually a boon to Rear Window. The viewer pieces together the mystery of Mrs. Thorwald’s death by seeing mere fragments of a bigger story, only made visible through open window-frames, or in film-making lingo, Hitchcock’s manipulation of the camera’s frame. By withholding the perfect summarizing shot that Jeff is so accustomed to, secrets and reveals can now take place, leading to a suspenseful thriller. Seeing less of the film’s full story is what makes it so compelling. The allure of Ramachandran’s partially clothed woman is at the source of this movie’s appeal.
Knowing Hitchcock’s infamous treatment of female actors, I shouldn’t be so surprised.
The CineMan Twist 