Speccie Hitch
 

No. 2595: Get Hitched
You are invited to submit a poem incorporating the titles of at least six Alfred Hitchcock films (16 lines). Entries to ‘Competition 2595’ by 7 May or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.

Isn't it a goodie? I expect youse all to roll up your sleeves and knuckle down. I wonder where the full list of the master's films appears. Our showing in the last competition was very praiseworthy, though now the great Bill Greenwell is one of us all things are possible. His and Frank McDonald's (not yet one of us) efforts are awesome, but Frank Osen (didn't I say?) and I aren't so bad at all.

No I'm off to Bill's website to see what wonders there are manifest.

Oh, and since you ask, I'm loving it in Texas. Sam's students are bright, Sam's cooking is to die for and I've now seen many a mocking bird.

I might give it a shot.
Here's a list of Hitchcock flicks:
http://www.mysterynet.com/hitchcock/filmography.shtml

I once was the man who knew too much
About transient vertigo.
When the birds whirled round I would stand spellbound;
My notorious balance would show.

From my high rear window I'd dangle a rope
In a frenzy and watch while it fell.
I had the suspicion that my condition
Would lead to a permanent hell.

It was bad as stage fright when I tottered around
From due east to north by northwest.
I called Dr. Mike: "Oh, I must be a psycho!"
Said Mike, "There's a simple test."

And he found the cause--no shadow of a doubt--
"You're the wrong man to suffer. Yes,
It's a touch of Meniere's in your inner ears!"
And I'm better now, I confess.


15! Count 'em.

THE OPENING CREDITS

Beside the rear window behind a torn curtain,
Rebecca sits spellbound. Blackmail, I'm certain.
The farmer's wife, old, at the end her rope,
once young and innocent, brimming with hope,
had hitched up with Harry, the wrong man, I guess.
The trouble with Harry? He said, "I confess,"
when questioned for murder and rank sabotage,
then flew with the birds, didn't say bon voyage.
(The lodger had told him, "You're wanted for murder! Go!"
He answered, "You're psycho!" in a frenzy of vertigo,
and said, "You're my lifeboat! I'll never desert you,"
then stole her fine topaz. Goodbye, easy virtue!)


**

21! Count 'em.

Dammit, Roger!

I'm not sure I shall attempt this. I know when I'm beat.

Hitched

Marnie, the Lodger in Jamaica Inn, was a Foreign Correspondent although
she was Young and Innocent, with at this Stage, Fright, crying by The Rear Window.
"I Confess", she cried to The Farmer’s Wife, as she tippled a little Champagne,
"The Trouble with Harry, a Manxman, is that we’re both Strangers on a Train".

It’s The Wrong Man who gave me The Ring, she’d realized straight away,
and she’d a Suspicion, Without a Shadow of a Doubt, he’s a Notorious roué,
he’ll Blackmail me and my Easy Virtue she sobbed in a Frenzy of grief,
I’ll Dial M for Murder and maybe a cop will help me To Catch a Thief.

“A Torn Curtain does not mean Murder” the cop said when he came,
"at Number 17 The Birds who rent there are into the Skin Game".
The Man Who Knew Too Much about them both thought them Rich and Strange;
he called one Rebecca and the other a Psycho in the Juno and the Paycock range.

Her Topaz eyes were Spellbound as the cop gave her a Lifeboat, a hope--
like a Saboteur, engaged in Sabotage, or a Secret Agent, he got a Rope
and took The 39 Steps, North by Northwest, when they jumped from the window and fled
in spite of Vertigo. The Lady Vanishes, as Mr and Mrs Smith they wed.

45!

Arrrrrgggh.

Dearest, I wonder what on earth you meant
by coming home to Manderley at last,
with your new wife, so young and innocent.
Did you believe you could escape the past?

Murder! Rid of that wife of easy virtue!
Suspicion. Until my health report came out.
How fortunate that justice could not hurt you--
not guilty beyond the shadow of a doubt!

Enter Danvers. What a dear old treasure!
A psycho, yes, it cannot be denied.
Still I confess to many hours of pleasure
watching her turn the screws in your young bride.

How rich and strange an ending, is it not?
you, sweating in that vulgar seaside mecca,
while I lie resting in the family plot.
Isn't life funny? Your late wife, Rebecca.


Only 10. Boo-hoo :(

So, Marion, you're trying to win this with quality rather than quantity? Fat chance. Jim used 40 titles, and I think he may have thrown in six or eight Fellini titles and nine chess defenses just to make the rest of us feel like pishers, so don't go shopping yet with the prize money. I don't stand a chance either, but I did gratuitously throw in the traditional directorial cameo ("hitched") so I went down fighting. I wasn't so cynical as to write a good poem, though, so I can hold my head up high.

I guess I'd be a bit more confident about Marion's piece and indeed yours and Sam's Bob, mine, for all it's undoubted inclusiveness, I don't think is a 'fit'.

I do think that Marion's is a contender for using so many titles and actually making a coherent poem out of it about the movie Rebecca. But Jim, making any kind of sense (as you more than do) while packing in 40 title has to be worth at least an honorable mention, and possibly a win. It's awesome. Mine uses half the titles and doesn't make more sense than yours.

Bill Greenwell, where are you in all this? I confess to a suspicion you're cooking up something rich and strange, to sabotage the rest of us.

Jim, how about one with ALL the titles? And the cameo. :D

Bob, though Jim's is a dazzling feat of virtuousity, I have to say, yours does make more sense. Sorry.

Shoot! I just made a down payment on a Prius!

OK, for a personal best, here's 23:


23 BY HITCH

Last night I sat and drank champagne
with two dark strangers on a train,
"Mr. and Mrs. Smith," they said.
I had my suspicion, but nodded my head.

North by northwest, we rode the rail
speaking of sabotage, topaz, blackmail,
the notorious skin game, the farmer's wife,
the thirty nine steps to a rich and strange life,

the birds out the window (she said "I'm a birder"),
and what would it take to justify murder.
She said, "For myself, it would take maybe like, oh,
the slightest offense to render me psycho.

"I killed on the lifeboat, with rope. I confess."
And I was the man, then, who wished to know less,
the man who knew too much . . . without
the ring of easy virtue or the shadow of a doubt.

Hell, we are GOOD, aren't we? Of course in another part of the wood Greenwell has already dispatched his exocet. But what of him? Here's one I ran by Sam and he says OK. As I told him, it doesn't make much sense, but that's true of the Master's films sometimes. The films look OK and this sounds OK. I got a pat on the back for my last acrostic, so... if you can do a thing once, you can do a thing twice.

Hitch’s Acrostic

Alfred, always the man who knew too much,
Loves Grace. So young and innocent she is,
Frenzy is what he feels. He has to touch.
Result? Alas, the lady vanishes.
Evidence? None. He is notorious.
Does that mean he’s a nutcase psycho? Nope.
He’s mad north by northwest like most of us.
Inspector Hound is fashioning a rope
To hang the wrong man. Maybe? Maybe not?
Clouds of suspicion drifting in and out
Have left him such a fusty, family plot,
Crying, ‘Murder, not a shadow of a doubt!’
Oh rich and strange! Oh heart and horror show!
Conclusion (with a sense of vertigo) –
Knowledge is power. Blackmail’s what we know.

16, if you want to know. One of them insinuated itself by mistake.

You people are so cruel! I was so pleased with mine when I finished it. Arrgh.

My objective was simple, to include as many titles as possible and make some sort of sense. OK it's not a great poem but that's not why it isn't a 'fit'
It's just too unwieldy on the page, the best I can hope for is a HM which would be real good going having seen the efforts here from you guys.

I can't believe that even the Big Friendly Greenwell has got more than FORTY titles in, Jim.

Greenwell probably used the bare minimum of six to create a masterpiece. No cheap pyrotechnics for him. Wait and see.

21 again, but perhaps a bit more sense.


MAGUFFIN

We each play many roles in life,
from sabateur to farmer's wife.
The lodger plays the Jamaica Inn game,
Rebecca plays the notorious skin game.

Young and innocent, rich and strange,
from murder to easy virtue, we change.
Each role is a lifeboat. We do what we can.
Even those born on the Isle of Man

can leave if they want to and not be a Manxman
(just sever the rope and declare, "Me? No thanks, man!")
Like strangers on a train, we're spellbound,
hardly aware that our carriage is hellbound

since by the rear window we're lounging, unknowing
it's north by northwest that we're actually going.
Time is a secret agent that banishes
the person we once were. The lady vanishes.
 

Actually JW, I got 45 titles. Hey, I think that last of yours gets the big ceegar Bob.
Well, maybe John's acrostic too, and Marion's as well and Sam was the one showed us how, geesis, they're all good.

I don't know how you lot find the time for all of this but here's a weak one with only 17 titles. If I find the time I'll try again.

Stage fright, no shadow of a doubt,
explained the rope that took him out.
Notorious Rebecca did confess,
but failed to give the right address.
I found him at Number 17,
Jamaica Inn. He could be seen
through the rear window torn curtain.
A psycho, that at least is certain.
The trouble with Harry? The wrong man
to film on a mountain in Japan.
His vertigo was for the birds.
I heard him sabotage his words.
Suspicion arose when he screamed, spellbound,
“I’m damned if I’ll leave this solid ground.
A foreign correspondent up Fujiyama
can be filmed on a set in Alabama.”

The shadow of a doubt grows from suspicion,
Through all the thirty-nine steps in between,
To frenzy, murder, and then intermission—
Most often, though, the wrong man’s on the screen.

The nimble master-mind who drew us here,
Who’d visit terrors on us in the dark,
Stage fright and then direct our rising fear,
Was only in one crowd scene in the park.

Though plots get stale, his cameos seem ageless.
We laugh to see him: passerby-in-chief,
Who, there amid his intrigues, acts quite blameless.
We laugh, like thieves he’s set to catch a thief.

Frank