What is a rear window? A first answer may be the window that is behind us. The window in the back of a car for instance. The rear is found in relation to the activity of the car, the moving forward, which we recognize as the front of the car. In this film, we look out of the window of an apartment. Why do we call it rear? The windows are placed opposite the front door. The door is the gateway into the world. What, then, do the rear windows face? In cars lined up on the highway, the rear-view mirror lets us look at the front of other cars. In Hitchcock's New York City courtyard, the rear window is a gateway into the rear window of other apartments. The rear window is both that which we look out of and look into. Perhaps we have also found the answer the question, what is a window? It is the limit of our built spaces. (Eyes are a kind of window too.) It also both to be looked out of and into. We build windows to allow the light in and our gaze out. Windows are for when we want to look out without going to where we wish to look. At times, this separation is desired in bad weather or protection from the snake in the zoo. But at other times, we find windows to be symbols of separation. Imagine the prisoner meeting their loved one, separated by plexi-glass. Windows can sometimes be worse than walls. They imprison us while allowing us to gaze upon that from which we are exiled.
After the camera moves towards the window, the camera cuts down to a cat, ascending stairs beneath the window. The camera rolls in a counter-clockwise pan of the courtyard, exploring the space, a family upon a balcony with the child on a tricycle, a man in pajamas lying on a fire escape, the blonde woman, an empty apartment, and ending back inside, where we see a bead of sweat roll down Jimmy Stewart's brow. Cut to a shot of a thermometer. 94 degrees. The camera tracks to the left, refocusing out into the apartment of a man shaving. A large piano sits in the room. The radio plays an interrogating commercial "Men, Are you over 40? When you wake up in the morning, are you tired and rundown?" Hitchcock plays an interesting trick here. The music which played over the credits and throughout the prior sequence of the courtyard is found to be generated by this radio. The music starts again, a latin flavored maraca-backed song. We, as the audience, are hearing the same music as the residences of the courtyard. The sound editor lives in that apartment. Cut to the man sleeping on the fire escape. A alarm clock hanging from the railing sounds, and to our surprise a woman emerges from behind his feet. It appears as if this couple has been driven out of their apartments, perhaps by the heat. Why are they sleeping head to toe? They are sleeping in public which might explain this modest position, though it is still oddly platonic for a married couple. The camera continue to move to the blonde, now zoomed closer than the prior shot. We can see her naked back and shoulder blades. She walks into her living room with the larger window. She is wearing very short pink shorts. She is putting on tube top when it falls to the ground. She flexibly bends over to pick it up, displaying her rear to the camera. The rear window has obtained a third sense. The window displays a rear to the world. The woman continues to bounce around the apartment making breakfast, stretching her leg up into the arm, revealing her thigh and crotch. The camera continues to move. We hear the laughter of children. The narrow alley reveals a water truck driving down the street with children following playing the water released from the truck. An arm reaches out of a window to remove a piece of cloth from a bird cage. The camera returns to the apartment to Jimmy Stewart' sweat soaked brow. We now see he is in a wheel chair. The camera moves down to his leg cast. Upon the cast is scribbled "Here lies the broken bones of L.B. Jefferies". We ask, how did he break his leg? Hitchcock answers us with a piece of economic story telling. The interior of the apartment shows a smashed camera, photographs of a race car accident, horrific images of bombs and war. This man must have been injured in one of these accidents that he photographed. He has seen the world at its worst. He thinks that the rest of the world should see the worst too. The final two images of this introductory scene are the most disturbing. We see first the image of a woman in negative. The negative is the image privilege only to the photographer. The inversion of light and dark is a horrifying effect. The camera pauses to make sure we see. The camera continues to a stack of magazines below, the same picture, of a blonde model in a black dress. I think this opening scene serves as a synecdoche, revealing L.B. Jefferies suffering of interior life, insecurities of aging, isolation, sexual frustration, professional dreams, and hidden revelations.
The film divides itself into two. There are the private frustrations of the impotent Jefferies. The cast makes his travel aspirations impossible. The cast also goes up to his waist, making him sexual impotent. He fears the commitment of marriage as well, disgusted by the trivialities of domestic life, preferring the life of "fish heads and rice". His injury has forced him to live that domestic life. And to a purpose that Jefferies himself claims is not for mere "entertainment", he looks out of his rear window into the windows of his neighbors. The images of lives unfolding within small windows is familiar to a world with more and more screens, cell phones, computers, projectors. Initially, it appears as if there is a clear distinction between the inner and outer world. I want to humor a thought for a moment, that what Jefferies sees through the rear window is not the outer world, but rather descent into the dark inner world . To gaze through the rear is the same as gazing into the abyss. I would like to remind the reader that we call a rear both a behind and a bottom. Jefferies apartment is situated on the third floor. Thus the camera is perpetually looking down. Jefferies does not get to look at the world, of deeds and politics, but into what happens behind closed doors, what men do when they put on the ring of Gyges. To look through the rear window is to look into the abyss of the human being, unaware of observation (If this is possible is a different and interesting question.) Let us pray that they do not look back.
Should we peer through the rear window? Jefferies asks this to Grace Kelly's character Lisa.
Jefferies: Do you, do you suppose it's ethical even if you prove that he didn't commit a crime? Lisa: I'm not much on rear-window ethics. Jefferies: Of course, they can do the same thing to me. Watch me like a bug under a glass if they want to.
Jefferies resolves that as long as the windows goes both ways, as long as he submits to the same scrutiny, it may be okay. I believe Jefferies is being watched like a bug on three different levels. On the first, the lives that he watches are mirrors of his own frustrations. Second, the suspect of the main murder-plot Thurwold does recognize Jefferies as the observer and watches back. And third, Jefferies is watched like a bug under glass by the camera, and thereby by us, the audience.
The stories of his neighbors express the same frustrations he experiences. The frustrated composer struggling to produce music is the same as Jefferies, who is a frustrated artist as well, an artist of the still image. The newlywed couple express his desire for sexual satisfaction while revealing the unpleasant consequences of married domestic life. Miss Lonelyheart, alcoholic and lonely, suffers the same isolation and boredom as Jefferies. The blonde woman, whom we find named Miss Torso by Jefferies, embodies a distant unconsummated erotic desire. (Sidenote: What an grotesque nickname for a woman. Who is cutting women up, Jefferies?) At times, Jefferies evens prefers to gaze upon Miss Torso while the princess of Monaco lies upon his bed. Why prefer the image to the real, obtainable woman in front of him? Miss Torso demands nothing of Jefferies—erotic excitement without any commitment. These images and characters reveal eddies of Jefferies unconscious, but it is unclear whether Jefferies has this self-recognition.
What about Thurwold? The film is most known for this plot. Jefferies witness activities and images that raises suspicions of murder. The camera, while Jefferies is asleep, shows Thurwold and a woman leave the apartment in the early morning. This piece of dramatic irony lulls the audience to side with the detective pragmatist. We think Jefferies is just a paranoid man who has been deceived by a self constructed conspiracy. The images can be reasonably explained—maybe. This is just another instance of Hitchcock's genius.
Thurwold and his wife, Anna, can be read as an inversion of Jefferies and Liza. Jefferies and Anna are both invalid. They must be taken care of by Thurwold or Liza/Nurse. The bond of caretaker and patient can be a embarrassing and humiliating role for a couple to fulfill. Jefferies suspicion of Thurwold allows Jefferies to fantasize a dark desire. Jefferies is not willing to marry Liza because he wishes to retain his Odyssean desire for experience. but he is unable to liberate himself because of his injury. Thus, he was unable to make the choice nor reap the benefits marriage, but has been forced into the domestic life without his consent. What does the murder by Thurwold mean for Jefferies? It is the ultimate act of liberation. The caretaker, bound to the dependent patient, servers the tie.
I want to focus on the moment Thurwold looks into the rear window. Liza has just been caught in his apartment. The police arrive after Jefferies called the police to report a domestic dispute. Liza talks to the officers while she holds her hands behind her back. She wags her ring finger bearing a wedding ring. Jefferies notices the sign and says to the nurse "She's got it". Jefferies stares through his camera lens, the closest amount of zoom, and moves up to the face of Thurwold. He stares down at the ring. He recognizes that her motion is a sign. He turns his head and stares directly into the camera. He sees us.
The plot thought: a woman would never leave behind her wedding ring. The story about his Anna leaving must be bogus because she would have brought her wedding ring. Therefore, she did not go on a trip but was murdered. The conclusive evidence is found. There are some strange meanings for Liza to be wearing the ring. By putting on the Anna's ring, Liza has adopted the role of the wife. She serves as a stand in for the deceased Anna. This must be what the police initially think walking into the apartment. Further, by wagging it at Jefferies, she wishes to draw attention to it. On the plot level, she say "Look, I have the evidence." But the power of the image itself says "Look, this could be your ring. Look at what I am capable of doing for you. I could be your wife." The semiotics of the framed stories recall Hitchcock's experience with Silent Film. We are not privileged to the sound of the interior stories, but they are played out in motion, gesture, and expression. Liza violates the dramatic space of Thurwood's apartment because she is aware that she is being watch. Thus, the act of drawing attention is what draws Thurwold's eyes up into the camera. We only give signs when there is an observer. Thurwold can now regard Jefferies as a bug under glass.
What can we learn from watching? What is the danger? Rear Window offers a nuanced exploration of these questions both formally and substantially. The blur of diegetic music and camera motion leaves us unsure as to what is real in the film and what is not. We know no one was murdered for the sake of this film, but that does not mean that the demons the film witnessed are no less real—the demons of ennui, isolation, lust. We watch films the same reason Jefferies watched the lives of his neighbors, not merely for entertainment, but to be witness the mysteries of the human being in our terribleness and beauty. There are real dangers to act of watching, when these images consume us, when they substitute the realities of our own lives. Perhaps if we examine our own lives with the same scrutiny we observe murderers and films, we may see something true.
The film divides itself into two. There are the private frustrations of the impotent Jefferies. The cast makes his travel aspirations impossible. The cast also goes up to his waist, making him sexual impotent. He fears the commitment of marriage as well, disgusted by the trivialities of domestic life, preferring the life of "fish heads and rice". His injury has forced him to live that domestic life. And to a purpose that Jefferies himself claims is not for mere "entertainment", he looks out of his rear window into the windows of his neighbors. The images of lives unfolding within small windows is familiar to a world with more and more screens, cell phones, computers, projectors. Initially, it appears as if there is a clear distinction between the inner and outer world. I want to humor a thought for a moment, that what Jefferies sees through the rear window is not the outer world, but rather descent into the dark inner world . To gaze through the rear is the same as gazing into the abyss. I would like to remind the reader that we call a rear both a behind and a bottom. Jefferies apartment is situated on the third floor. Thus the camera is perpetually looking down. Jefferies does not get to look at the world, of deeds and politics, but into what happens behind closed doors, what men do when they put on the ring of Gyges. To look through the rear window is to look into the abyss of the human being, unaware of observation (If this is possible is a different and interesting question.) Let us pray that they do not look back.
Should we peer through the rear window? Jefferies asks this to Grace Kelly's character Lisa.
Jefferies resolves that as long as the windows goes both ways, as long as he submits to the same scrutiny, it may be okay. I believe Jefferies is being watched like a bug on three different levels. On the first, the lives that he watches are mirrors of his own frustrations. Second, the suspect of the main murder-plot Thurwold does recognize Jefferies as the observer and watches back. And third, Jefferies is watched like a bug under glass by the camera, and thereby by us, the audience.
The stories of his neighbors express the same frustrations he experiences. The frustrated composer struggling to produce music is the same as Jefferies, who is a frustrated artist as well, an artist of the still image. The newlywed couple express his desire for sexual satisfaction while revealing the unpleasant consequences of married domestic life. Miss Lonelyheart, alcoholic and lonely, suffers the same isolation and boredom as Jefferies. The blonde woman, whom we find named Miss Torso by Jefferies, embodies a distant unconsummated erotic desire. (Sidenote: What an grotesque nickname for a woman. Who is cutting women up, Jefferies?) At times, Jefferies evens prefers to gaze upon Miss Torso while the princess of Monaco lies upon his bed. Why prefer the image to the real, obtainable woman in front of him? Miss Torso demands nothing of Jefferies—erotic excitement without any commitment. These images and characters reveal eddies of Jefferies unconscious, but it is unclear whether Jefferies has this self-recognition.
What about Thurwold? The film is most known for this plot. Jefferies witness activities and images that raises suspicions of murder. The camera, while Jefferies is asleep, shows Thurwold and a woman leave the apartment in the early morning. This piece of dramatic irony lulls the audience to side with the detective pragmatist. We think Jefferies is just a paranoid man who has been deceived by a self constructed conspiracy. The images can be reasonably explained—maybe. This is just another instance of Hitchcock's genius.
Thurwold and his wife, Anna, can be read as an inversion of Jefferies and Liza. Jefferies and Anna are both invalid. They must be taken care of by Thurwold or Liza/Nurse. The bond of caretaker and patient can be a embarrassing and humiliating role for a couple to fulfill. Jefferies suspicion of Thurwold allows Jefferies to fantasize a dark desire. Jefferies is not willing to marry Liza because he wishes to retain his Odyssean desire for experience. but he is unable to liberate himself because of his injury. Thus, he was unable to make the choice nor reap the benefits marriage, but has been forced into the domestic life without his consent. What does the murder by Thurwold mean for Jefferies? It is the ultimate act of liberation. The caretaker, bound to the dependent patient, servers the tie.
I want to focus on the moment Thurwold looks into the rear window. Liza has just been caught in his apartment. The police arrive after Jefferies called the police to report a domestic dispute. Liza talks to the officers while she holds her hands behind her back. She wags her ring finger bearing a wedding ring. Jefferies notices the sign and says to the nurse "She's got it". Jefferies stares through his camera lens, the closest amount of zoom, and moves up to the face of Thurwold. He stares down at the ring. He recognizes that her motion is a sign. He turns his head and stares directly into the camera. He sees us.
The plot thought: a woman would never leave behind her wedding ring. The story about his Anna leaving must be bogus because she would have brought her wedding ring. Therefore, she did not go on a trip but was murdered. The conclusive evidence is found. There are some strange meanings for Liza to be wearing the ring. By putting on the Anna's ring, Liza has adopted the role of the wife. She serves as a stand in for the deceased Anna. This must be what the police initially think walking into the apartment. Further, by wagging it at Jefferies, she wishes to draw attention to it. On the plot level, she say "Look, I have the evidence." But the power of the image itself says "Look, this could be your ring. Look at what I am capable of doing for you. I could be your wife." The semiotics of the framed stories recall Hitchcock's experience with Silent Film. We are not privileged to the sound of the interior stories, but they are played out in motion, gesture, and expression. Liza violates the dramatic space of Thurwood's apartment because she is aware that she is being watch. Thus, the act of drawing attention is what draws Thurwold's eyes up into the camera. We only give signs when there is an observer. Thurwold can now regard Jefferies as a bug under glass. What can we learn from watching? What is the danger? Rear Window offers a nuanced exploration of these questions both formally and substantially. The blur of diegetic music and camera motion leaves us unsure as to what is real in the film and what is not. We know no one was murdered for the sake of this film, but that does not mean that the demons the film witnessed are no less real—the demons of ennui, isolation, lust. We watch films the same reason Jefferies watched the lives of his neighbors, not merely for entertainment, but to be witness the mysteries of the human being in our terribleness and beauty. There are real dangers to act of watching, when these images consume us, when they substitute the realities of our own lives. Perhaps if we examine our own lives with the same scrutiny we observe murderers and films, we may see something true.
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