What Hitch Taught Me About Life
An exploration of life and cinema from the viral sensation
by Tippi Rathbone
Chapter Four
Vertigo(1958): History Repeats Itself
Many critics listVertigoas their favorite Hitchcock film. Perhaps it’s the stylish San Francisco setting or the dizzying camera shots or the hint of supernatural interference. Kim Novak gives a memorable performance, essentially playing two characters, in this twisted tale of love and deception. Behind the scenes, the actress recounted a complicated relationship with the acclaimed director. Starlets like Grace Kelly, Ingrid Bergman, and Vera Miles had surrendered their acting careers in pursuit of romance and motherhood, a pattern that irritated Hitch; he seemingly took his frustrations out on Novak during production.
Like many of his other films,Vertigodives into psychological obsession, as the male lead (another brilliant performance by Jimmy Stewart) tries to untangle interconnected mysteries, all of which involve multiplecharacters falling to their deaths. In the process, he’s challenged to either face his fear of heights (and life in general) or shoulder the blame for the destruction that follows.
The cyclical nature of these tragedies teaches audiences that history tends to repeat itself, especially if the root cause of conflict isn’t addressed.
22
Before
A week passed beforeI worked up the nerve to ask Oliver about Danielle Schwartz’s death.
That didn’t stop me from thinking about it, though, obsessing over it. I’d known several people that had died over the years, of course. Mostly Marmee’s older relatives. The fact that someone my age, someone I’d spoken to in public only weeks before, had died so suddenly seemed surreal, like the inciting incident in some old movie.
Maybe it’s because I didn’t know the cause of death. Obituaries are notoriously vague, reporting on the outcome without providing grislier details. Danielle certainly didn’t appear sick when she’d accosted me outside the coffee shop, although she was clearly agitated. Had she suffered some kind of freak medical emergency? An aneurysm or a seizure during an inopportune moment? Had she been struck by a bus while crossing the street?
What disturbed me even more was that Oliver never said anything. I kept waiting for him to mention it. I even practiced how I might react when he told me. Would it be better to tell him I knew or act surprised? Would he have an emotional reaction, knowing the person he’d at onepoint thought he might build a life with was no longer among the living?
These questions lived and died in my head, leaving me in a constant state of anxiety.
Finally, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I dropped the news to Oliver myself.
We were sitting on the balcony, sharing a bottle of wine to signal the start of the weekend. He’d returned from a three-day convention in Albuquerque, one of the last trips he was scheduled to take before the move. Even though he’d been gone, we’d talked on FaceTime every day. I’d waited long enough for him to mention her death, and I couldn’t bear ignoring it any longer.
“Danielle Schwartz died.”
Oliver picked up his wineglass, swirling the maroon liquid inside. His new Rolex slid down his wrist.
“I know.”
Relief blossomed that this huge secret was out in the open. “How did you hear?”
“A family member reached out,” he said, putting the glass back on the table. “We didn’t keep in touch, but I suppose they thought I needed to know.”
“Did they say what happened?”
Oliver shook his head. “Danielle was a troubled woman.”
He’d told me this before, explained how her paranoia and jealousy led to their divorce, which seemed to only further deteriorate her mental health. Oliver had described her in a way that made me feel pity. I never felt bothered by the woman who came before me, unlike the unnamed narrator in Hitchcock’sRebecca,who is constantly compared to her husband’s superior first wife.
I didn’t have any strong feelings about the woman at all until she accosted me at the coffee shop and made accusations about Oliver.
And then just happened to die weeks later.
“She was young,” I said. “Younger than me. Surely they must have told you what happened.”
“Suicide,” he said bluntly.
I placed my hand over Oliver’s and squeezed. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”
