Notorious made me question my masculinity. While watching the film last night, I tried to follow in Cary Grant’s hegemonic footsteps. I decided I would start by having a few glasses of scotch, before putting on a suit and mumbling to everybody in the same mysterious monotone.
Unfortunately though, I didn’t get any further than the drinks, so I woke up this morning feeling more like Ingrid Bergman and looking more like Alfred Hitchcock. I don’t know what kind of women Devlin usually goes for, but if they’re all massive drinkers, I can’t understand how he doesn’t gradually grow to hate them. When I woke up this morning, hungover as shit, and feeling even less manly, I didn’t like me.
As my first Hitchcock experience, it certainly lived up to my expectations – cinematically at least, but not in terms of story. As I’ve been warned, many of Hitchcock’s films end very abruptly. The sudden ending in Notorious, and its failure to tie up any of the loose ends, turned what could have been a great film into a just okay one.
I truly do envy Cary Grant. I wish I had his classic Hollywood voice. I wish I had his suits. I wish I had Ingrid Bergman stuck to my face. But all I could manage was the drinking. On the plus side, at least in my scotch-fuelled haze, I found Notorious a little more entertaining than I might have otherwise.