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Year of the Month

Vertigo

Bad decisions. Also, this is another one about fascism.

At or around this time, Spud, Sick Boy, and I made a healthy, informed, democratic decision to get back on heroin as soon as possible.

Mark Renton, Trainspotting

For good and for ill, Vertigo is all of Alfred Hitchcock’s perversions and neuroticism on display. The relationship between reason and emotion is fascinating; reason is undoubtedly the superior method of making day-to-day decisions, but it’s often a terrible way to make art and worse for choosing the direction of one’s life. When you have neither strategy chosen nor a way of processing emotions, reason can drive you down some bizarre places, when you think purely in what would solve your immediate problem. Culturally, we talk about trauma and mental illness far more and more coherently than we used to, but I think we end up ignoring madness.

Vertigo is both a demonstration and product of madness, carefully expressed in a socially acceptable way when it comes to the latter (an awesome movie), and it even carefully delineates the difference between mental illness and madness. Scottie (James Stewart) has developed the eponymous condition after an incident on the job; one of the little things about post-war cinema was how sympathetic it was to mental illness in a way many of its descendents – especially boys raised on Eighties action movies – were and are not. At no point is Scottie considered less of a man – which is to say, less of a person – for being triggered by heights. There’s always a difference between people who’ve done something and people who haven’t.

On the other hand, he’s considered wildly responsible for the decisions he makes throughout the film – reasoned, comprehensible decisions that climax in slowly attempting to manipulate his girlfriend (Kim Novak) into appearing more like the woman he loved (Kim Novak). One of the infamous elements of the film is the ridiculous melodrama it indulges in; fans would agree that this is what makes it great, and I notice people who claim it as an influence tend to make even more dreamlike and odd art than the original film, pulling out that aspect of it. But I also think the ability to comprehend what’s happening is an underrated element of its appeal.

Scottie is presented with options, over and over and over, and each time, he makes a small decision that makes sense, only to compound with others into a fantastic and ridiculous whole. Judy, too, makes decisions, and if the film has a weakness it’s that these ones require more of a leap, but they are still comprehensible. This is the definition of madness; mental illness is simply a disease with a symptom, like a sudden sense of dizziness and weakness when confronted with a great height. Madness is the conscious choice to fall down a rabbit hole.

Little side jump here, and into an area I fear I’ll make a fool of myself on: there is a strong connection between this film’s storytelling process and the thought process of a fascist. Now, I’m not saying the film is fascist or even bad. What I am saying is that fascists have an obnoxious habit of trying to appear entirely reasonable on the surface, which tends to be expressed as nitpicking factual statements until they either browbeat you into agreeing with them, or more often – because most people are not stupid – someone instigates violence. But they don’t have a long-term emotionally-chosen strategy outside of the vague feeling of being powerful.

The nice thing about making art is that not only can you put your worst and most destructive instincts into it, they’ll usually make the art itself better. It’s not that traumatised or unpleasant people inherently make better art; it’s that they inherently make weirder art, driven by their more specific compulsions that they’re trying to expunge. It’s possible to do this badly, of course, just as it’s possible and even admirable to make ‘normal’ art that’s moving and exciting. 

But a weirdo can put their weirdness into a work and have those impulses become something productive and pleasant for other people; not just fellow weirdos who see themselves in the work and gain a sense of comfort and connection to other human beings – the sense that they aren’t alone – but also more general audiences who gain an insight into what it’s like to be another person; to have their sense of what can be expand a bit.

With Vertigo, I actually feel kind of sad for fascists; that they could have put their miserable, bleak outlook into a piece of art, and felt both that sense of domination they crave – for only art can equal violence in giving one a sense of domination over existence and make you one with the cosmic dust for all eternity – whilst also giving them that sense of human connection, as others would find their work and connect to it.