Back to the Feature: Suspicion (1941)

Of all the Hitchcock movies that have resonance in 2019, the one about a woman fearing for her well-being in her relationship with a man might be the most so. The capacity for men to inflict violence or the threat of violence on women has remained a harsh reality, as has the prevalence of bad men putting on an appearance of consideration and kindness -so 1941’s Suspicion has certainly aged well in that regard. But of course the movie is about more than Lina McLainlaw’s (Joan Fontaine) anxiety over whether her charismatic but highly mysterious new husband Johnnie Aysgarth (Cary Grant) is planning to kill her. The suspicion of the title refers likewise to his façade of responsibility, con-man tactics, and how they seem to inextricably point to Johnnie being a gold digger, Lina having a very wealthy father, and not actually loving her the way he claims.

Hitchcock’s moniker, “the Master of Suspense” may seem a hyperbole to some, but it's movies like this that made him earn it. He wasn’t simply able to execute a movie skillfully, but he was intuitive enough to choose incredibly gripping premises (this one from a novel by Francis Iles). Suspicion belongs to a family of 1940’s Hitchcock thrillers that follow a womans’ suspicion towards her enigmatic partner that also consists of Rebecca (also starring Fontaine), Spellbound, and Notorious (both starring Ingrid Bergman). But of these four, Suspicion might be the most intimately dangerous. Like so many Hitchcock movies, it builds its plot expertly, using clever technical and storytelling devices to enhance the effect of the slow burn, playing off our assumptions and expectations; such as emphasizing the good humour of Johnnie and his friend Beaky (Nigel Bruce), and the carefully cavalier language they use to discuss and dismiss Johnnie’s irresponsibilities and lies, suggesting that Lina may be a little paranoid, and reading too much into Johnnie’s character. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time Joan Fontaine misjudged her lover.

Joan Fontaine won her Oscar for this movie, the only time an actor ever did so for a Hitchcock film. She plays the part in much the same timidly skeptical fashion as in Rebecca, though here with more reason to be so. There’s not a lot of the naivety of that former role, even if there’s just as much needless forgiving.  Nevertheless, she’s still astute enough to relate to and sympathize with in her discomfort with Johnnie’s lies. Though he never outright claimed to be rich, he essentially gaslit Lina into marrying him, which she’s at least somewhat convincingly troubled by. Fontaine perhaps more than most of Hitchcock’s female leads, is primarily an audience avatar for fear and unease, both of which she plays very well. I would have liked if she stood up for herself more though, as in a few early scenes where she rebuffs Johnnie, or asserted her independence, like when she wrote that letter leaving him –before tearing it up on second thought. But then it’s natural her shyness would stem from that danger Johnnie poses clashing with her real desire to be in love with him. For most of the movie her primary worry is that he’s ambivalent to her, set off by his early disappointment that they wouldn’t be able to live off her fathers’ money (and I must say it’s quite refreshing that the unscrupulous gold digger is a man for a change); the initial fear is that he’s been faking his love for her, and it’s only later that the clues to a darker intent begin to surface. It may seem like the least of her concerns given his criminal past, cons, gambling, pawning of her family antiques, manipulating her out of £30,000 and demonstrated history as a liar, but Fontaine’s exceptional ability to play insecurity translates the sheer emotional significance of this suspicion.

As great an effort as she’s making though, Fontaine is overshadowed by Cary Grant. On the surface there’s nothing special about his performance: he’s got the same charisma and humour and coolness of any other Cary Grant character, and that’s sort of the movies’ secret weapon. Much like in Charade, a non-Hitchcock movie that fits in very well with the likes of Suspicion or Notorious, Grant’s innate charm works to the movies’ best advantage.  Because by 1941, Cary Grant was more than an actor, he was a cultural icon. No matter the role, he was suave and stylish, calm yet quick-witted, sometimes abrasive, but in an affable way, and a perfect romantic partner for stars like Katharine Hepburn, Irene Dunne, Rosalind Russell, and Ingrid Bergman. “Cary Grant” was a persona that Archibald Leach permanently played, famously saying, “everyone wants to be Cary Grant, even I want to be Cary Grant.” With that in mind, Hitchcock and Grant cleverly used his public reputation to misdirect the audience. In spite of his transgressions, we assume Johnnie’s a decent guy because he’s Cary Grant, each character flaw corrected by a subsequent explanation. But the next character flaw is right around the corner. Still we excuse it ...because he’s Cary Grant. But as the evidence becomes more damning (researching poisons with a murder mystery author doesn’t look good under any circumstances), we’re reminded that decency can be a parlour trick, that even Cary Grant is capable of being a wolf in sheeps’ clothing. Grant never played a straight-up villain, but this may be the closest he’s come.  Every line is tinged with some double meaning, some subtext suggesting something sinister. When Lina reveals she knows he lost his job, he avoids specifying the reason. When she receives an insubstantial inheritance following her fathers’ death, Johnnie is much more perturbed by it than she.  He’s not too affected by the death of his friend while they were both conveniently in Europe for separate reasons. There’s also aspects of Grant’s body language that are rather off-putting. I’m sure too many women can relate to a man grabbing them unexpectedly and inappropriately, only to brush it off with some excuse like “fixing your hair”. Or, in perhaps the best scene of the movie, the stoic walk up the stairs with an illuminated glass of milk, all features consumed by darkness, Grant really gives the character and moment a sinister menace.

Of course Grant isn’t allowed to be completely nefarious, not even fully dubious, again because of that image of Cary Grant –but also because of our old friend, the dreaded Hays Code, which is indeed the source of most of the movies’ shortcomings. Restrictions on the portrayal of infidelity and sex meant some changes from the source material from the get-go, but the tone had to be substantially watered down as well. Most of the time it works okay, the casual nature of some of the scenes having an unnerving effect given Johnnie’s irresponsible nature, but the tension isn’t built nearly as well as in Hitchcock's other movies because he’s only allowed to go so far in characterizing Grant as a killer, often peddling back to the romance -the pair dance, a Strauss musical cue is struck, it becomes a fantasy. This itself isn’t an inherent problem; as I said, Lina’s insecurity in their relationship is compelling and I love how these scenes are a subtle indicator of Johnnie’s continued manipulations. But they are frenzied, as if Hitchcock were consciously shooting them out of spite. However they do allow for the one unique cinematography choice that characterized Hitchcock’s movies of this period (the single take POV with the gun from the end of Spellbound, the crane shot descending into Ingrid Bergmans’ hand in Notorious, the murder seen through the distorted lens of a pair of glasses on the ground in Strangers on a Train) in that 180 degree tracking shot around Lina as she kisses Johnnie –perhaps a precursor to the extended kiss of Notorious.

But for as much of a roadblock as the Code was, it often allowed for clever work-arounds, and Hitchcock always delighted in ruffling its feathers. I don’t know if a more explicit adaptation of Iles’ book, where Johnnie’s indiscretions are much clearer, would have been better, but I know that in not directly implicating him in the deaths of Lina’s father and Beaky, rather insinuating by suggestion, it keeps the severity of Johnnie’s personality a mystery. Easily the biggest Code-enforced change, and the one Hitchcock hated the most was the ending, where after an intense high-speed drive along a cliff-face wherein Lina nearly falls to her death, explanations are made and Johnnie is acquitted. He was dipping into her life insurance policy to pay back the boss he embezzled and he was researching poisons in contemplation of committing suicide for his reckless lifestyle. The couple reconcile, love is saved and the censors are happy ...but Johnnie was still driving pretty frantically, his look when he lunged towards Lina as if to push her out was not one of concern. Nothing of what he confesses accounts for his eagerness for her fathers’ money, and the death of Beaky is still fairly suspect. She only has his word to go on for any of his claims as well and it’s not like he hasn’t proven himself a very adept liar on multiple occasions already. They’re still alone on a cliff-face where the film ends and it’s up to the audience to decide if they believe Johnnie or not, and that’s chilling –moreso perhaps than Hitchcock’s planned ending, which would have proven Johnnie a murderer outright. But because he couldn’t get away with that, being Hitchcock, he shrouded the mandated ending in as much ambiguity as he could, the kind more perceptive viewers than the Code’s monitors would be certain to pick up on.

Hitchcock movies often end in a place of resolution, not as much in flux. The most famous exception to the rule of course being Vertigo. But Suspicion perhaps less openly joins it, likewise a movie that deals in misogyny and likewise a movie that holds up incredibly well in 2019. It may not be one of Hitchcock’s best, but it does tap into the creepiness and the deceptiveness of men in relationships better than most movies that side of Gaslight. And though it purportedly ends on a happy note, any woman (and hopefully many men) will have just cause to remain suspicious. 

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