I have a confession: I have more cinematic blindspots than I care to count. It’s a constant source of stress, honestly. The sea of content throughout the medium’s inception feels limitless, and catching up to 120+ years of filmmaking is a hefty task. But, recently, I found that there’s a hidden curiosity that comes with my blindspots: I’ve only seen certain classics in today’s context.

Films are constantly defined by their environment and context. They are a testament of a time. It’s important to consider these settings when watching films of a different age, but taking them out of their context and bringing them into a modern lens often reveals a new layer. This was the case when I recently stumbled upon Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window on Turner Classic Movies; I couldn’t help but finish the entire thing.

This year marks the 70th anniversary of Rear Window, which makes my accidental viewing seem like the plan of a more organized movie-watcher. Often cited as one of Hitchcock’s greatest works, the film is one of those “classics” seemingly required for anyone who wants to deem themselves a “cinephile.” Now, I understand all the hoopla.

The story is pretty well-known, even if you haven’t seen the film: it’s about a guy who looks out his rear window all day. And Rear Window really is a simplistic endeavor, down to the direction itself. It plays out straightforwardly, following a man named L.B. Jefferies (Jimmy Stewart) who, confined to a wheelchair due to a recent accident, observes his neighbors through the window of his New York apartment. The movie works on two levels. We take part in his observations as well as snippets of his inner life, even if those moments play second fiddle to what is happening outside his four walls. But the film is much more layered, much denser than this simplistic framing implies. 

Hitchcock is often deemed the “Master of Suspense” due to his uncanny ability to craft tension. His movies pull the viewer into the world, never letting go until the credits roll. Rear Window is no different. At even the film’s most basic level, it’s a highly engaging piece of entertainment. The thick layers of intrigue kept me on my toes, yes, but, the greatest feat of Hitchcock’s work is how the film’s felt entertainment plays hand-in-hand with its ideas — which, when looked at in a modern context, couldn’t be more appropriate.

By bringing the audience into Jeff’s apartment (and into his very eyesight), Hitchcock thrusts viewers into a sort of communal process of viewing. We see what Jeff sees. We hear what Jeff hears. And, oftentimes, we feel the same voyeuristic intrigue Jeff feels. This intrigue propels us forward; we want to know more. In bringing us into communion with Jeff’s viewing, Hitchcock projects a warped aspect of the human condition, one that seems to have some sort of innate desire to gaze upon others and experience their lives for ourselves.

This idea — that we, as humans, want to see what’s behind our neighbors’ curtains, to judge them, to feel their feelings, and to figure out their problems — is no more relevant in 1954 than it is today. Reality television allows us inside the relationships of strangers and creates celebrities out of these strangers. Social media has made it so that no one ever has to be invisible. Anything we want to see can be at our fingertips in seconds; the curtains never have to be drawn. In fact, it’s like we deserve to know the inner workings of others’ lives. As someone who rarely posts on social media anymore, I know people find it suspicious if you’re not bringing your hundreds of followers into your vacation to Mexico. Pics or it didn’t happen!

But Rear Window’s voyeuristic pleasure has its limits. When Miss Lonelyhearts contemplates suicide, there’s a discomfort to our collective spying. Intrigue quickly turns to guilt. It’s not sexy like Miss Torso, not interesting like Mr. Thorwald’s suspicious behavior, not funny like the couple on the fire escape, and not beautiful like the songwriter’s music. We as viewers suddenly become implicated in the not-so-savory parts of trying to live in someone else’s world. What seems so far away becomes incredibly real.

It goes the same when Thorwald finally locks eyes with the camera across the courtyard; it feels wrong. Part of the interest behind viewing lies in the assumed ability to escape from its physical implications at any moment. When that barrier breaks, the allure turns to terror. And, just like how Jeff feels a right to be within others’ homes, Thorwald, too, can cross that threshold. After all, Jeff’s door is always unlocked, and people strut right in as if they live there. If we aim to destroy the four walls surrounding others, we mustn’t be surprised if our walls suddenly become thinner.

It’s the same experience I feel whenever I surf the oh-so-fun and uplifting Internet. Everything feels so far away that nothing really matters. Our identity can stay hidden behind a screen, allowing us to divulge whatever tendency we feel. We can look upon others and take part in their digital lives with no worry that our subject will ever make eye contact with us.

This disintegration of the private space within Rear Window is essential to the film’s ideas on viewing. There needs to be an open window for us to look through for anything to happen. These windows are literalized in the film, yet it’s easier than ever to find those windows in the real world. A Google search, a Facebook friend request, or an Instagram DM is all that stand in our way from witnessing the inner lives of others and gaining access to their private spaces. Hitchcock imagines a world in which everyone has a right to see into their neighbor’s inner lives; is that all that different from a digital world?

It also cannot be overlooked how the film plays upon a metatextual reading of the image and the process of filmmaking as spectacle. As a photographer, Jeff sees the world through a camera. As a viewer, we see the lives of Jeff’s neighbors through a window frame — and that of a film frame. The camera connects us to the film’s world as much as media connects us within our digital spaces. Now, as I like many others glue myself to my phone in search of a way to appease an ever-decreasing attention span, we need the screen to give us a look behind the curtains. Whether it be true crime podcasts, broadcast news, or a TikTok found while sitting on the toilet, the frames with which we see the world are ever-evolving. And we expect them to satiate a somewhat disturbing desire to see — and experience — others.

The film’s ending — which ties everything up with a pretty ribbon and implies that everything is better now that the walls of privacy have been uprooted in this neighborhood — seems to imply a preference for a more “neighborly” world. I found the happy ending dubious; is Hitchcock trying to convey some sort of fantasy that the destruction of the private space would give way to a happier world? But nevertheless, the modes in which a “neighborhood” is constructed are no longer through an open window. Rather, it’s an open digital landscape where any thought, any identity, any person can find community — whether that be an incendiary or a beautiful one.

Obviously, there’s a lot to dissect about Rear Window. It’s a dense film brimming with ideas on the process of viewing, and it’s a thrilling exercise in perspective. I imagine that there’s a fascinating history course out there dissecting the film as a reflection on 1950’s anxieties and ideas. And 70 years later, time has revealed a new meaning. I suppose I don’t fully know if this is true seeing as the movie was almost half a decade old when I was born, but I digress. 

Rear Window is an achievement in filmmaking from one of America’s greatest directors, and it hasn’t lost a step in 70 years. Endlessly watchable and densely packed, it’s a timeless piece of imagery that continues to reveal new layers and possibilities. So, next time your friend doesn’t want to put on an “old” movie because they’re “boring” or “irrelevant,” tell them to buzz off and put on Rear Window instead.

Article Courtesy of Carson Burton

Feature Image Credit to Paramount Pictures via Common Sense Media