Alfred Hitchcock, the master of suspense, once quipped, “Drama is life with the dull bits cut out”. In his case, however, it wasn’t just the dull bits—Hitchcock had a knack for turning the mundane into the macabre, and a stroll down a quiet hallway into a pulse-racing ordeal. Whether it’s birds inexplicably waging war on humanity or a charming man with mother issues inviting you to a remote motel, Hitchcock never failed to make us reconsider the everyday. So grab your popcorn, but maybe keep an eye on the birds outside, because in Hitchcock’s world, danger is always closer than you think.
Early life
Sir Alfred Hitchcock was born on 13 August 1899 in London, England. A master of suspense, his films were laced with dark humour and a rather grim take on the human experience. Hitchcock’s childhood in London’s East End came with a ghostly backdrop: the shadow of Jack the Ripper still loomed large, with whispers of the notorious killer circulating long after the murders. Though he had two siblings, Alfred remembered his youth as a solitary affair, thanks to a father whose disciplinary methods were, let’s say, creative. One infamous incident had young Alfred marched to the local police station with a note from his father, leading to a brief, yet terrifying, stint behind bars—planting the seeds for his lifelong fear of small spaces and wrongful imprisonment, themes that would later crawl into his films. As if that weren’t enough, his doting mother smothered him with watchful eyes and endless meals, providing both the foundation for his signature paunch and a lasting appreciation for the macabre.
Let’s take three quintessential Hitchcock films that showcase his genius for playing with suspense in entirely different ways: Psycho, The Birds and North by Northwest. Each offers its own distinct flavour of thrill, proving that Hitchcock could serve up psychological terror, apocalyptic dread and high-flying adventure with equal flair.
Psycho (1960)
Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho is the cinematic equivalent of a perfectly set trap—carefully baited, meticulously timed and impossible to escape. From its opening shot to its unforgettable finale, the film plays with audience expectations like Norman Bates plays with taxidermy. With a shower scene that made people fear their own bathrooms, Hitchcock didn’t just break the rules of filmmaking; he rewrote them in a new language of tension and terror.
The story, deceptively simple, begins with Marion Crane (Janet Leigh) deciding to run off with a bag full of stolen money, thinking her biggest problem is getting caught. But Psycho being Psycho, her plans—and quite literally her life—are cut short by Norman Bates, a shy, soft-spoken young man with a not-so-soft-spoken mother. With what follows, Hitchcock gleefully toys with the audience’s sympathies, initially setting us up to root for Marion, only to pivot and put us in the hands of a charming lunatic.
Cinematographically, Psycho is a masterclass in visual storytelling. His use of light and shadow is nothing short of masterful—each scene is carefully lit to enhance tension and create an unnerving atmosphere. Take the Bates Motel, for example: a seemingly innocuous roadside stop bathed in soft light, which somehow makes it even creepier. The interiors, on the other hand, are claustrophobic and shadowy, with the taxidermy-filled parlour practically screaming, “This guy is not okay”.
Then there’s the famous shower scene, arguably the most analysed and imitated 45 seconds of film ever made. Hitchcock’s use of fast cuts, extreme close-ups and the absence of direct violence on screen is a stroke of genius. Bernard Herrmann’s screeching violins amplify the horror, but it’s Hitchcock’s refusal to show too much that does the real damage. Viewers are left filling in the blanks with their imaginations, and in true Hitchcock fashion, what we imagine is always far worse.
The camera in Psycho is more than a passive observer; it’s an accomplice in the suspense. Hitchcock employs it like a peeping tom, whether it’s slowly creeping toward a closed door or giving us a bird’s-eye view of Marion’s car sinking into a swamp. Even the showerhead is given a close-up, as if we’re being pulled into the very drain along with Marion. The stark black-and-white cinematography adds to the bleak, unsettling vibe, stripping away any sense of comfort or normalcy. It’s almost as if the film itself is shot through the eyes of Norman Bates—everything looks innocent at first glance, but upon closer inspection, something is terribly off.
The Birds (1963)
Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds turns an innocent trip to the pet store into a full-blown avian apocalypse. It’s a film that takes the everyday and twists it into a slow, creeping nightmare—because what could be more innocent than birds? That is, until they decide to turn on humanity and remind us that perhaps we’re not at the top of the pecking order after all.
The story starts off innocuously enough, with socialite Melanie Daniels (Tippi Hedren) flirting her way into a small California town to pull a prank on lawyer Mitch Brenner (Rod Taylor). You think you’re in for a breezy romantic comedy, but no, Hitchcock has other plans—like weaponising seagulls. By the time the first bird dive-bombs someone’s head, you realise The Birds isn’t about cute lovebirds in cages; it’s about Hitchcock caging you in a world where the rules of nature no longer apply.
What sets The Birds apart is that Hitchcock never bothers to explain why the birds are revolting—no mad scientist, no chemical spill, not even a passing “maybe they’re angry at global warming”. Instead, he lets the randomness of the attacks make things even scarier. It’s chaos for chaos’ sake, and the fact that our feathered friends have no motive is what makes them truly terrifying. It’s Hitchcock’s way of saying, “There are no safe explanations here—just panic”.
As for the cinematography, Hitchcock uses it to unsettle from the get-go. The film’s opening scenes are bathed in a sunny, postcard-perfect light, with Bodega Bay looking like the ideal spot for a weekend getaway. But as the birds’ hostility escalates, so does the visual tension. The calm, picturesque setting begins to feel like a cruel joke, with the wide open sky slowly transforming into a menacing void. The cinematography uses extreme wide shots to show the sheer number of birds, which, instead of offering comfort, overwhelms the viewer. There’s something deeply unnerving about watching thousands of birds gather silently in a jungle gym, as if plotting their next move.
Hitchcock also plays with the camera’s perspective to ramp up the terror. When the birds attack, you’re thrown right into the chaos, with quick cuts between screaming faces and flapping wings. In one famous sequence, Melanie watches helplessly through a window as the birds relentlessly crash against the glass—a clear metaphor for the fragile illusion of human control. Hitchcock frames her like a bird in a cage, reversing the power dynamic in a way that’s both brilliant and disturbing.
Another standout moment is when Melanie is trapped in a telephone booth, desperately trying to avoid being pecked to death. The cinematography puts you in her shoes—or, rather, in her claustrophobic glass box—as birds slam into every side, turning an everyday object into a death trap. The camera angles keep shifting, giving you no stable point of view, which only adds to the feeling that you, too, are trapped in this bird-driven nightmare.
And then there’s the sound—or lack of it. Unlike Psycho, with its shrieking violins, The Birds doesn’t rely on a traditional musical score. Instead, Hitchcock uses the eerie silence of the skies, punctuated by the dissonant squawks and flaps of wings. It’s unsettling to realise that what fills the soundtrack is simply nature—amplified, twisted and turned against us.
In true Hitchcock fashion, The Birds doesn’t end with a comforting resolution. There’s no heroic rescue, no cathartic explanation—just a chilling silence as the survivors drive off, unsure if they’ll even make it to the next town. Hitchcock leaves us dangling, wondering if the birds will strike again—or if they’re simply waiting for the right moment to remind us who’s really in charge.
North by Northwest (1959)
North by Northwest is Hitchcock at his most playful—an espionage thriller wrapped in a cat-and-mouse chase, all led by a man who’s very good at being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Starring Cary Grant as Roger Thornhill, an ad exec mistaken for a government agent, the film takes its audience on a wild, cross-country ride through mistaken identities, Cold War paranoia and enough mischief to make even James Bond jealous.
The plot kicks off when Thornhill, who’s about as far from a secret agent as one can get, is mistaken for a non-existent spy named George Kaplan. From there, he’s whisked into a whirlwind of kidnappings, near-death escapes and sharp suits that never seem to wrinkle, no matter how many times he’s almost killed. And let’s not forget the iconic crop-duster scene where Hitchcock manages to turn a wide-open cornfield into a claustrophobic deathtrap. Who knew that being chased by a plane in the middle of nowhere could be so nerve-wracking?
What makes North by Northwest so fun is that it’s Hitchcock doing adventure. It’s less about psychological horror and more about how much you can throw at a charming, bewildered protagonist before he finally cracks. Cary Grant is at his suave best here—quick with a quip, good under pressure and never without a perfectly tailored suit, even when he’s scaling Mount Rushmore.
Speaking of Mount Rushmore, let’s talk about the cinematography. Hitchcock’s love of iconic, sweeping landscapes is on full display, from New York’s gleaming skyscrapers to the vast, barren plains of the Midwest. Cinematographer Robert Burks masterfully uses both grandiose settings and confined spaces to heighten the tension. One moment, you’re marvelling at the scale of Thornhill running through the vast, open fields as a plane zooms toward him; the next, you’re in the tight corridors of a train car where every glance feels like it could reveal a spy.
The crop-duster scene is, of course, a visual masterpiece. Hitchcock plays with perspective brilliantly—wide, desolate shots that make Thornhill look minuscule, as if swallowed by the vast landscape. This sense of isolation amplifies the tension, as there’s literally nowhere to hide. The long, slow build-up, with the distant sound of the plane’s engine gradually getting louder, is Hitchcock at his suspenseful best. Just when you think you’ve had enough of staring at cornfields, the plane swoops down, and suddenly, you’re in the thick of one of cinema’s most famous chase sequences.
Hitchcock also uses the architecture of urban spaces to his advantage. Take the United Nations scene, for instance. The stark, modernist design of the UN building contrasts with the chaotic action unfolding inside. Thornhill’s attempts to blend into the crowd only emphasise how out of place he is, heightening the sense of paranoia. Hitchcock’s framing here is tight and claustrophobic, making the viewer feel as trapped as Thornhill does.
And then there’s the grand finale at Mount Rushmore—a sequence that’s as absurd as it is thrilling. Hitchcock’s choice to stage a climactic fight on the faces of U.S. presidents is both audacious and oddly symbolic. Thornhill and his love interest, Eve Kendall (Eva Marie Saint), dangling from the face of George Washington, perfectly encapsulate the film’s mix of high stakes and high style. The cinematography here is breathtaking, using the grandeur of the monument to heighten the peril and, of course, to remind us that Hitchcock was always ready to go big.
In Psycho, Hitchcock is like a puppet master, slowly unravelling your mind. In The Birds, he plays the architect of chaos, creating an atmosphere where everything familiar becomes terrifying. And in North by Northwest, he’s the conductor of a thrill ride, throwing twists, turns and iconic chase scenes at you with a grin. Three films, three types of suspense—one Hitchcock, endlessly clever and always ready to keep you on edge, whether you’re gripping your seat in terror, watching the skies in fear or laughing at the absurdity of it all while hanging from Mount Rushmore.