producers—a group that would bentermed “highbrow” by phrenologicalnpartisans. According to Tyrmand, whennthe closing credits roUed on the screen,nthe reaction wasn’t a mere jaded shrugnindicating self-importance (i.e., “I’vendone the same things many times in mynfilms”), but a standing ovation, honestnadmiration firom a knowing group. Theynhad been taken in by the magic on thenscreen; their sense of craft and techniquengave way to wonderment. Psycho,nof course, is a film that scholars arguenabout in journals and one that is repeatedlynshown in midnight performancesnattended by teenagers, where it is receivednas a “cult” film. And so isNorth bynNorthwest PMd Dial Mfor Murder. AndnVertigo. Hitchcock transcended boundaries.nIn one sense, the master illusionistnof the screen can be thought of like thendrawings of the duck/rabbit and thenvase/faces illustrated in elementary psychologyntexts: once advised of the existencenof both in one, it is impossible tonsee one and not the other. Similarly, it isnonerous to differentiate clearly betweennartist and entertainer in Hitchcock.nThose who do invariably have an ax tongrind.nWilliam Rothman, inHitchcock—ThenMurderous Gaze, tries to make a clearndistinction, with the nod going to thenartist. His text consists of his readings ofnfive Hitchcock films: The Lodger. A Storynof the London Fog (1926); Murder!n(1930); The Thirty-Nine Steps (1935);nShadow of a Doubt (1945); andPsychon(i960). Rothman’s readings are verynclose, illustrated with numerous firamesnfrom the films, bolstered with oftencopiousnnotes. It is very scholarly butnsmooth. The book is a handsome additionnto any filmographical collection.nHowever, a dichotomy emerges, onenthat tends to rend his arguments.nRothman is so enthusiastic about Hitchcocknthat he is, in addition to being anscholar, what can best be termed a “fm.”nJust as there are those who can explainnthe refl/meaning of, say, The Lord of thenRings, Rothman, implicitly throu^outnthe studies in Hitchcock, explicitly innthe Postscript (“I would not have writtennthis book if I did not believe that Inhad penetrated some of the secretnplaces of Hitchcock’s art”), indicatesnthat he, uniquely, has mastered the Master.nAmbiguity is one of the touchstonesnof Hitchcock’s films; certainty is suspect.nFor example, Rothman has divinednwhat he calls “Hitchcock’s //// sign,”nwhich he says “recurs at significantnjunctures in every one of his films.”nTranslated, the //// sign indicates the usenof parallel vertical lines, such as thenbanister of the stairway in The Lodger.nExplains Rothman, “At one level the ////nserves as a Hitchcock signature… akinnto his ritual cameo appearances. Atnanother level, it signifies the confinementnof the camera’s subject within thenframe and within the world of the film.”nBy the time that Rothman reachesnPsycho, III! becomes Hitchcock’s “mostncryptic, private symbol for the screen,nthe barrier that cannot be crossed yet isnno real barrier at all.” Rothman’s vaporsnof enthusiasm have overtaken him andnhe sounds rather like a fervent membernof a Browning Society. As even noncineastsnviewing Howard Hawks’s Scarfacen(1932) have noticed, Hawks goesnto great lengths to make an “X” on thenscreen to foreshadow the arrival of thenprotagonist (who has a similarly shapednscar on his cheek). It’s often heavyhanded;nthe most subtle, perhaps, is thenuse of the Roman numeral on a hotel-n^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^nnnroom door. It is clearly a consciousndevice. Parallel vertical lines are a bitntoo ubiquitous in any scene (teeth,ndrapes, books on a shelf, telephonenpoles, etc.) to be a paradigm uponnwhich to construct grand meaningsnbordering on the metaphysical.nOne cinematic form that rarely getsnits due—^its highest critical accoladentends to be the application of the wordnclever—^is animation. Animation is thenweak sister of (what?) “nonillustrated”nfilms. Generally, animated films, cartoons,nare thought of as either somethingnthat fills in a movie program (i.e.,npadding between the coming attractionsnand the feature) or something that WaltnDisney did well (Mickey Mouse, tonmany minds, is the most typical cartoonncharacter). An Academy Award, ofncourse, is presented for animation, andnthe process emei^es in occasional featurenfilms, particularly from the oleaginousnpen of Ralph Bakshi (doped-up Aesopiannfebles, worked-over hobbits, drawn-outnpop stars). Still, few pay more than fleetingnattention to cartoons, which arenjudged fare only for preadolescents onnSaturday mornings. While there hasnbeen a spate of comic-book-inspirednfilms of late, such as the Superman saga,nthere is no real tie-in with animation. Atntimes, such as now, cartoon creations—nstatic, not dynamic ones—^becomenpopular with both the intelligentsia andnthe common reader: witness Doonesbury.nHowever, the success of that stripnwas predicated on the message supplied,nwhich could be interpreted only innterms of the items on the front page ofnthe newspaper in which the strip appeared,nto say nothing of other “insider”ninformation, such as about so-calledngon2o journalism and Hunter S. Thompson.nBut there is a tendency to ben”above” enjoyment of animated cartoons,nthose living designs that exist innthe outiandish world of the figurative.nThis snobbishness didn’t always rule.nKrazy Kat, a feisty creature with an anarchisticnbent, which appeared both innprint and on the screen, was adored byniiiiii35nMay 1983n