Vertigo. The come-churning journey of James Stewart as he spirals through a nightmare of sexual frustration along with the film, right down to the unbearable clitmax. An orgy of gorgeousity so splendid that halfway through it, my appearance actually changed slightly, and I changed my name to ‘Madeleine’. An odd experience, I know. But bare with, this is all part of the satire. A satire so intricately crafted that nobody – not even the greatest of film scholars – have realised it’s a snickering lampooning work of satirical sublimeness. The vertigo shot in of itself is a satire of the very act of sex - as it penetrates the frame. The fact that nobody else sees this, or even can sense the elements of the satire oozing beneath the surface, is all part of the satire itself. Herein lies its genius.
The first time I saw Vertigo, I actually developed a fear of heights and
began to stalk a woman to unimaginable ends. I became plump and large,
started talking in a dry English accent, only wanted to have sex with
blondes, and for some reason all of my chums named me ‘The Master of
Suspense’. That’s right. Vertigo is such an intensely psychological,
physical, spiritual and physiological experience, than when you watch
it, you experience metamorphosis. After seeing Vertigo, I became Alfred
And yes, this is all part of the satire.
However, the film is so effective, that one of my crushes at the time: a
woman who I oft imagined stripping down to her mere ‘undergarments’
whilst masturbating whilst in a pastoral field in England - is actually
pretending to be somebody else. I masturbated to a lie, wanked to a
deceit, rubbed off my orgasm projector to an object of mere
pseudo-existence. That’s right. Not only was I Alfred Hitchcock, but I
was also the character ‘Scottie’ from Vertigo – in fact, I didn’t just
transform into ‘Scottie’…oh no…I transformed into James Stewart himself.
Again, it all adds to the satire.
You may not think it does, and in
fact, you may completely disagree with me about this film being a
masterpiece of mockery – but, like I said before: that is the point of
the satire itself.
It’s so effortlessly satirical that nobody actually classes it as a
satire. This is of course symbolic – and if you think it’s not, then
it’s a metaphor about somebody not understanding a piece of symbolic
imagery – and thus a symbol: a ‘post-modern symbol’, if you will. And a satire.