Alfred Hitchcock
Gli Uccelli

"The Birds" is Hitchcock's metaphor for the human condition. A constant threat hangs like a Damocles sword over the fate of man: it can lurk anywhere, and the more terrible it is, the more it is hidden within the folds of daily life, among the things, the environments, and the beings (human and otherwise) that reassure us most. This is an essential narrative rule of suspense cinema, but never before has the English director brought it to such extreme consequences. Even harmless little birds can become a tremendous representation of this nameless threat.

It's 1963, and we are only at the beginnings of the emerging disaster genre that would bear its best fruit with the first Spielberg. But Hitchcock, at his last masterpiece (there will be a couple of other beautiful films, but never again the dazzling perfection of his earlier works), already has a clear understanding of all its allegorical implications. He draws inspiration from a story by Daphne Du Maurier, the popular writer who had already inspired him with two films (including the 1940s masterpiece Rebecca), and he calls on the brilliant mystery writer Evan Hunter to write the screenplay.

The screenplay itself will prove to be one of the strengths of a film that, by necessity, cannot explain the reasons for the terrifying "revolt" of the birds and must necessarily focus on other elements. Hitchcock and Hunter intelligently choose to play on anticipation and the anxiety it generates. The catastrophe comes at the end, after the director, with that meticulous attention to detail that is his trademark, has skillfully laid the groundwork, instilling gradually and subtly in the characters and the viewer a subtle but ever-growing sense of threat.

Things start slowly, with the bright and urban tones of a sophisticated comedy. We are in San Francisco. In a pet shop, the rich, young, and restless Melanie Daniels accidentally meets the lawyer Mitch Brenner; she is both fascinated and annoyed by his attitude (he pretended to mistake her for a salesgirl, while he knew perfectly well who she was) and decides to surprise him: she follows him to Bodega Bay - the maritime center where Mitch spends weekends with his mother and little sister - under the pretense of giving the little girl a pair of "inseparable" parrots (love birds).

Here, the first signs of unease begin to manifest. Not only because Mitch's mother, Lydia Brenner, turns out to be a disturbed woman morbidly attached to her son, not only because of the distrust shown by the townspeople toward the snobbish girl from out of town, but also because Melanie herself is unexpectedly injured in the face by a seagull. The signs (many strange occurrences involving the birds) multiply, with increasing intensity, while a bond seems to form between Mitch and Melanie, though it's hindered by his mother: the Brenner's chickens refuse to eat; during little Cathy's birthday party, a flock of gulls attacks the children; that same evening, the Brenner's house is invaded by hundreds of sparrows that enter through the chimney. Until the next morning, when Mrs. Brenner finds the horrendously mangled body of farmer Dan Forster.

Fear is now in the air. The skepticism of some residents (the elderly rationalist ornithologist, who refuses to believe in the birds' murderous intent) is of little help. Faced with an attack in broad daylight, of enormous proportions, deaths multiply, terror spreads, and Bodega Bay finds itself under siege...

In the end, there will be no punishment for the guilty nor reward for the good. For the first time in his career, Hitchcock does not pass any judgment; the hallucinatory finale - the protagonists setting off for San Francisco at dawn, in a terrifying and absolute silence, under the watchful eyes of millions of birds perched everywhere - remains in suspense.

But after all: how can the birds be considered guilty? And how can this humanity, struggling with lies and errors of all kinds, be considered innocent? Melanie (a Tippi Hedren who, in yet another reincarnation of Hitchcock's icy blonde, strives in the arduous attempt to imitate Grace Kelly), Mitch (the wooden Rod Taylor), and all the other protagonists are nothing but a significant fragment of a larger picture, as revealed by the splendid long shots (including the final one) in which the director frequently immerses his characters.

What, then, is the ultimate meaning of Hitchcock's work? There have been political, ecological, social, philosophical interpretations, religion and apocalypse have been brought into the discussion. All convincing, yet Hitchcock has kept his distance from emphasizing one in particular. This ambiguity does not affect the film's authentic substance but rather strengthens it. The narrative framework, so unusually prone to digression and dilation of time, shows us the contortions of characters dominated by anxiety and a sense of emptiness (from Melanie to Mrs. Brenner). Over them looms a threat of cosmic proportions. Its purpose or origin (earthly, supernatural, even divine) does not matter. It is the threat: the constant danger that hovers over man's destiny.

At the time of its release, there were many negative reviews and doubts about this masterpiece that would set the standard, even from a technical point of view. In this regard, it is worth mentioning at least the special effects and tricks (astounding at the time) by Robert Burks and Lawrence Hampton, and the sui generis soundtrack by Bernard Herrmann, who merely "orchestrated" and electronically manipulated the birds' cries.