Hitchcock smiled. “I knew I chose well when I asked you to marry me.” He kissed her lightly on her cheek. “Now get out of here while I shave, bathe, get dressed, and try to conjure up some flashy new camera angles. Oh, my God, what a deadly plot!”
The Pleasure Garden, Alfred Hitchcock’s debut as a film director, was the story of two girlfriends who danced in the chorus of a music hall called, of course, The Pleasure Garden. Two American film actresses, Virginia Valli and Carmelita Geraghty, had been imported to Germany to co- star in hopes that their names would encourage a distribution deal in America. Their co-stars were British actors, Miles Mander and John Stuart, known mostly to their own families. Somehow, the climax of the film occurred in one of those sordid Indian Ocean island villages usually favored by W. Somerset Maugham. Unfortunately, Maugham had nothing to do with the plot of this film, and neither did the scriptwriter, as far as Hitchcock was concerned, so Alma was busy doing some clandestine rewriting, displaying a marvelous talent for scripting.
An hour later, in a taxi taking them to the Emelka Studios, Hitchcock thumbed through the script and found the scenes he’d scheduled for filming that day. After a few moments he sighed and said, “We need a rape scene.” The taxi driver studied his passengers through his rearview mirror with a slight look of shock and distaste.
“Who gets raped and why?” asked Alma while attacking a fingernail with an emery board.
“I think Miles Mander should attempt to rape Carmelita.”
“When? Where? Why?”
“How do I know? Think about it.”
“How soon do you want it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if we need it. Maybe the film will hang together without it once it’s been edited. I wonder if childbirth is as painful as filmbirth.”
“I wouldn’t know. I hope to someday, but at the moment I can’t much help with an opinion.”
Hitchcock was staring out the window. “What a lovely city this is.”
“I find it disturbing.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“I don’t mean Munich, I mean Germany. I find Germany disturbing. The economy’s a disaster. The mark is worth bloody nothing or next to that.”
“Thank God for that where we’re concerned.”
The taxi driver was looking hostile.
“Then there’s the rioting, those awful fascist groups and their menace. I can feel it at the studio.”
“Oh? Have you uncovered menace in our midst?”
“It’s nothing I can name or put my finger on, but I have this feeling that the smiles that greet us aren’t genuine smiles. I know they’re all glad to be working, what with so many of their major talents drifting off to Hollywood…” Hitchcock shifted and tried unsuccessfully to cross his legs. He gave up the effort with a sigh and said, “Who can blame them? Lubitsch was the first to go and sent back such glowing messages about gold in the streets that soon F. W. Murnau and Paul Leni and a whole raft of actors followed suit—and what have they got left?” He sighed again. “Me and some second-raters of their own.”
“Oh, come now! Fritz Lang’s not a second-rater, and neither is Pabst. They’re doing marvelous work. You haven’t forgotten we’re dining with the Langs tonight.”
“That dreadful wife. Thea’s a fascist. Fritz is fascinating, but Thea’s something else. Promise me when we’re married that you won’t be dreadful.”
“I’ll try my best not to be, but I do have my quixotic moments. I don’t think the film needs a rape.”
“It needs something.’ Hitch stared out the window as they passed St. Peter’s Church, which dated from the eleventh century. Alma waited. She was soon rewarded. His face lit up. “I know what we need. We need a marvelous, brutal, bloody murder! The gorier, the better.” The taxi driver cringed and narrowly avoided hitting a pedestrian.
Alma’s shoulders sagged. “Now how do I work a murder into a story of two chorus girls in a music hall? Have you a clue?”
“If I had a clue, we’d have a murder.” He folded his hands across his stomach. “I ought to be doing thrillers. That’s what I ought to be doing.”
“Well, my darling, if you pull off this one even halfway successfully, Mickey Balcon’s bound to listen sympathetically to anything you propose.”
“Let me break this to you gently. Mickey’s sent me a letter, it came yesterday, and my next film is already settled.”
“Oh, Hitch, how marvelous! Why didn’t you tell me!”
“It’s too depressing. It’s called The Mountain Eagle.”
“Set where?”
“On a mountain, where else?”
“Have you read the script?”
“Yes. Mickey’s letter accompanied the script. I think it’s what brought on my nightmare again. To be perfectly kind, the script is dreadful. And it’s to star another American actress. Nita Naldi.”
“The vamp? Is this one about a vamp? Aren’t vamps a bit passé?”
“Oh, vamps are terribly passé. That’s why Miss Naldi has so agreeably agreed to do a film in Munich.”
Alma’s chin dropped. “You mean we’re to do another film here in Munich?” Hitchcock nodded his head solemnly. Alma looked unhappy. So did the taxi driver.
Ten minutes later, they were walking arm in arm toward the stage housing their project. The sky was overcast, and the grayness of the day gave the studio the look of a prison compound. Alma was thinking it was too bleak and damp for a day in June and longed for the sunshine and warmth of Italy, where they had earlier done some location shooting.
“I thought our taxi driver was sinister,” said Hitchcock.
“Really? I never even noticed what he looked like.”
“He looked sinister. He was listening to every word we said. I could catch him reacting every so often. His reactions were terribly unfriendly. I wonder if he’s a spy. “
“What would anyone be doing spying on us?”
“Why shouldn’t they be spying on us? We’re Britons making a film in their godforsaken country with American actresses and a partially British crew. They’re probably wondering why we didn’t stay at home where we belong.”
“Surely they realize we’re here because it’s cheaper
