August is generally a slow time for movie columnists. I therefore understand why New Yorker critic-essayist Richard Brody posted an 8.17 essay about the wonder of Alfred Hitchcock‘s Marnie (’64), which I regard as Hitchcock’s worst by a country mile. Last year I posted two essays that argued with Brody’s astounding thesis that Marnie is, in fact, Hitchcock’s best. (The first appeared on 4.16.15, the second on 7.23.15.) I’ve nothing to add but Brody’s latest Marnie essay can’t go unchallenged.
“Don’t Marnie Me,” 4.15.15: “Three days ago I nearly fell out of my chair when I noticed a Twitter dispute among some Alfred Hitchcock devotees (including occasional HE gadfly Glenn Kenny) about who had been more influential in restoring the reputation of Hitchcock’s Marnie — New Yorker contributor-columnist Richard Brody (a.k.a., tinyfrontrow) or the late Robin Wood, whose fascinating interpretations in his 1965 book “Hitchcock’s Films” did a lot to advance the belief that Hitchcock was a major mainstream artist.
“Given that Marnie is still a ghastly thing to sit through (I tried doing so a couple of years ago), I wasn’t aware that Marnie‘s reputation had ever been restored. But that’s the foo-foo crowd for you, encamped and gathering firewood on their own tight little island.